Ask Again Later Part 16

"Good for you, Mom," I say. "Call you tomorrow."

"Okay, but not too early," Mom says.

Oh! I didn't need that much information. Will walks by the reception area.

"How are things?" Will says.

"Better than I thought," I say.

"Glad to hear it," Will says. "Your mom doing okay?"

"I think she has a date tonight," I say.

"Not a bad idea. How about Cafe Habana?" Will says.

"Oh," I say, thinking it might be nice to get away from work, home, and transient thoughts about Sam. "Sure. There's always room for Cuban corn."

Things start out nicely enough. The corn is good. But the tide shifts when Will's one or two beers turn into nine! That's 120 ounces of liquid! How is the human body supposed to cope?

The evening ends with my lifting Will's youthful head up from the table and asking him if he knows his own address. I put his bike into the trunk of a cab, and walk him up three flights of stairs to his apartment.

At least I no longer have to wrestle with the question of whether I'm judging him unfairly due to his youth.

Cold Drink WE'RE BY THE WATERCOOLER. His eyes are bloodshot.

"What did you think about last night?" Will says.

"So you remembered we went out last night?" I ask. "What did you think about last night?"

"What I remember of it was stellar!" Will says. "Sorry for getting...drunk."

"It's okay," I say.

"Shall we try to recapture our magic tomorrow night?" Will asks.

"Another time, maybe," I say.

"Another time-maybe never, right?" Will says. "We're not going to kiss anymore, are we?"

"No," I say.

"Yeah, well, some guy, somewhere, just caught the break of a lifetime," Will says.

"Do you happen to know where he is? 'Cause he's not returning my calls and it's making me a little nuts," I say.

"Can you at least pretend this is an awkward conversation?" Will asks.

Guest Suite I BUZZ MY FATHER.

"Mr. Whitehall is here to see you," I say.

"I'll be right out," Dad says.

"You can have a seat in the waiting room, Mr. Whitehall," I say. "Would you like coffee, tea, water?"

"Water, please," says Mr. Whitehall.

Wendy ambushes me on my way to the staff kitchen.

"We need to talk," she hisses.

"Okay, what's up?" I say.

"It's not a waiting room," Wendy says.

"What's not a waiting room?" I say.

"The area where people wait," Wendy says.

"I see," I say. "What is the waiting room, then, if it's not 'the area where people wait'?"

"It's to be referred to as the guest suite," Wendy says.

"Is this another Dad-ism, or is this one of your inventions?" I ask.

"Jim and I-let's just say we agree on this," Wendy says. "People don't like to wait. It makes them feel disrespected. A guest suite sounds welcoming. It has VIP connotations."

"VIP connotations?" I say.

Wendy should have been in government protocol or some rule-based job that would reward her gifts. People are always missing their true callings. They become loyal to the wrong choices.

I carry the bottled water back to Mr. Whitehall.

"Here you go," I say. "I found these Hostess s...o...b..a.l.l.s in the kitchen. And some pretzels, too. Any interest?"

"Sure," says Mr. Whitehall.

I have antic.i.p.ated his needs, and for that he is appreciative. Food makes waiting seem like a treat. A marshmallow treat, rolled in coconut...and dyed shocking pink.

"I hope you're enjoying the guest suite," I say. And its VIP connotations.

"Yes," says Mr. Whitehall.

I walk back into the kitchen. Wendy is waiting for me.

"You just gave away my lunch," Wendy says.

"I know," I say. "I didn't like the way you were talking to me. Do you want me to make you some popcorn or something?" I say.

"Who eats popcorn for lunch?" Wendy says.

Sometimes it seems like we're all just waiting. No matter what you call it.

Grilled Cheese I'M LEANING AGAINST the counter in her kitchen. My mom looks great. I'm not afraid to say what I need to say, which comes as a shock to me. The therapy is starting to pay off. And my mother doesn't seem fragile anymore.

"I'm thinking it's probably a good time for me to go back to my own place," I say.

"Okay," Mom says. "I was thinking maybe I'd turn your bedroom into a meditation room."

"I had no idea you'd be so broken up about it. Maybe I should stay," I say. "I could sell my place."

"You don't sell in a down market," Mom says.

"It's New York City-there seems to be no such thing," I say.

"I don't feel like cooking. Let's go out for a grilled cheese sandwich," Mom says.

"I don't think restaurants make those anymore. They would cost about a dollar-fifty, and that doesn't seem like enough to justify having waitress service, rent, and so on," I say. "But if you're hungry, I'll make one for you."

"No, no. Let's go out. That place around the corner makes them. They're on the kids' menu," Mom says, with too much authority.

At the corner of Lexington and Eighty-third is a soda fountain luncheonette that makes grilled cheese sandwiches-for children.

The waitress comes to take our order.

"Grilled cheese and ice water," I say, in hopes of pleasing my mother and making up for the fact that I won't be sleeping over anymore. I've been ordering things I don't want for years, in hopes of pleasing my mother. It never works, but that doesn't stop me from trying.

"I'll have an iced tea," Mom says.

"And she'll have a grilled cheese sandwich, too," I say.

"No, nothing else for me. Just iced tea," Mom says.

"You're not getting a grilled cheese sandwich? That's why we're here," I say. "Is something wrong?"

She's giving me a look.

"I feel fine," Mom says, "I feel great, in fact. I just remembered these people never clean their griddle. I couldn't eat anything off of that filth."

The waitress stands there not knowing what to say.

"But you let me order one?" I say.

"Kids are resilient," Mom says.

"Only because they have to be," I say.

Rest Area I CAN'T HELP but miss Sam. I love it when I have a dream about him at night, and I can't wait to go back to bed the next night in hopes that I'll dream about him again. I'm living the most exciting part of my life while I'm asleep. It should disturb me more.

I think I see him walking down the sidewalk today. Hope is turning into reality. My chest begins to pound. My conscientious heart is sending me a message-in case my eyes fail-that Sam is near. I walk faster, and finally I am next to him. I look up. It is not Sam.

The disappointment will last all afternoon. I feel a homesickness I did not think was possible at my age.

I stop at a pay phone. I call his home, when he's at work. I want to avoid calling the place I used to work, looking for the man I used to kiss.

"h.e.l.lo," I say, to his machine. "I just thought I saw you walking in Midtown. I promised myself if it was you I was going to tell you that I've missed you. But it wasn't you."

Escape IT'S SNOWING. Perry wants to meet for a hot toddy at King's Carriage House. I want to see a movie. We compromise and agree to do both.

"Here's one I've been mulling," Perry says. "I'm thinking of adopting."

"A dog-right?" I ask.

"Dogs are too much work," Perry says. "Maybe I could adopt a teenager. She could run errands and stuff."

"Make sure you mention the errand running during the adoption interview," I say.

"How old do you have to be to know how to balance a checkbook and split wood?" Perry says. "I have a place in Sag Harbor; vines and trees have taken over. The landscaper wanted thirty thousand dollars to remove it. A kid might have fun doing that kind of project."

"Because we all know that teenagers love manual labor," I say. "Anyway, all that yard work will be good practice for the shallow grave she'll eventually be digging for your corpse, Perry."

"You really don't think I should adopt, do you?" Perry says.

"No," I say.

"Yeah, I know," Perry says, his voice trailing off. "Being alone sucks. Do we have to see a movie?" Perry adds.

"What is the resistance to movies?" I say. "We had a deal."

"I'm not a big fan of movies. When I go, I usually go by myself. My father used to take me to the movies all the time when I was a kid. He never planned far enough in advance to get a sitter. I ended up watching some really inappropriate stuff," Perry says.

I'm remembering the car ride home from the Hamptons with Sam. That ridiculous automated navigation system. We talked about movies at the Carlyle.

"That must have been great," I say.

"No. Not really. That was his only escape, and I guess it made me think he was very unimaginative. Or maybe the movies were the adult conversation he missed when he was with me. Hard to know," Perry says.

"I can't imagine a parent being organized enough to select a movie, find a theater, get there on time, and remember to bring money to pay for it-my reference point is so far off from yours. I'd have killed to sit in a theater next to my father," I say.

"And be ignored? The movie wasn't for me; it was his working hard to avoid me," Perry says.

"Or working hard to be next to you," I say. "Working hard not to fight. Working hard to be still, and quiet, and in the same place."

"Never thought of it that way," Perry says.

"Are you on new medication?" I ask.

"That obvious?" Perry says.