And he admired that in a person. Nico was the one who’d first introduced him to Charlie, and when Charlie had turned his back to greet someone who’d just arrived at the bar, Nico had whispered, “He’s gonna be the first gay mayor. Twenty years.” And the reason Charlie was so good at organizing people, lighting fires under them, getting his paper read, was that he took loss extremely hard. He absorbed failure by staying up till five in the morning, calling people and scribbling in notebooks until he had a new plan of action. It was hard to live with, but Yale couldn’t imagine his own life anymore without the whirring clock of Charlie at its center.
Cecily said, “I wanted to take a pair of scissors and trim that man’s eyebrows. The lawyer.”
She was driving too fast for the rain. Instead of asking her to slow down, Yale said, “I’m famished.” It was true; it was 3 p.m., and they hadn’t eaten beyond their gas station snack.
They stopped at a restaurant that advertised a Friday fish fry and rooms upstairs. Inside they found mismatched tablecloths and a long wooden bar.
Cecily said, “Are we getting back on the road after this, or are we drinking our troubles away?”
Yale didn’t even have to think about it. “I’m sure they have space.” Tomorrow they could drive home in sunshine.
Cecily sat at the bar and ordered a martini; Yale asked for a beer and said he’d be right back. There was no pay phone in the lobby, but the innkeeper let him use the house phone.
Charlie picked up after ten rings.
Yale said, “We’re definitely staying overnight,” and Charlie said, “Where are you again?”
“Wisconsin. The spiky part.”
“Who are you with?”
“Jesus, Charlie. A woman who looks like Princess Diana’s older sister.”
Charlie said, “Okay. I miss you. You’ve done too much vanishing lately.”
“That’s deeply ironic.”
“Listen, I’m going out to Niles tonight.” Yale had lost track of Charlie’s protests, but he believed this one was about a bar the police kept targeting. Yale had let him know, when they first got together, that he’d never be joining in; his nervous system was fragile enough without the threat of billy clubs and tear gas thrown in.
He said, “Be safe.”
“I’d look great with a broken nose. Admit it.”
Back in the dining room, the bartender was telling Cecily how Al Capone used to stay here, how the gangster’s men would drive carloads of liquor across the frozen lake from Canada. Cecily gulped down the last of her martini, and the bartender chuckled. “I make ’em good,” he said. “Now I do a cherry one, too, call it the Door County Special. You care to give that a try?” Yes, she did.
They sat there long enough that the room slowly filled. Families and farmers and lingering vacationers. Cecily was drunk, and she picked at the potpie she’d ordered, said it was too greasy. Yale offered her some of his fish and chips, but she declined. When she ordered herself a third martini, Yale pointedly asked for more bread.
She said, “I don’t need bread. What I need is an avocado with some cottage cheese. That’s the diet food. Have you ever had avocado?”
“Yes.”
“Of course you have. I mean, not to imply.”
“I’m not sure what that could possibly imply.” He glanced around, but no one was listening.
“You know. You guys are more urbane. Wait, urban, or urbane? Urbane. But listen.” She rested two fingers on his thigh, close to the fold his khakis made near his crotch. “What I want to know is, don’t you ever have fun anymore?”
Yale was baffled. The bartender, passing, winked. He supposed they made a believable couple, even if she was several years older than him. Waspy career woman and her young Jewish boyfriend. He whispered, hoping she’d follow suit. “Are you talking about me personally, or all gay men?”
“See? You are gay!” Not too loudly, thank God. She didn’t move her hand; maybe it wasn’t a sexual move after all.
“Yes.”
“But what I was saying was, I was saying how gay men—I mean, I’m sorry for assuming, but I assumed, and I was right—how gay men used to have more fun than anyone. You used to make me jealous. And now you’re all getting so serious and staying home because of this stupid disease. Someone took me to the Baton Show once. The Baton Club? You know. And it was amazing.”
There was still no one listening. A toddler pitched a fit over by the window, throwing her grilled