George enters the yard and says, "I'm heading over to my mom's." He makes his hand into a gun and shoots himself in the temple.

"Save a bullet for me," Robin says.

"So, are you staying overnight?"

"Let's see how it goes. Are you?"

"Let's see how it goes."

Robin walks him to the street. After all this, it seems impossible that they're parting company. It feels like the end of a date, where you've entertained the idea of continuing into the night but instead, through circ.u.mstance or sensibility, have decided to hold off. He flips backward through the day: the look in George's eyes at the Parkway rest stop when he called "swordfight" the sweat on his brow after he broke up the scuffle at Alice's house; the hurt and anger on his face when they were tailed by a cop and Robin told him he was being too sensitive. At last he lands on the one moment that is tugging at his insides, the one that makes what should be a nonevent, this good-bye-for-the-night between best friends, something more tumultuous. It was a moment in the Cadillac, just after listening to Al Green, when George said, "I predict you're going to be over Peter really soon," a prediction which now seems to have come true, because he is, isn't he? Over Peter: over the hope of reunion, maybe even over the desire for it, no matter what thoughts just flashed through his mind in the kitchen. George knew it right away; he might have known also who would replace Peter in his imagination: George himself. That was the unspoken part. Peter's exit cleared the way, at last, for something to emerge between them that had never before had the room to grow.

But he can't say anything like this to George. You can't fall for your best friend. Everyone knows that. So they hug, and Robin thanks him, "for everything," and says, in a grand flourish of understatement, "Well, we got through the day."

George says, "It's not over yet."

Back in the kitchen, Robin realizes how hungry he is. He asks his mother, "Did you bring that paella and gazpacho you were talking about?"

"It's at home. I'm saving it for someone who'll appreciate it."

"So you're punishing Ruby for not showing up?"

She smiles. "I'm not that that petty. No, I decided I'd offer it to the young man who lives upstairs. Do you remember him? Donovan?" petty. No, I decided I'd offer it to the young man who lives upstairs. Do you remember him? Donovan?"

He nods. "The gay guy."

"Well, I wouldn't want to make a.s.sumptions."

"Pretty safe bet, Dorothy."

There's an awkward silence, and then they both try to say something at once. He prompts her to go first.

"Are you being careful, Robin?"

And of course he knows what she means, and why she brought this up right now, in the context of their neighbor who is not well. But the last thing he wants to do is talk with his mother about the dangers of his s.e.x life.

"Nothing to worry about," he says.

"Of course there's something to worry about. You're aware of what's going on among h.o.m.os.e.xuals."

"Don't say h.o.m.os.e.xuals h.o.m.os.e.xuals."

"This is not a semantic issue, dear." She lays her hand on his. "You can talk to me."

"I know." He pulls away from her. How could he possibly talk to his mother about everything he fears, every dark thought that crosses his mind? And yet, were the worst to happen, how would he possibly go forward without her?

He stands up and heads to the fridge. "You think Clark keeps any provisions around here?"

Another bathroom, another shower. Everywhere she goes, she's washing off the mess of where she has been. She'd prefer to be cleaning up in Manhattan, where Dorothy recently badgered the landlord to upgrade the fixtures, and where they now have a shower with a built-in ma.s.sager. This bathroom, off the upstairs hallway, next to her childhood bedroom, has been the same for as long as she can remember. Gold-flecked wallpaper, a toilet that runs too long after you flush it, a mirror with a chip in it at exactly the level of her eyes, so that she has to shift around as she applies her makeup. Her father has made changes all over the house but not here, which strikes her as just like a man. A woman would make sure to renovate the facilities, the facilities, as her mother likes to call them, before repaving the driveway. Not a very feminist thing to say, but there you go. Not even a women's studies curriculum is going to erase her desire to look presentable. as her mother likes to call them, before repaving the driveway. Not a very feminist thing to say, but there you go. Not even a women's studies curriculum is going to erase her desire to look presentable.

She showers and wraps herself in a towel and is moving through the hall back to her bedroom when she sees, at the top of the stairs, leaning on the banister, her father. He's clearly been waiting for her. "They sent me up here for you," he says, averting his eyes.

"I'm getting dressed." She scurries into her bedroom and closes the door.

Nothing has changed in here. Ever. Robin had his room redone, and she always expected she would, too. The excuse was that his room had been Jackson's-they had to clear the air of the memories, or something. But she, too, has memories, stuck to the walls like the flowery pink wallpaper. She'd like to clear them out. But first she'd like to climb into bed and sleep for two days.

"Notice anything different?"

"I'll be down in a minute!" she snaps, in disbelief that he's still standing out there, waiting for her.

"I added a light fixture by the bed."

"Oh. I see it." She used to complain that she wanted to be able to turn off the overhead light from her bed. So he did that for her. There's a new switch within arm's reach.

"Figured you'd want more control."

"Yeah, it's great." She still has some clothes here, even though the formal joint custody visits ended more than a year ago, on her eighteenth birthday. She finds a pair of loose sweatpants and a T-shirt, white, with three-quarter-length black sleeves and the logo of Doris & Georgie's Sweet Shoppe, an ice cream parlor in Greenlawn where she worked one summer while she lived with Clark. It's a little tight, and has a few stains, but it's better than the other option, a big baggy thing with a Ziggy cartoon on it that says, IT'S EASY BEING ME...BECAUSE I'M ALL I GOT IT'S EASY BEING ME...BECAUSE I'M ALL I GOT!

"Clark, don't stand there waiting for me, you're making me nervous."

Finally, she hears him step away.

But when she comes back downstairs, many minutes later, he's hovering near the bottom of the banister. "So are you ready to talk?"

"What do you want me to say?"

He throws his arms wide. He's not the most articulate person, her dad. He's not hyperverbal like her mother or her brother. She decides that her first priority is settling her still-knotted stomach. She swallowed two Anacin in the bathroom for her headache, but they're already churning in her gut like sand in salt water. She entertains the pa.s.sing thought that there's something physically wrong with her, beyond even being sick to her stomach. Maybe it's also a touch of sun poisoning-the burned skin on her stomach has begun to tingle and itch.

Dorothy is at the kitchen table-sitting in the same chair that used to be "hers," with a cup and saucer in front of her, a few crumbs on a plate. "Come sit with me," she says, patting the chair next to her.

The way the light slants in from the window over the sink is no different than light falling on her five, six, ten years ago-Ruby can peel away the extra weight on her mother's body, dress her in a chic, tailored blouse like she used to wear instead of the loose tunics she favors now, imagine her hair bigger and brighter, as it once was-and the effect is of a figure from a dream emerging in the flesh. Or from a nightmare, in which Ruby is still a boxed-in little girl, doing what she was told and praying faithfully for intervention because she had no will of her own.

Dorothy looks comfortable, her posture relaxed, as if sitting down to tea with Clark is a usual occurrence. There was a time when the only words that pa.s.sed between her parents were angry ones. It embarra.s.sed Ruby to see her father in those days, looking beaten down. Later, during the divorce, her mother questioned each legal detail, made everything more difficult than it had to be, until she brought out the fight in Clark. Enough time has now gone by, it seems. They can be in the same room without lawyers present, without seething at each other. What have they been talking about? About her, probably.

Ruby pulls a box of Lipton tea from the cupboard, then goes to the stove to turn on the kettle. Robin stands near the back door, leaning against the wall with his arms crossed. Clark is in the other doorway, to the dining room. She's surrounded.

With her back to them all, she asks, "Why can't anyone be happy for me?"

Dorothy answers, "How can I be happy for you if I don't even know what happened?"

"The circ.u.mstances seem pretty clear-" Clark begins.

"You don't know the circ.u.mstances. You weren't there."

"Don't give me att.i.tude, young lady!"

"I'm not a lady, lady, this isn't the nineteenth century. I'm a woman." this isn't the nineteenth century. I'm a woman."

"You're not even twenty, and you're acting like you're ten." Clark says, "And tell me, what kinda example do you set when you run off like that?"

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"No one knew where you were!" Clark says. "You were supposed to be staying at the beach house."

Ruby looks to Robin, and he must see the plea in her eyes, because he speaks up. "Dad, that place should be condemned. The party was going on nonstop." He adds, "She called me last night, so she did try try to get in touch." to get in touch."

"I stayed in a hotel room."

"Let me guess," Clark says. "It's on the credit card I pay for."

"For emergencies, which this was was." She crosses her arms and leans back against the counter. This is not how it's supposed to be, her father father on a rampage. She'd expected Dorothy's anger, but Clark has always been her ally during mother-daughter duels. Setting an example for whom? No one has ever looked to her for anything, and now that she has done something she wanted to, without checking in and seeking permission, now she's guilty of falling short of standards? on a rampage. She'd expected Dorothy's anger, but Clark has always been her ally during mother-daughter duels. Setting an example for whom? No one has ever looked to her for anything, and now that she has done something she wanted to, without checking in and seeking permission, now she's guilty of falling short of standards?

Dorothy appears to be perplexed by something. "Were you with Calvin at this hotel?"

"No." Then, quickly, Ruby says, "There was a guy at the party-"

"What guy?"

"-I knew him from Crossroads."

"The Catholic program?"

"Yes. His name's Chris. We lost touch, but we still have-I don't know how to explain it. He was there, and I stayed with him."

"Just the two of you?" Dorothy asks.

Ruby nods.

"Since when are you s.e.xually active?"

"Since last night! OK? The entire world now knows. My parents, my ex-boyfriend, my brother, George, a whole party full of people I don't even like. Everyone knows I had s.e.x last night."

Silence. No one seems to know what to say or where to look. After a moment, Robin speaks up, a forced levity in his voice. "When I first had s.e.x, I kept it as quiet as possible."

This actually makes her want to laugh-nervous relief-but Clark wrinkles his nose and says, "Aw, Robin. Come on on," and she can see Robin's posture shift, so that he's now looking almost as defensive as she is.

Dorothy says to Ruby, "You did use protection, didn't you?"

"Yes." She feels her face warming up. This is really too much.

"I mean, with everything going around these days-"

"I said yes, Dorothy."

The phone rings-a light, electronic trill, so unlike the old mechanical ring from their rotary phone. Clark answers and they all hear him say, "Yes, she's right here. But we're having a family discussion right now."

Ruby feels a jump in her chest. It's him. It's him. "Give that to me." "Give that to me."

"Look, Ruby, we're not done here." Clark speaks into the phone again, saying, "Hold on, Calvin."

Calvin?

She holds out her hands, mouthing, no no. She looks to Robin again for intervention. He peels himself from the wall and takes the handset from Clark. "Hey, it's me.... Yeah, but we're in the middle of some family, um, negotiations.... Mm-hmm, it's like Reagan and Gorbachev here.... What?...No, of course I didn't."

It's annoying to have to witness them bonding like this, but he's doing her a favor, he's saving her from a really awkward conversation. There's a hollow grinding away inside her. Anxiety about Chris, about where he is, what he's doing, what he might have already done.

When Robin hangs up, he announces, "Calvin says he'll be home later, and he wants to speak to you."

All of a sudden both of her parents are talking at once, weighing in on Calvin's call-their words mercifully drowned out by the wail of the kettle. She turns off the flame, pours water over a tea bag in the mug, lets it saturate and drop to the bottom. "I'm not taking relationship advice from my divorced parents," she says.

"Harsh," Robin says, as they all fall silent.

She picks up her tea, grabs the cordless phone, and leaves the room. Enough is enough.

Ruby's exit has both of his parents looking to Robin, as if they're the confused children and he's the adult with the answers. He knows what Ruby just went through; he's been grilled like this before, long ago in this kitchen, for his own transgressions. He was ready to mediate, if need be, but she didn't exactly make it easy. Now he expects to be reprimanded, to take the heat because she won't. They'll surely find something wrong with what he he did today, and they'll jump on him for it. But, no, they just look at him, helplessness on their faces. Is it actually possible that he will get through all of this blamelessly, that Ruby, who never gets blamed for anything, is going to absorb all the bad feeling in the family? did today, and they'll jump on him for it. But, no, they just look at him, helplessness on their faces. Is it actually possible that he will get through all of this blamelessly, that Ruby, who never gets blamed for anything, is going to absorb all the bad feeling in the family?

Clark shakes his head. "Could you imagine if your brother was alive to see this?"

"He'd probably have been down the sh.o.r.e this weekend, too," Robin says, "raising h.e.l.l like the rest of them."

Clark throws up his hands, and Dorothy admonishes, "Robin."

At first he thinks it's "h.e.l.l" that has upset them, because who wants to be reminded about eternal d.a.m.nation when you're remembering your dead son? (And for all he knows, his parents, who have always struck him, more or less, as being atheists, might still entertain the notion of the afterlife.) But then Clark says, "He was a good kid, he had a real love for life," and Dorothy says, "He truly enjoyed himself, didn't he?" and Clark adds, "If he'd only had the chance to grow up," and Robin sees that it was a mistake to even insinuate that a grown-up Jackson would have been just another problem child.

The more time that pa.s.ses, the more Jackson, in his father's eyes, and maybe in his mother's, too, has been turned into an angel, beatified as the slugger slugger who was destined to be a source of pride, had he not been cut down at the dawn of his potential. If he'd had the chance, he would have grown into the kind of young adult who wouldn't let them down, as Robin has always done, as Ruby has shown she's more than capable of as well. This is so far from what Robin imagines, when he imagines Jackson grown up: definitely a jock, certainly socially aggressive, probably embarra.s.sed to be saddled with a gay brother and a weird sister. Someone who loved his own life but couldn't be counted on to love Robin's, or Ruby's. There's a divergence in these visions that can't be bridged, because it's all speculation anyway, speculation hardening into something like a fact. The might-have-been. who was destined to be a source of pride, had he not been cut down at the dawn of his potential. If he'd had the chance, he would have grown into the kind of young adult who wouldn't let them down, as Robin has always done, as Ruby has shown she's more than capable of as well. This is so far from what Robin imagines, when he imagines Jackson grown up: definitely a jock, certainly socially aggressive, probably embarra.s.sed to be saddled with a gay brother and a weird sister. Someone who loved his own life but couldn't be counted on to love Robin's, or Ruby's. There's a divergence in these visions that can't be bridged, because it's all speculation anyway, speculation hardening into something like a fact. The might-have-been.

If he'd had the chance... And whose fault was it, that he hadn't? The fact that they were both there, Robin and Ruby, at the moment Jackson fell, is never, ever discussed, but none of them have forgotten. And whose fault was it, that he hadn't? The fact that they were both there, Robin and Ruby, at the moment Jackson fell, is never, ever discussed, but none of them have forgotten.

He finds that he wants another cigarette. Wants to call George. Wants to disappear. Little desires flying by in a fraction of a second.

Dorothy stands and dusts off her lap. "It's been a long time since my daughter listened to me," she says, "but I'm going to give it one more try."

Robin says, "Why don't you listen to her her?"

She c.o.c.ks her head to the side, as if to more fully receive the idea. "Maybe I will," she says.

Clark gives her a thumbs-up, and Dorothy rather self-consciously returns it, an exchange so unlikely it leaves Robin staring at them both. And then off Dorothy goes into the living room, the path of her footsteps following Ruby's.

And so Robin finds himself alone with his father for the first time in ages. They look at each other, both aware of this.

"Oh!" Robin says, remembering. "I have something." He picks up his bag and pulls out the postcard. "Happy Father's Day."