“His name is Arden.”
“That’s what I said.”
“Goodnight, Dad.”
“Remember, Michael, you need to focus on your writing. No distractions.”
His eyes passed over Arden again, and then he was striding toward the elevators.
“Jesus Christ,” I said to no one in particular. Arden gave a wan smile, entirely dispirited. I wanted to apologize, but that also meant acknowledging just how terrible it had gone. I didn’t want to make things worse.
Arden was quiet on our way home, and other than telling me that he’d enjoyed my reading, didn’t say much at all.
“How do you think it went? Meeting my father, I mean?”
“I don’t think he likes me.”
I dragged his hand to my lap and squeezed. “He doesn’t like any of my friends.”
“He seems to like Franco. And Bitzy.”
“My father hated Franco when he first met him. He only started to like him after we’d broken up. And Bitzy is a special case, like the daughter he never had.”
Arden frowned, opened his mouth, and closed it.
“What is it?” I asked.
“He knows, Michael.”
“Knows what?”
“He knows what I do for a living.”
I doubted their circles overlapped. And aside from his own work, my father wasn’t the most curious man. “How is that possible?”
“I don’t know, but I felt it in the way he looked at me.”
I stared at my lover’s despondent expression and figured he was just suffering a bout of paranoia. Like when Arden said hello to a man on the street, and I automatically assumed it was because they’d fucked. It wasn’t a healthy mindset, but it was understandable.
“He looks at everyone that way, Arden. Trust me, I have thirty years of experience with that look.”
“He knows,” Arden said again. He stared out the open window, and I breathed in the smell of the city, a fecund blend of exhaust, sewage, and the brine of the East River. I made no further argument, and we drifted into a strained silence.
“I miss the ocean,” Arden said softly.
All along, I thought that I was competing with a millionaire for Arden’s affections, but I couldn’t have been more wrong.
Part V.
They were in the outdoor markets of Georgetown when the boy noticed someone following them.
The captain had a routine, whenever they reached port, where he and the boy would stroll through the town to see what the vendors were selling. They’d learn the going price of things, not making any purchases, then come back later when the sellers were closing up and haggle until they’d gotten what the captain considered a square deal. The boy wasn’t any good at bargaining. He always paid full price, or more.
Which was why he was seldom trusted with the captain’s purse. But he did like to accompany the captain on these outings. After being so long in isolation, he delighted in the bustling activity of the towns. People hurrying here and there, women in long skirts, balancing baskets on their heads or their hips, children running free, men smoking and drinking and arguing over sports and politics and the price of things.
His eyes darted all around, at all the beautiful shapes and colors of the people and their wares. Their activities reminded him of the sea life on a coral reef. He especially enjoyed watching the basket weavers, who used dried palm fronds to create everything from hats to purses. He thought that if his plan of being a doctor didn’t pan out, this would be a good profession for him. One day he’d have a boat of his own. He’d live off fish and lobsters and wild bananas, and when he needed money for fuel, he’d join the basket weavers in selling their crafts.
He was at the weaving stands, the captain having moved on a long time ago, when the boy who’d been following them approached.
