seemed to be hiring for more than grant writing. He’d been replaced at the Brigg, had gone in for the last time in early April.
Cecily still had her job. The gallery was in good shape. The lawsuit was off and Chuck Donovan had moved on to other ego battles. Yale called Bill once in a while to check in and learned that the restorations on the Modiglianis and the Hébuterne painting were going to take much longer than anyone had thought. Bill was beginning to doubt the show could go up next year. Yale himself had deleted the section of tape where Nora had talked about painting on Ranko’s behalf. “One small step,” he said to Roman, “in my journey to becoming Richard Nixon.”
The Sharps had come to town for a week in April, and Yale had kept out of their way as best he could. He hid Roscoe over at Asher’s place, where Roscoe got noticeably fatter. Allen, just because he’d called Yale up that one time, felt personally responsible for Yale quitting, despite everything Yale had told them both. They doubled down on their insistence that he stay there. They’d be in Barcelona for the summer anyway.
* * *
—
The morning of the parade, he tried calling Roman with the excuse of talking him into going. When Roman didn’t answer, he found himself unduly disappointed. Out of proportion with how much he actually cared about Roman, which was only somewhat. Roman was fun and maybe Roman was therapy, but Roman certainly wasn’t the only man in the world.
Which was another reason to go to the parade himself.
At eleven the phone rang, and Yale answered “Sharp residence” as always, although no one ever seemed to call for the Sharps.
It was his father’s low, lazy grumble asking how everything was. The way an underpaid nurse might, poking her head into your room to make sure you didn’t need the bedpan changed.
Yale said, “I’m fine. I’m great.”
“I’m sitting here doing the crossword, myself.”
“Okay.”
“I’ll, ah, I’ll thank you if you can give me a six-letter word for ‘harpy.’ I was sitting here the longest time thinking it said ‘happy,’ but no, it’s ‘harpy.’”
His father was the slowest talker in the world, a trait that drove Yale crazy in adolescence.
“I got nothing.”
“What are you up to these days?”
There was no way to answer. Yale hadn’t told him about the breakup, just the move. He’d never even told him he’d left the Art Institute last summer; the AIC was something his father had actually heard of, something he took some mote of pride in, and although surely he’d heard of Northwestern as well, Yale had figured he’d leave well enough alone.
He could have talked about the Cubs game, but instead he said, “I’m on my way to a parade.” Because now that his father’s voice was wrapping its way around his right ear, now that going to a ball game would have felt tainted by his father’s approval, it was true: He was going to the parade.
“What kind of parade?”
“A really gay one, Dad. A big gay parade.”
Yale read in his father’s silence a kind of sarcasm. Listen to yourself, the silence said. Do you hear how ridiculous that sounds?
Yale said, “So I kind of need to run.”
He thought his father would hang up, glad for the dismissal, but instead he said, “Listen, have you been following the news on this disease?”
Yale found himself stretching the phone cord to the window just so he could make incredulous eye contact with his own reflection.
“No, Dad, I haven’t. What disease would that be?”
“It’s—are you being ironic with me? I can never tell.”
“You know, the parade is starting. I really have to go.”
“Alright then.”
* * *
—
By the time he got to Clark, the route was packed and the first few floats had gone by. He wound his way behind people, looking for someone he recognized. At Wellington he looked for Ross and his friends and their fire escape, but not too hard. After two blocks, he spotted Katsu Tatami across the street, and when a few people ran across behind the Anheuser-Busch float, he crossed too. He didn’t know the guys Katsu was standing with, but Katsu was always good for a hug, an enthusiastic greeting. He had to shout in Yale’s ear: “So far so good! You want my soda?” He thrust a McDonald’s cup at Yale, and a thought about germs flashed across Yale’s mind, but he willfully ignored it. He took a sip and then