didn’t feel the least bit guilty about charging a third hotel room to Northwestern; he considered it a personal gift from Chuck Donovan.
Yale had spent yesterday calling donors, starting to tie up loose ends. In part he was doing his actual job, but he was also reinforcing his relationships. If he landed at another museum three months from now, he’d want to be able to call them up again.
That weekend, he’d gone over his CV and put in some tentative calls to old colleagues from the Art Institute. One was at the MCA now. And there were other cities besides Chicago. For the first time in ages, he was free to live wherever a job might take him. New York, Montreal, Paris, Rome. He tried to see it this way, tried to look at the gifts he’d just been handed: his life, his health, the freedom to move across the globe.
During the drive, between bites of Fritos, Roman told Fiona every detail of the Ranko story. It was the main reason they were going, aside from Yale’s desire to say goodbye to Nora. If Yale had just quit over some Modigliani drawings, he was an idiot. But if he’d quit to save this collection, and if this collection remained complete, the way Nora wanted it to, then he’d have done a good thing, one great good thing, in his life. And getting Ranko’s story nailed down, making sure it was told—wasn’t this the whole reason Nora wanted the collection to go to the gallery? Hadn’t Nora chosen Yale precisely because she thought he’d understand?
They stopped at a rest area near Kenosha, one of the woodsy ones, and as Fiona and Yale waited outside for Roman, she said, “You should call Asher. This is what he does, wrongful termination stuff.”
“I wasn’t wrongfully terminated. I messed up and I quit. And Asher has bigger fish to fry.” The thought was tempting, though—a reason to spend time with Asher, a tangible reason to cry on someone’s shoulder, a substantial shoulder to cry on.
“I don’t understand why you did it,” she said. “You can’t sacrifice your career just to be noble!”
He imitated her voice. “Just like you can’t sacrifice your college education just to be noble!”
Fiona decided she wanted a soda, and so as Roman came out, she went in. Roman looked comically out of place next to the scattered Wisconsinite families with their puffy coats. He wore a black bomber jacket over his black T-shirt, and of course his jeans and shoes and glasses were black as well. Like a terribly chic undertaker. He came and stood next to Yale, who pretended to read a historical sign about Marquette and Joliet. He was still thinking about Bill, about Asher, and now here was Roman, reading the sign too, close enough that Yale could hear him breathe. Their arms, after a minute, were touching. Their shoulders, their hips. Roman moved his hand behind Yale as if he were going to touch it to his back, but Yale never felt any pressure. He seemed to be just hovering his hand there, daring himself.
Roman said, “I didn’t know Marquette was a priest.”
“Wasn’t everyone a priest back then?”
“Well.”
The sidewalk exploded under them.
Or rather, it shattered, glass fragments all around, the concrete still in place, their shoes and feet still there.
Yale spun to see a large woman with teased-out hair and a jean jacket—looking back at them, but walking toward the rest-stop doors. Another woman walked quickly ahead of her, laughing. Her friend, maybe, embarrassed by the scene. It was a bottle that had broken at their feet, a root beer bottle, the remnants of the drink foaming up around the glass shards.
“You make me ill!” the large woman shouted, and then she ran to catch up to her friend. “Fucking pedophile perverts!” They disappeared inside.
Roman took a step back, into the mess. He made his mouth into a small O and blew out slowly.
Yale said, “I guess she’s not a fan of historical signs.” He was shaking, but he wanted to make everything okay. He felt responsible, as if by giving Roman that hand job he’d made this all happen, turned Roman noticeably gay. It was ridiculous, he knew.
Roman got off the sidewalk and rubbed his shoes on the hardened snow. “She couldn’t even see our faces. All she saw was our backs.”
Yale said, “Are you okay? I’m sorry. That—”
“It’s not like I haven’t heard it before.”
“I mean, it’s Wisconsin.”
“Don’t pretend that happened because we crossed the