All You Could Ask For A Novel - By Mike Greenberg Page 0,34

that story over again. I don’t want to miss any of it.”

He smiled. “I hadn’t seen Chet in twenty years. We grew up together, went to law school together, lived across the street from each other in Scarsdale when I was first married. He moved to Colorado for a professional opportunity in the early nineties, I got divorced shortly after that, and we just sort of lost touch. So, about a month ago, he calls me at the office out of the blue, tells me he’s in town, wants to catch up, talk about old times, let’s get together for a drink. Sounds like a great idea to me, so we meet at a place down in the Village about two weeks ago. I could tell he looked a little different the moment he walked in. My first impression was that he was wearing makeup, but I put that aside and we started to chat, talking about law school and all that. So then I asked how Barbara was doing, and he gave me this funny look and said, ‘You know we haven’t been married for fifteen years, don’t you?’ So I said I didn’t know that, and then he got the strangest look in his eye, this glimmer, like a mischievous smile, and he said: ‘Also I finally came out of the closet and am currently living with a twenty-nine-year-old man named Evan.’”

Ken paused a moment, took a sip of his martini, and then went on.

“Well, I didn’t know what to say. I’ve never been quite so surprised in my life.”

“What part of it surprised you?” I asked.

“Well, first, just that he was gay, I never suspected that at all. Not that it makes any difference to me.”

“Yeah, not that there’s anything wrong with that,” I said, and laughed.

He didn’t seem to get it.

“You know,” I said, “from Seinfeld.”

“Oh,” he said. “I’ve never seen a single episode of that show.”

Wait a minute. Who the hell has never seen a single episode of Seinfeld? Was Ken Walker too old to have watched Seinfeld? Should I be making Dick Van Dyke references?

“At any rate,” he went on, “I couldn’t just sit there speechless so I asked him what his boyfriend was like. And he said: ‘Well, the sex is fantastic but the age difference can be quite challenging.’”

What I wanted to say was “I know exactly what he means.” But I did not. Instead, I said, “So, what did you say to that?”

“I said, ‘I understand. It must be difficult to spend time with someone who doesn’t remember when Kennedy was shot.’”

That was the last straw. Was Ken Walker now suggesting that I remember Kennedy being shot? I don’t remember either Kennedy being shot. To me JFK has always been just an airport and a set of initials.

“You know,” I said, containing myself, “I don’t remember when Kennedy was shot either.”

He laughed. “Of course you don’t,” he said.

Then the food came and we ate, and I ordered a third martini the moment my entrée arrived and finished it before I finished the filet mignon.

In the taxi headed home, after coffee and crème brûlée and his asking for my phone number and me offering a quick kiss on the cheek instead, I called Marie. She answered on the first ring.

“So,” she said, “how did it go?”

“Went great,” I said, “I may marry him.”

“Oh no.” She sighed. “What went wrong?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just can’t imagine being with someone who has never seen an episode of Seinfeld.”

“What?”

“Forget it,” I said. I had to move past this. “Pack a suitcase, we’re going away. I’m taking a vacation and you’re coming with me.”

“Katherine,” Marie said, “you’ve never taken a vacation in all the time I’ve worked for you.”

“I haven’t taken a vacation in a lot longer than that. Pack a bag, sweetheart, we’re leaving tomorrow.”

“Where are we going?”

“I don’t know yet,” I said. “We’ll figure out the details later.”

BROOKE

I LOVE PHOTOGRAPHS.

I always have, from the time I was a little girl. I remember my father taking me one time to the Museum of Modern Art to a photography exhibit. I don’t recall the artist—I was only six years old—but I do remember the photos were black-and-white, shot in New Mexico or Arizona, of Native Americans in their daily lives working on farms, pumping water, tending to animals, driving tractors, and I still remember how vivid the faces were. That’s what I love about photography, as obvious as it sounds: it’s real. My mother loves surreal