Read Online These Things Happen by Richard Kramer - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Richard Kramer
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that unexpected something that can make it all seem fresh. "Next time, chop an apple! Fold it in with a little curry powder and a few slivered almonds. I know it sounds crazy."
He doesn't say if he agrees. "And I watched this movie about nuns," he says. I don't tell him that I already know that; I've learned that about kids; never let them know you already know something; let them believe they've brought it to you. "And I guess about lepers, too. And there was this one— nun, I mean, not leper— who goes to Africa to work with this doctor? And she falls in love with him, possibly. But you can't know. You can't be sure. Which was sort of amazing, to see this story that's all about something you can't be sure of. And it made me keep watching, to see what would happen."
"So what does?" I know, of course, but I want to hear what he says; it's like seeing it for the first time.
"I don't think even she knows, really. She just does what's needed. She's there , I guess. If that makes any sense."
This is what I've learned he always asks, and always when he's making the most sense. "It does," I say. "Is that it?"
"No. I wanted to find out, and it was a really long movie. At the end, she decides where God needs her most is back in the world, doing worldly stuff. I don't mean like going to plays, or buying pocketbooks, or anything. But being there again. In the world. Do you know that movie, George?"
"No," I say, obeying my own principle.
Which is where he leaves it. "So Dad didn't hear me," he says. "Because if he did, and I woke him, then he'd be justifiably pissed. Right?"
"Don't worry," I say. "He slept. He's a very good sleeper."
"You did tell him I needed to talk, right?"
I sense I might be in the way. " Maybe you guys should be alone. I'm on my way to the Green Market, anyway. It's the twilight of the chanterelles."
"What are those?"
"Mushrooms. Special ones."
"Why are they special?"
God, this kid asks questions. Recent ones, picked up from the general surrounding yammer: What is arborio rice? What makes something Milanese? What is a Jule Styne overture? I don't remember, when I was his age, asking questions like that. But, of course, I had secrets; my questions couldn't be asked— much less answered— at the Terrace Drive breakfast table. "Well," I say, vamping, "one bite— and you fall in love with the first person you see."
He laughs, but somehow his face suggests he wishes it could be true, that it could be as easy as chanterelles. I don't think he's been in love; I flatter myself I'd be able to tell, but who knows? "Be serious," he says.
"It's true. And it's guaranteed for a year. Less if you meet online."
He takes this in with his usual urgent seriousness; he hasn't yet realized that I'm not worth listening to. "But then the Observed Guy," he says, "or Lady, or whatever the case might be, would have to eat the mushroom, too. Right? Simultaneously, more or less. Or it wouldn't be fair, and would be unlikely, one might say."
And now, suddenly, Kenny enters. I was an actor, so people in my life don't come in; they enter. "One might say what?"
"You're not on the phone," says Wesley.
"I turned it off !" he says. "The gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgendered can, for the next twelve minutes, go fuck themselves." He realizes there is a child in the room. "Whoops. Sorry."
"Like I'm really shocked," Wesley says. "I mean, I live with two gay guys, right?"
Neither of us answers right away. I go first, twisting, leering, becoming Fagin, whom I played at Camp White Way, long ago. "As long as you keep picking pockets, my dear," I say, "you have a place with us." I turn to Kenny. "Right, Nancy?"
"What?" says Kenny.
"Who?" Wesley asks.
"Something smells good," Kenny says.
"Waffles. Wesley made them."
"They suck," Wesley says.
"What's that
He doesn't say if he agrees. "And I watched this movie about nuns," he says. I don't tell him that I already know that; I've learned that about kids; never let them know you already know something; let them believe they've brought it to you. "And I guess about lepers, too. And there was this one— nun, I mean, not leper— who goes to Africa to work with this doctor? And she falls in love with him, possibly. But you can't know. You can't be sure. Which was sort of amazing, to see this story that's all about something you can't be sure of. And it made me keep watching, to see what would happen."
"So what does?" I know, of course, but I want to hear what he says; it's like seeing it for the first time.
"I don't think even she knows, really. She just does what's needed. She's there , I guess. If that makes any sense."
This is what I've learned he always asks, and always when he's making the most sense. "It does," I say. "Is that it?"
"No. I wanted to find out, and it was a really long movie. At the end, she decides where God needs her most is back in the world, doing worldly stuff. I don't mean like going to plays, or buying pocketbooks, or anything. But being there again. In the world. Do you know that movie, George?"
"No," I say, obeying my own principle.
Which is where he leaves it. "So Dad didn't hear me," he says. "Because if he did, and I woke him, then he'd be justifiably pissed. Right?"
"Don't worry," I say. "He slept. He's a very good sleeper."
"You did tell him I needed to talk, right?"
I sense I might be in the way. " Maybe you guys should be alone. I'm on my way to the Green Market, anyway. It's the twilight of the chanterelles."
"What are those?"
"Mushrooms. Special ones."
"Why are they special?"
God, this kid asks questions. Recent ones, picked up from the general surrounding yammer: What is arborio rice? What makes something Milanese? What is a Jule Styne overture? I don't remember, when I was his age, asking questions like that. But, of course, I had secrets; my questions couldn't be asked— much less answered— at the Terrace Drive breakfast table. "Well," I say, vamping, "one bite— and you fall in love with the first person you see."
He laughs, but somehow his face suggests he wishes it could be true, that it could be as easy as chanterelles. I don't think he's been in love; I flatter myself I'd be able to tell, but who knows? "Be serious," he says.
"It's true. And it's guaranteed for a year. Less if you meet online."
He takes this in with his usual urgent seriousness; he hasn't yet realized that I'm not worth listening to. "But then the Observed Guy," he says, "or Lady, or whatever the case might be, would have to eat the mushroom, too. Right? Simultaneously, more or less. Or it wouldn't be fair, and would be unlikely, one might say."
And now, suddenly, Kenny enters. I was an actor, so people in my life don't come in; they enter. "One might say what?"
"You're not on the phone," says Wesley.
"I turned it off !" he says. "The gays, lesbians, bisexuals, and transgendered can, for the next twelve minutes, go fuck themselves." He realizes there is a child in the room. "Whoops. Sorry."
"Like I'm really shocked," Wesley says. "I mean, I live with two gay guys, right?"
Neither of us answers right away. I go first, twisting, leering, becoming Fagin, whom I played at Camp White Way, long ago. "As long as you keep picking pockets, my dear," I say, "you have a place with us." I turn to Kenny. "Right, Nancy?"
"What?" says Kenny.
"Who?" Wesley asks.
"Something smells good," Kenny says.
"Waffles. Wesley made them."
"They suck," Wesley says.
"What's that
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