is a 1955 Chevy Bel Air convertible. It was . . . uh . . . horrible when he got it. He keeps it over at my parents’ garage. He rented out his place when he went to Denver to study, so now he needs to wait till the lease expires to move back in. So he has all his equipment and stuff at my parents’, and that’s what we do in our free time.” He grinned. “When I’m not with you.” He grinned again. “I confess most of our emotional sharing refers to the damn wrench that can’t be found or what in hell he thinks he’s doing to the radiator. Why?”
“Very . . . guy,” I said. I was trying to figure out how this motor-head thing would play with Ben. I was never very clear on what were Ben’s “ew” or “hot” buttons. Though then again, even if we didn’t work on classic cars together, we, by agreement, said very little about our love lives to each other. An arrangement that had seen us through since middle school. “At any rate, the Branding Iron is not anything fringy. It’s just one of the local gay bars. . . . It’s like a restaurant with a dance floor. I mean, the purpose is less cruising and more nice meals in friendly surroundings. They have white tablecloths and all.” I noticed Cas was looking at me very weirdly, and said, “Ben had a birthday party. His friend Peter from the Philharmonic threw it for him. Surprise. Peter invited me. They don’t actually prevent women coming in, you know.”
Cas grinned. “No, I was just . . . if Ben and Nick frequent the same places, it’s a miracle they didn’t already know each other.”
I waggled my hand. “Not really. The Branding Iron has only been open a year. Nick was away at school, right? I’m going to guess he’s either never been there, or never at the same time that Ben was . . . Or they just never noticed each other. There are . . .” I coughed at having to explain this to Cas. “You know, Goldport is a population center for this area and there are ranches and . . . small towns, and . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now we can stop discussing the ins and outs of gay dating, right? They’re gone. We’re alone.” He cornered me against the wall and was kissing me very thoroughly, when I heard, “Ew. Peegrass chewed up a rat.”
I think we beat all possible speeds between the living room and E’s room. It turned out my son was absolutely accurate. In a weird way. Though the rat that had gotten—apparently—chewed up then spit out in a pulpy mess was one of E’s drawings.
“Pythagoras,” I said. “Honestly!”
“Mee-ooo?” he asked, which probably translated as, “I’m sorry, kind stranger, isn’t the ritual chewing up and spitting up of paper a custom of your land? I promise to endeavor to practice more appropriate behavior in the future.”
I looked up to read frustration and amusement in Cas’s eyes. “That cat,” he said, “is seriously insane.” He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a wad of toilet paper, which he used to pick up the paper pulp and dispose of it in the bathroom trash.
“Right,” I said. “I’m going to go cook something.”
“No way,” Cas said. “I’ve ordered pizza. It should arrive any minute.”
“Pizza!” E said.
“You didn’t have to,” I said.
Cas slipped his arm around me and kissed my forehead in an almost chaste way. “Babe,” he said, “I’ve seen you cook. The way you get all confused, we’d end up with baby rat soufflé, and then Ben would kill you, and then I’d have to arrest Ben, and then, likely as not, Nick would be mad at me. See pizza saves us all that.”
“Pizza!” E said, as he started to draw a round pizza with green pepperoni on black cheese.
So we’d had pizza and beer, except for E who had fruit juice, and then we’d fed the rats and helped them poop. And then we’d fed Pythagoras who was starting to eye the rats with a speculative look.
We installed E in a chair at the table, to pursue his newfound artistic enthusiasm, I washed
“Very . . . guy,” I said. I was trying to figure out how this motor-head thing would play with Ben. I was never very clear on what were Ben’s “ew” or “hot” buttons. Though then again, even if we didn’t work on classic cars together, we, by agreement, said very little about our love lives to each other. An arrangement that had seen us through since middle school. “At any rate, the Branding Iron is not anything fringy. It’s just one of the local gay bars. . . . It’s like a restaurant with a dance floor. I mean, the purpose is less cruising and more nice meals in friendly surroundings. They have white tablecloths and all.” I noticed Cas was looking at me very weirdly, and said, “Ben had a birthday party. His friend Peter from the Philharmonic threw it for him. Surprise. Peter invited me. They don’t actually prevent women coming in, you know.”
Cas grinned. “No, I was just . . . if Ben and Nick frequent the same places, it’s a miracle they didn’t already know each other.”
I waggled my hand. “Not really. The Branding Iron has only been open a year. Nick was away at school, right? I’m going to guess he’s either never been there, or never at the same time that Ben was . . . Or they just never noticed each other. There are . . .” I coughed at having to explain this to Cas. “You know, Goldport is a population center for this area and there are ranches and . . . small towns, and . . .”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah. Now we can stop discussing the ins and outs of gay dating, right? They’re gone. We’re alone.” He cornered me against the wall and was kissing me very thoroughly, when I heard, “Ew. Peegrass chewed up a rat.”
I think we beat all possible speeds between the living room and E’s room. It turned out my son was absolutely accurate. In a weird way. Though the rat that had gotten—apparently—chewed up then spit out in a pulpy mess was one of E’s drawings.
“Pythagoras,” I said. “Honestly!”
“Mee-ooo?” he asked, which probably translated as, “I’m sorry, kind stranger, isn’t the ritual chewing up and spitting up of paper a custom of your land? I promise to endeavor to practice more appropriate behavior in the future.”
I looked up to read frustration and amusement in Cas’s eyes. “That cat,” he said, “is seriously insane.” He disappeared into the bathroom and returned with a wad of toilet paper, which he used to pick up the paper pulp and dispose of it in the bathroom trash.
“Right,” I said. “I’m going to go cook something.”
“No way,” Cas said. “I’ve ordered pizza. It should arrive any minute.”
“Pizza!” E said.
“You didn’t have to,” I said.
Cas slipped his arm around me and kissed my forehead in an almost chaste way. “Babe,” he said, “I’ve seen you cook. The way you get all confused, we’d end up with baby rat soufflé, and then Ben would kill you, and then I’d have to arrest Ben, and then, likely as not, Nick would be mad at me. See pizza saves us all that.”
“Pizza!” E said, as he started to draw a round pizza with green pepperoni on black cheese.
So we’d had pizza and beer, except for E who had fruit juice, and then we’d fed the rats and helped them poop. And then we’d fed Pythagoras who was starting to eye the rats with a speculative look.
We installed E in a chair at the table, to pursue his newfound artistic enthusiasm, I washed
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