“Why?” he asked.
“I thought maybe we’d go downstairs for a drink,” I suggested, casually.
“What for?” he asked.
“I want to talk to you about something,” I told him.
He looked panicked and asked, “Why not here?”
“Let’s go downstairs,” I told him and went to get my purse.
He put on a pair of jeans and a gray sweater and a ripped black tweed coat that I didn’t recognize, that I had not bought for him. He met me in the hall.
We went downstairs to the bar and the host came up to us and looked Paul over. “Yes, there are two of us,” I said.
“I’m afraid there’s a dress code,” the host smiled.
“Yes? …” I waited.
“This young man is not following it,” the host said, still smiling.
“Where does it say there’s a dress code?” I asked.
The host glared, still smiling and then walked over to a white board and pointed to the bright blue lettering, first to, “No Jeans,” and then, “Tie Must Be Worn.” I was getting a headache and I felt very tired.
“Forget it, Mom,” Paul said. “We’ll go somewhere else.”
I said, “We are guests in this hotel.”
“Yes, I realize that,” the host explained, officiously I thought. “But this applies to everyone.”
I opened my purse.
“Would you like me to make reservations for later?” the host asked.
“My son is dressed fine,” I said, handing the host a twenty dollar bill. “Just sit us in the back,” I said wearily.
The host took the bill quickly and said, “Yes, there might be a table over in the corner, in the dark.”
“In the corner, in the dark,” I said.
He sat us down at a terribly small, dimly lit table in back, away from the large crowded bar, but I was too tired to complain and simply ordered two champagne Kirs. Paul tried to light a cigarette inconspicuously and all at once he looked so handsome sitting there, the light playing off his features, his hair blond and thick and combed back, his face lean, the nose regal and thin, that I wanted to hug him, make contact of some kind, but “Darling, I wish you wouldn’t smoke” was all I could say.
“Mother, I’m sorry,” he said. “But I need a cigarette. Badly.”
I let it pass and the waiter brought the Kirs. I focused all my attention on the way the waiter quickly, nimbly opened each small bottle of Taittinger and poured them into the tall thin glasses. And how very beautiful it looked when the champagne slowly dissolved the reddish purple cassis on the bottom of each glass. Paul crossed his legs and tried to look at me once the waiter left.
“You know, your father and I first came here seventeen years ago for our fifth anniversary. It was in December and it was snowing and we would order these,” I told him quietly, holding the glass up, tasting it.
He sipped his drink and seemed to relax.
I couldn’t say anything for a long time. I finished what was in the glass and poured the rest of the champagne from the small green Taittinger bottle into it. I drank more, then asked about Richard.
“I wonder what happened to Richard tonight,” I said, straining for conversation.
“Mid-terms,” Paul said derisively, and then, “I don’t know.”
“Any ideas?” I asked.
“Walking?” he sighed. “I don’t know.”
“His mother says he has a new girlfriend,” I mentioned.
Paul got very hostile very suddenly and rolled his eyes up. “Mom, Richard’s bi.”
“Bi what?” I asked.
“Bi,” he said, lifting his hands as if to describe this condition. “You know. Bi.”
“Bilingual?” I asked, confused. I was tired and needed sleep.
“Bisexual,” he said and stared at his glass.
“Oh,” I said.
I liked my son very much. We were in a bar together and he was being polite and I wanted to hold his hand, but I breathed in and exhaled. It was too dark where we sat. I touched my hair and then looked at Paul. And for a very brief moment there it seemed as if I never had known this child. He sat there, his face placid, expressionless. My son — a cipher. How did it end up this way, I wondered.
“Your father and I are getting a divorce,” I said.
“Why?” Paul asked, after a while.
“Because…” I stalled. Then said, “We don’t love each other anymore.”
Paul did not say anything.
“Your father and I have been living apart since you left for school,” I told him.
“Where does he live now?” he asked.
“In the city.”
“Oh,” Paul said.
“Are you upset?” I asked. I thought I was going to cry but it passed.
Paul took another sip and uncrossed his legs. “Upset?” he asked. “No. I knew it was going to happen sooner or later.” He smiled as if he remembered something private and humorous and it made me sad, and all I could say was, “We’re signing the papers next Wednesday afternoon.” And then I wondered why I told him this, why I gave him this detail, this piece of information. I wondered where Paul was going to be next Wednesday afternoon. With that friend, Michael, at lunch? And I wanted badly to know what he did at school — if he was popular, if he went to parties, who he slept with even. I wondered if he was still seeing that girl from Cairo, was it? Or Connecticut? He had mentioned something about her at the beginning of the year. I was sorry I brought him to Boston for the weekend and made him sit through that dinner. And I could have told him this in the hotel room. Being in the bar did not matter.
“What do you think?” I asked my son.
“Does it matter?” he said.
“No,” I said. “Not really.”
“Is this what you wanted to talk to me about?”
“Yes.” I finished the champagne. There was nothing left to do.
“Is there anything else?” he asked.
“Anything else?” I asked.
“Yeah,” he said.
“I suppose not.”
“Okay.” He put the cigarette out and did not light another one.
STUART I don’t know what gets into me but I go to The Dressed To Get Screwed party in only my underwear, thinking my body looks okay, thinking I want to get Paul Denton’s attention. So I do some coke with Jenkins and get completely fucked-up drinking that sickly sweet, sticky alcohol punch and when Billy Idol comes on I just go crazy and do this great number. The whole party loves it and they’re all in a circle and I’m in the middle twirling and gyrating and jumping around, hoping he was watching me. I looked for him afterwards, turned on, dizzy and a little sick from dancing so hard, drunk, stoned, Dance majors coming on to me, and feeling pretty good. But, of course, I couldn’t find him. He wasn’t anywhere. He probably thought it was too uncool to come to these things anyway. But who doesn’t go to The Dressed To Get Screwed party, besides that weird Classics group (and they’re probably roaming the countryside sacrificing farmers and performing pagan rituals)? I ended up going home alone. Not really, I fooled around with Dennis a little while, but I fell asleep like I usually do on Friday nights: unscrewed.