Page 45 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
When Nathaniel gets like this, he likes the reminder that he isn’t alone. At least that’s how Patrick’s explained it to himself, the way Nathaniel shadows him after a bad day. Right now, slouched in their seats, their upper arms are already touching. Patrick hopes that everyone in the stands behind them is too busy watching the runner on third base to pay much attention to Patrick’s hand. He reaches over and pries Nathaniel’s fingers off his thigh and leaves his own hand covering Nathaniel’s for a second before pulling away.
“I used to root for the Red Sox too,” Patrick says.
“I thought you were from Long Island.”
“Only after my parents died.”
“Ah, when you fell into the clutches of the evil aunt and uncle.”
“They weren’t so bad to Michael.” They were neglectful, mean, stingy, and hateful, and they let Patrick sit in jail instead of coming to bail him out. But they tolerated Michael, at least.
“Well, as long as they were fine to Michael, it doesn’t matter that they kicked you out,” Nathaniel says. He’s apparently been talking to Susan.
“They didn’t kick me out. I ran away.” Patrick could have gone home after getting out of jail. He could have gone home, could have let Michael and Susan know he was alive, could have finished high school—but he didn’t know how to do any of those things.
“Susan thinks they smacked you around.”
“Only a normal amount,” Patrick says.
“It’s very distressing when I’m the sane one here. What would be the normal amount for someone to smack Eleanor around?”
Patrick thinks he might be sick. “Stop being reasonable.”
“My parents were the same way.” He raises a hand to flag down the beer man. “And look at me now, not a trouble in the world.”
Patrick starts laughing, which is just totally inappropriate, what the hell. But Nathaniel has that little twist of a smile he gets when he’s pleased with himself. Nathaniel takes out his wallet and buys a pair of beers, something deft and second nature about it, and Patrick catches himself wondering if Nathaniel bought drinks for his wife at Orioles games.
They’re well on the road to tipsy at the top of the seventh inning, and all the way there by the time the crowd starts filing out as soon as it’s clear that the Mets aren’t going to win this one.
“This has been lovely,” Nathaniel says. “Really lovely.”
Patrick doubts anybody’s ever called the Mets lovely, but he can’t disagree. The infield grass is unnaturally green under the stadium lights, and the smell of Cracker Jacks and spilled beer is the kind of familiar that passes for comfortable. The sky is dark except for planes taking off from LaGuardia, and Nathaniel’s arm is still pressed against his own.
On the subway home, Nathaniel takes out his little notebook and writes something in it.
“What’s in there?” Patrick asks, feeling bold.
“It’s a list of my sins,” Nathaniel says, and sticks the notebook back in his pocket.
14
One morning early in June, Patrick’s slow to get ready and Nathaniel announces that he’ll go out to get the paper by himself. It’s been over a month since the last time he tried leaving the building alone, although last week he picked up a pizza with only Hector for company.
Patrick absently takes out a dime for the paper.
“You have to be kidding me,” Nathaniel says, and sweeps out of the apartment.
When fifteen minutes pass, Patrick isn’t worried, even though the trip to the newsstand and back shouldn’t take more than half that time. After half an hour, Patrick grabs his keys and goes out. He finds Nathaniel on the corner, reading the paper.
“What’s the matter?” Patrick asks, because he could have guessed that much even without seeing the worried look on Nathaniel’s face.
“Robert Kennedy’s been shot. In the head.” Nathaniel doesn’t lift his gaze from the paper. He’s been out here for half an hour; he must have already read the article several times. “But they aren’t saying who did it. ‘A youth.’ That means nothing.”
That had been Nathaniel’s question after Martin Luther King, Jr. was killed this spring. “Let’s go back,” Patrick says. “We have to tell Susan before she hears it on the news.”
She’d taken Martin Luther King badly, but at that point she’d still been pretty fragile in general. Now, two months later,Patrick wouldn’t say that she’s okay, because she isn’t, not even close, but he isn’t worried about her. If she had a nine-to-five job, she could go to the office and type letters and say hello to the elevator operator. She’s taking good care of Eleanor. She’s eating. Patrick’s stopped covertly sweeping the apartment for pills. She’s probably doing as well as she possibly could be.
“It’s not only that he promised to end the war,” Patrick explains when Nathaniel looks at him blankly. “His wife’s pregnant.” Dr. King’s baby had been even younger than Eleanor. Susan just isn’t dealing well with fathers of infants being killed, which is a statement that wouldn’t have made a grain of sense a year ago. He’s furious that it makes sense now.
