been unkind. This was so horribly sad. Everything was so horribly sad. He said, “You know what’s worse than something bad happening, is when something was supposed to be really good, when everyone expected it to be wonderful, and then instead it’s bad. Why is that so much worse?”
The newscaster was saying that Reagan had cancelled the State of the Union address that was scheduled for tonight but would surely address the disaster. Yale missed Charlie suddenly, desperately. He wanted Charlie there to shout at the TV that what Reagan would “surely address” wasn’t always so logical. A handful of dead astronauts and Reagan weeps with the nation. Thirteen thousand dead gay men and Reagan’s too busy.
When the news went to commercial, Yale took the opportunity to rise from the bed, lower the volume a bit, refill his glass, sit back down farther from Roman.
Then the TV showed the schoolchildren who’d gathered to watch the launch. It showed the ground crew handing the teacher an apple. It was hard to look away, and harder to look. The wine was affecting him more than he’d have thought. Well, the beer plus the wine. And the darkness of the room, and the horrible plumes of smoke.
Roman said, “When I think about death, I start questioning everything.”
Yale did not want to talk about death. He said, “Sometimes questioning is good.”
“I keep thinking about Ranko. How romantic. I mean, he’s literally shut away in a castle. And she’s out there waiting for him.”
“It sounded awful, to be honest.”
“Don’t you envy what Nora had, though? There was so much disaster, but it was like she belonged to something, you know?”
Yale was careful. “I mean, you can—you can find that in Chicago. That belonging.”
“Maybe that’s my problem. I’m stuck in Evanston looking at paintings.”
“I didn’t come to the city till I was twenty-six,” Yale said.
He had the sudden inspiration that he should hook Roman up with Teddy. Teddy was healthy, after all, and he’d consider Roman a fun project. A puppy to train.
“Listen, you need to come down to, you know, to Lakeview. You’d have a lot more in common with people down there than in Evanston. Good bars, fun people. A little more laid-back.”
“This ceiling is weird,” Roman said, and without willing his body to do it, Yale lay down next to Roman, his legs still hanging off the end of the mattress. There was nothing particularly odd about the ceiling. It was just stucco. Roman had finished his wine; he tossed the plastic cup to the floor. He said, “I’m messed up.”
“No, you’re not.” Yale turned his head in that direction, hoped Roman could see the earnestness in his eyes.
Roman reached out and, with just his fingertips, touched Yale’s neck, his green sweater. Yale stopped breathing, just watched Roman’s face flickering blue and yellow in the television light. He should tell him to stop. He should get up. But maybe this was the first time Roman had ever done something so bold. Maybe, if Yale rebuffed him, it would be the last. And while he lay there paralyzed, Roman ran his fingers down Yale’s arm and onto the outer seam of his Dockers. Yale felt pinned to the bed with sugar, with alcohol, with afternoon languor. With, to be honest, an erection that was now straining against his boxers and his left thigh.
Roman looked terrified, and so young, and Yale took the hand off his leg but instead of letting it go he held it, twined his fingers through Roman’s long, pale ones. They faced each other now, and Yale realized no one had touched him, not really, since his life had fallen apart. Teresa had hugged him when he came home from Wisconsin that day. Fiona had hugged him at Terrence’s funeral. That was it. And being touched was Yale’s weakness, always had been. People joked sometimes about not being held enough as a child, but in Yale’s case it was so terribly literal, like a vitamin deficiency.
Roman whispered: “I don’t know what I want.” He was shaking, or at least his hand was. His glasses, pushed up by the pillow, framed his face unevenly.
Not fifteen minutes ago, Yale had had reasons nothing should happen, but what had they been? Well, he might be infectious. There was that. But did that rule out everything?
He wanted the television off. He knew that much. This required moving, which he did: He dropped Roman’s hand, propelled himself off the bed, hit the power button with his