The Painting of Porcupine City (19 page)

“I can’t. I’ll fall off.”

“I’ll hold you.”

We couldn’t really sleep like that, though, so he moved to the front seat and let me, as much as was possible, stretch out in the back. He pulled a sketchbook from underneath the passenger seat, and with marker he doodled again and again, in different letterforms, sometimes with illustrations, sometimes without—to find out if they really were true—the words ARROWMAN IS CREW.

I watched him for a while and then closed my eyes, listening to the squeak of marker against paper. By the time the first ray of sun came in between his shirtsleeves, I had fallen asleep.

P A R T

T W O

Hanging On Every Word

Thunk.

My backpack, packed for Mateo’s, slipped off the back of my chair and hit the floor with a metallic clatter I was afraid would give away its contents. By now Jamar knew about Mateo’s—shall we say—
hobby
, but I don’t think he knew I was joining him at it. I leaned over and picked it up, hooked the strap once more around the top of the chair.

“Wow,” I murmured, sliding back in the chair. Jamar’s face was blank, was offering no clues as to how I should be reacting to what he’d just told me. It was big news and I wasn’t sure what the proper response was. Meanwhile his life was flashing before my eyes. “How do you feel about it?”

“How do I feel?” He looked at me as though he’d never considered he was supposed to feel anything. He turned and looked at the fan in the window, its blades rotating in the August breeze. “How do I
feel?
” He flung himself back on my bed; the whole thing lurched on its castors, two of which bumped from rug onto wood. He stared at the ceiling. Despite his size he looked like a frustrated boy lying there, bumping his forehead with one fist. Finally he leaned up on his elbow. “I was hoping you’d tell me how I should feel about it.”

I laughed, went and sat beside him on the bed, put my arm around his shoulders. “You are going to be,” I paused for effect, “an amazing father.”

“You think so?”

“I don’t have a single doubt.”

“I don’t know how this happened, though,” he said. “I’m well known as the double-rubber guy.”

“Do you really wear two?”

“Well, no—but always one, especially since Cara decided to drop the Pill. We’ve never had one break or anything, that I know of.”

“Always?”

“Well I mean I’ve—
you know
—on her stomach and her legs and stuff. Could it have dribbled in? Is that possible?”

“Like osmosis?”

“Not osmosis, like—” He squiggled a finger down his belly to his crotch. “You know. Dribbled.”

“Maybe. It must’ve? Anyway, it happened, right? It’s going to be fine. You love her. You love her, right?”

He looked at me. “Of course I love her.”

“She loves you.”

“She loves me.”

“What’s the problem?”

“There has to be a problem.”

“Why? You have a good job. Advertising is stable.”

He got up and walked around my room. He picked up a paperback of
Sweet Thursday
from my bureau, fanned the pages, put it back. “We can afford a kid if we’re careful. I love her. OK.”

“And you’re twenty-seven now. You’re older than your parents were, right? You’re older than mine were.”

“I’m old enough to have a kid. OK. OK.”

“OK?”

“Thank you.”

“OK.”

“Remember not to tell her I told you, though. She’ll kill me.”

“I won’t. But tell me publicly soon. I don’t want to be keeping a secret like this. You know I’m not good with secrets.”

“Yeah. I will. Man. A kid. Can you believe it?”

“Honestly? No. Better you than me, sucker.”

He grinned. On his way to the door he said, “Going to Mateo’s tonight?”

“Yeah. Yup.”

“Going pretty well with him, eh?”

“Don’t jinx it, Jamar. Seriously.”

He flung up his hands. “Sorry!”

He left my room and I got up and looked out the window. The air had that yellow, hazy glow that precedes a summer storm. If it rained there was a decent chance Mateo would stay in bed all night, and that would be great.

Jamar poked his head back in my room. “Remind him that Car and I want to go with you guys to see that street art exhibit he mentioned at dinner. The one at the ICA.”

“The Shepard Fairey one. I’ll tell him.” It hit me all over again. “Jamar, are you aware you’re having a freaking baby?”

“If it’s a boy we’re going to name him Fletcher.”

“
Really?
”

His face blanched. “Um. Oh. Well, I don’t know. I was just playing. We haven’t discussed it at all. I’m not sure why I just said that.”

“Too bad. I’m holding you to it! Fletcher Andrews. Even if it’s a girl.”

“You got it. OK, I need to get out of here before she gets home. If she sees we’re here together, she’ll know. She’ll know I wouldn’t have been able to resist.”

“I’ll walk out with you, Dad.” I put on the backpack, grabbed phone, wallet, keys off my bureau. I still always thought of the key-touching guy when I did that. It’d become a weird habit.

On the sidewalk Jamar, squinting against the setting sun, put his hand on my shoulder. “This is a secret now, remember.”

I drove past Forest Hills

and in the humid twi-dark with the windows down cruised down Hyde Park Ave and turned onto his street, winding the car in the heat up the hill. And parked.

In the air was the faint smell of the brick-oven pizza place down the street, a smell that reminded me of the night a couple weeks ago when I brought Mateo there to meet Cara and Jamar for dinner, to prove to them once and for all that he wasn’t Mike, Arthur, Tom, Eddie, and/or Omar, but only Mateo. I don’t know why I chose such a neutral place to do this, I just felt the need. Maybe it was to keep them in check—at home they might’ve mauled him like he was some kind of rockstar, the first of my romantic life. They’d both run into plenty of my guys over the years—coming in, going out—but Mateo was the first one I was
introducing
them to. They were aware of the significance and behaved like thrilled parents. In the vestibule of the restaurant Jamar, normally pretty reserved, enveloped Mateo in a giant hug and lifted him a foot off the ground. Cara made googly-eyes at him as though he were surrounded by glowing fairies or some kind of halo, from appetizers all the way to dessert.

“I never thought anyone would be able to tame our Fletcher,” she told Mateo. “What’s your
se
cret?”

Had I been tamed? Things were remarkably low-key so far with Mateo and me. No heavy discussions about our feelings, no labels placed on our relationship—we hadn’t even said the word
relationship
. Or
boyfriend
. It had none of the drama I’d learned to expect from romances in Porcupine City. So it was easy to think of Mateo as just a lasting trick, a special friend; the difference was only in the amount of time we spent together. Cara and Jamar saw things differently, though. They seemed more inclined to already think of Mateo and me as a merged unit. I figured it was because they were straight and uber-domestic, though now I think it was because they were in love, and wanted so much for me to have what they had.

I climbed the steps to Mateo’s house. Sweaty, I opened the screen door and knocked on the cranberry-colored door. Through the glass and translucent curtains I could see the tell-tale blue glow of a television in the living room beyond the kitchen. I knocked and waited, still thinking of it too much as Marjorie’s house to enter uninvited. Beside the door some purple flowers sat wilted in a pot. I noticed then that Marjorie’s car was gone from the tiny driveway. I put my hand on the knob just as it began turning.

He was wearing a white sleeveless t-shirt that showed off his tattoos, shorts, no shoes, and the plastic band that kept his hair back. “You don’t have to knock, I told you.”

“I know,” was all I managed before he stopped my lips with a kiss. “Ooh. Hey, your plant needs watering.” I pointed.

He shrugged. “I don’t handle the landscaping.”

“You mean you don’t take after your dad?”

“Haha. No.” So his thumbs were many colors, but green wasn’t one of them. “Come in.”

The house had the natural cool of a brick building and my sweat turned chilly. To warm up I put my lips on his neck and slipped my hands down the back of his shorts.

“Haha. Arrowman, Marjorie’s not home—”

“I know.”

“—and I’m watching Phoebe.”

“Oh.” Quickly I withdrew my hands as though his ass were a different type of hot. “Yikes.” And wiped my lips.

“Rain check?”

“Yeah. Sure. Of course.”

“Mateo you’re missing it!”

“On the double!” he called. “Dancing show,” he said to me, taking my hand and leading me to the living room; I had to walk funny to keep from stepping on his bare heels. “Miss, you remember my friend Fletcher.”

“Er, hi Phoebe,” I said, waving awkwardly with my fingers while my thumb stayed hooked in my pocket.

We’d met once before, on the evening I picked Mateo up to have dinner with Cara and Jamar—a mess of introductions gotten over with in one day. She’d kept her hugs to herself that first time and seemed no more inclined to dish one out now. She told me hello, but it was dutiful.

She was sitting Indian-style on the couch with a box of Nilla Wafers in her lap, her straight brown hair splayed across her plump shoulders. A cup of tea sat on a coffee table pulled close to her knees. After looking me over through purple-rimmed glasses that made her eyes look big, she turned to Mateo. “Kupono is on,” she said.

I wondered why she didn’t like me—according to Mateo she liked everyone. I wondered if she could sense I was uncomfortable around her. I crossed my arms and stood watching the TV. She made me nervous for all the same reasons little kids did. The unpredictability, mostly. But with her there was an extra awkward facet: it was a little bit cute to not like kids, if you struck the right tone with it. But not liking the handicapped just made you a douchebag.

“Ooh baby. Kupono!” Mateo cooed. He sat down at the end of the couch and when he told me to sit I wedged myself between him and the arm. He said to me, “Kupono is our favorite dancer. He’s from Hawaii.” On-screen a shirtless guy did multiple back-flips all the way across a stage. “Kupono also happens to be Phoebe’s boyfriend.”

She laughed— “Yup” —and leaned forward for the tea.

When the show was over

and she’d cast ten telephone votes for Kupono and one vote for someone named Gev (the runner-up for her affections), Phoebe hugged Mateo goodnight, sort of patted me on the forearm as she walked past me, and went upstairs to her room.

“Does she know about us?” I said. “You were holding my hand.”

“I think she knows we go together. Does she know it’s romantically? I doubt it.”

“She must know you’re gay, though. You were practically drooling over the Hawaiian guy.”

“Funny what computes for her. I can get away with slobbering about how cute he is, I think because to her, objectively, he’s cute, and it’s not weird to her that I’d be able to see that too. But this one time I said I wanted to kiss him and she laughed like crazy and slapped me on the knee, like,
Hahaha, you silly son of a bitch.
” He took my hand and played with my fingers for a second. “Oh, Miss!” he called up, “I’m supposed to remind you to brush your teeth!” There was no response. He shrugged. “We’ll assume she’s doing it.”

“She’s pretty self sufficient?”

“Pretty much. With that kind of stuff. Not so much with cooking or anything like that. I mean, she couldn’t live alone.”

“Oh.”

“She’s actually in line to get into a home for people like her.”

“An—asylum?”

“Arrowman! Jeez. It’s more like a sorority house or something. In Newton. Gorgeous. It’s a mansion.”

“That kind of reminds me, actually,” I said. “I’m not really supposed to tell, but....” Mateo was a neutral party and thus probably fell outside my promise to Jamar. “Cara’s
with child
.”

His face lit up. “No shit, really?”

“Jamar told me just now. It’s still a secret. I’m not supposed to tell anyone.”

“Wow.”

“Crazy, huh?”

“Crazy!” He pursed his lips and blew out air without whistling.

I squeezed them and his cheeks filled up. “Can we go upstairs?”

We made our way to the third floor and the air grew hotter as we went. I snapped his bedroom door shut behind us.

“It’ll be a good-looking kid,” Mateo said. “Did you know that when mixed-race babies are born, they get a birth certificate, a Social Security card, and a modeling contract?”

“Haha!”

“That’s why us Brazilians are such lookers,” he said, stroking his eyebrow suavely, “because so many are mixed.”

“But you’re the most good-looking and you’re just plain old—what are you?”

“Italian and German mostly.”

“Spaghetti and weiner schnitzel.”

“Heh. What’s the baby’s name? Have they decided?”

“They haven’t gotten that far yet,” I said. “He or she is currently the size of a comma.” I sat down on the bed and unlaced my shoes. He came over and stood between my knees, looking down at me with his hands on my shoulders. I slipped my hands around his legs and up into his shorts. The coarse hair on his thighs tickled the webs of my fingers. “Actually, Jamar said they’re going to name it after
me
. Even if it’s a girl.”

“That’s a girl who’d be very popular. They could call her Fletchinha.”

“I’ll call
you
Fletchinha. Come here.”

We fell backward onto the bed and he was on top of me. I held his painty fingers, looking at the cuticles and hangnails.

“Do you want to have kids, Arrowman?”

I folded his fingers into a fist and brought it in slow motion to my jaw. “
Boooof.
I’m out.”

“You’re out?”

“Stone cold.” I looked up at him. “You mean right now?”