Page 18 of After Hours at Dooryard Books
Patrick takes the world’s tiniest drag and Susan lets out a breath of a laugh. He grins back at her, because they both knowwhat a lightweight he is. This is the first time in over a month he’s been anything other than sober. He’s going in at the shallow end.
“I think he’d tell you whatever you want to know,” Susan says, reaching to take the joint back.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“He’s your little shadow.”
That’s true, but only because Nathaniel’s badly shaken up and Patrick is big and safe. It isn’t personal.
“I’ve met a few of the men you’ve gone around with,” Susan adds, handing him back the joint.
Patrick is kind of touched bygone around with. Ten years ago, that’s how he would have described the boys who took Susan to the movies and brought her home from school on the handlebars of their bicycles. The distance between this apartment and Susan’s pink-painted bedroom is in danger of collapsing, and any minute now Michael will walk in and demand that someone explain quadratic equations. He takes another drag and holds the joint out for Susan. “And?”
“And Nathaniel fits the profile. Older, smart, waspish.”
Patrick considers explaining that his tastes aren’t even close to that narrow, and that the men she’s met are the men he’s allowed her to meet. And those are the men he thinks will amuse her. That profile has more to do with the type of person Susan likes than the type of person Patrick likes. Still, though, she’s right—those are the men Patrick likes best, too.
“There’s no reason to think he’s into men,” Patrick says.
“You’re complicating this,” she says. “Just ask Nathaniel for his life story, and when you do it make sure you’re doing pushups or something.”
Susan’s been here for six weeks, and this is the first conversation they’ve managed that doesn’t revolve around thebaby. Instead, it’s about whether Patrick can seduce secrets from his employee.
“I love that you think I’m some kind of gay mata hari,” he says.
“Nobody thinks that about you, Patrick.” Susan starts laughing, and it’s such a good sound. He’s missed it so much, even if he can hear the sadness threaded through the laughter like a strange new instrument added to an old song.
* * *
It turns out that the only thing more annoying than a crying baby waking you up every hour is a crying baby not waking you up. Eleanor’s too big to sleep in the drawer, so now she spends every night upstairs with Susan in a real crib. Patrick apparently forgot how to sleep for more than two hours at a go.
He gives up and goes out to the living room, thinking he’ll put the television on and let the static hypnotize him into something resembling sleep. But he finds the tiny sofa already occupied by Nathaniel, a book in his lap and a flashlight in one hand.
“You can turn on the lamp, you know,” Patrick says.
“I didn’t want to wake you.” Nathaniel swings his feet off the couch to make room.
Patrick sits. “Can’t sleep? Or is the book just that good?”
“It’s not the book.” Nathaniel points the flashlight at the book’s cover for Patrick to read.Bleak House. It’s Patrick’s own copy, a dog-eared and faded paperback he’d bought from one of those used book tables near Washington Square Park, nowhere near good enough to sell in the shop.
“Not my favorite,” Patrick admits.
“I used to love Dickens,” Nathaniel says, and Patrick thinks he learned more about Nathaniel with that one sentence than hehas in the previous six weeks. “I loved this book,” Nathaniel goes on, “but reading it now, I can’t figure out why.”
“I hate that feeling,” Patrick says, “when something you used to love feels…broken.” He’d been crazy aboutLord of the Ringsin high school, but when he tried to reread it last summer, he gave up as soon as he realized he was rooting for the hobbits to stay home.No draft cards on Middle Earth, Susan said when he complained to her about it.No domino theory in Mordor, Patrick agreed.
In the moonlight that makes its way through the dingy window, Patrick sees Nathaniel tip his head against the back of the sofa, a silhouette that’s become familiar without Patrick noticing: straight nose, sharp chin. Pretty, his brain unhelpfully supplies. It’s not the first time he’s noticed, but it is the first time alone, in the dark, only inches apart. Patrick turns to look at the blank screen of the television.
“Who even likes Dickens?” Nathaniel asks. “What does that say about a person?”
“Probably that they’d loveAs the World Turns,” Patrick says.
“One time!” Nathaniel protests, but even in the dark Patrick can tell he’s trying not to smile.
“Sometimes when I’m reading a book, I’m secretly tracking down evidence of queer characters, and that’s really hard to do with Dickens.”
“Well, I imagine you’re flat out of luck with the classics.”
