“Right, eleven years, and your lives are intertwined. I worry about you being impulsive and impractical.”
“I think you know that’s never really been an issue of mine. I’m a staunch pragmatist. By the way, did you tell your friend Pete that I’m a basket case?”
Doug looked completely thrown by this question. “What — why — when did you talk to him?”
“So you did?”
“No. When did you talk to him?”
“We ran into each other before the wedding,” Carver said, thinking on his feet. “At, uh, a gay bar.”
Doug let out a gusty sigh. “That two-faced son of a bitch. No, I didn’t say you were inherently a basket case. We were talking about finance, and how long the hours can be, and I said your work wasmakingyou a basket case.”
“Okay,” Carver said, mollified. “I guess that’s better. One more question.”
“Fine.”
“If I am gay, would you blame it on Isaac?”
Carver glanced down at the desk as he said this, afraid to look his dad in the eye as he said Isaac’s name, but Doug surprised him by starting to laugh. He looked up and saw real amusement on his face.
“No,” Doug said, “I’d blame it on your mother. The gay gene comes from the mother.”
Carver started laughing, too. “Okay. Thanks. Would you like me to leave you alone now?”
“I think I would.” Doug ran his hand over his hair, smoothing it down. “I think I drank too much and I need to go lie down.”
“Alright.” Carver got up. “I’ll see you in the morning, then.”
Knowing Doug didn’t like to hug, he offered a handshake across the desk. Doug got up too and walked around it, coming over to him and pulling him in. Carver pressed his face into his father’s solid chest, swallowing hard. Doug reached up and ruffled his hair.
After a moment more brief than Carver would have preferred, Doug let him go and patted him on the shoulder.
They parted ways in the hallway; Doug headed for the master bedroom at the end of the hall and Carver went to his own. Inside he was surprised to find his mother standing by hisold bookshelf, out of her wedding clothes and into a sweatsuit, leafing through a Goosebumps volume. When he entered, she looked up and said, “I have something for you.”
“Yeah?”
Nora beckoned him, and he went to her. From her pocket she produced a glossy 5x7 film photo of two people. Carver had to study it for a moment before he realized what it was: his much-younger mother, smiling and posing with a man who must be Isaac.
Isaac was a head taller than her and lean, with loosely curly black hair. He was handsome in a rugged way, and Carver had a hard time telling what features they shared. Not the eyes — Isaac’s were dark with hooded eyelids — nor the nose — Isaac’s was more masculine, with a higher bridge. Eyebrows, yes, they both had thick eyebrows with a well-defined arch and thick eyelashes to match them. Their smiles seemed similar, and their cheekbones, though Isaac’s face was longer and more oval.
He wasn’t sure if it was just because Nora had described Isaac’s personality, but he thought he could see it in his face: confidence bordering on arrogance, with a countervailing sweetness underneath.
The photo was vertical, and cut them off right below the knee. Isaac was wearing blue running shorts with a 5-inch inseam; as Carver’s eyes moved down the image he pointed and said, “Those are my thighs.”
“Those are your thighs,” Nora confirmed. “You really have the same legs, in fact.”
“Mine aren’t as hairy.”
“Alright, Carver.”
Carver took the photo in as a whole. It looked like they were on a waterfront or a pier; a breeze was whipping their hair and they were both wearing windbreakers. They looked as if they’d been mid-laugh and stopped to smile for the camera.They weren’t touching, but they were leaning in close enough to look like a couple. They looked good together. They were complementary.
Carver felt the tender melancholy of grief, but it was a strange grief that swept in no particular direction, toward no particular object. He didn’t know this man and he never would.
“Thanks,” he muttered.
“I’ve kept this for a long time,” she said. “I thought you might want a photo of us, if you ever found out.”
