fun.”
Again, her emotions rose in such confusion that she felt the moisture break out along her upper lip. She wanted to defend Billy from his father. She wanted to stand next to Constantine and demand to know who Billy had turned himself into. How had he gotten so lost? Her lungs clenched up and she struggled for a breath.
“Goddamn rat's nest,” Constantine said. The grudging humor still hadn't left his voice. Please, Mary said silently. “What're you now,” he asked, “some kind of beatnik?”
''That's it, Dad,” Billy said. “Once again, you've hit the nail right on the head. I am, in fact, a beatnik. You've gone straight to the heart of the matter.”
“Now listen here, friend—”
“Come on, guys,” Mary said, though she could barely speak for lack of wind. The invisible metal bands pressed on her lungs and seemed to tighten another notch with every breath she accomplished. “It's a happy day, we don't want to fight.”
Billy and Zoe sat together on the sofa, which looked as if it might be infested with something that would get into their hair. Mary shuddered, and pulled in a breath. She saw, suddenly, that Billy's and Zoe's hobo clothes—the costumes she'd considered foolish but harmless—were part of a larger perversity. There they sat, her son and daughter, heir and heiress to centuries of daily struggle, the recitation of prayers for luck and better weather, the husbanding of funds. There they sat in rags, hair unkempt, slumped like the poorest of white trash on a piece of furniture that had been dowdy and threadbare even when new. Mary's drunken father had had more pride. Her Sicilian grandmother, too poor to buy drinking glasses, had kept her jelly jars in immaculate rows. For the first time in her life, Mary knew her son as a stranger. As someone who might do anything, whose head was full of thoughts and desires she couldn't imagine.
“Right,” Constantine said. He raised his arm and looked at his watch. The dark blue wool blend of his jacket, the crisp white line of his shirtsleeve, drew back to reveal his Rolex in all its placid certainty. At the sight of her husband's watch Mary briefly imagined him and her son as officers in two hostile factions: one strong and wealthy, armed with tanks; the other nimble and wily, anarchic, armed with little darts tipped in unknown poisons.
“Better get your cap and gown,” Constantine said. “We've got to swing by the hotel and pick Susan up on our way.”
Billy said, “I'm not wearing a cap and gown.”
“Huh?”
“I'm not wearing a cap and gown. I'm willing to go through commencement and everything, the works. But I'm not wearing the monkey suit.”
“Don't be stupid,” Constantine said. “C'mon, go get it, we're gonna be late.”
“There's nothing for me to get,” Billy said. “I didn't order a cap and gown.”
“Oh, Billy,” Mary said.
Constantine swallowed. Mary could hear the juice of him, the thick angry inner workings. She wanted only to lie down somewhere clean and safe until she could catch her breath.
Constantine said, “So. You want to go to commencement in your beatnik suit? You want to just stroll in there looking like a deadbeat?”
“I want to go in my own clothes,” Billy said. “Why should it be a big deal?”
“You've gotta be different, don't you?” Constantine said. “You've got to stand out.”
“Hey, guys,” Mary said, but she knew her voice was barely audible.
“Look,” Billy said, “I've got friends who are laughing at me for even doing this. Sitting there listening to speeches about this grand old institution, brought to us by the folks who helped invent napalm.
You know what napalm does? It's like fire that sticks to you. It eats right down to the bone.”
“I don't know what you're talking about,” Constantine said. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“Harvard has big research contracts with the government,” Billy said. “Did you notice how nice the campus is, how well maintained? Where do you think all that money comes from? Tuition? Sweatshirt sales?”
“Mister, I could tell you a few things about where money comes from—”
“Guys,” Mary said. “Come on. Susan's waiting for us.”
“Dad, I'm happy you and Mom are here,” Billy said. “I'm very pleased we can share all this. But there are limits. Get my drift?”
“I don't know what you're talking—”
“It's my show. It's my life. And I won't wear the goddamned suit.”
“Right,” Constantine said. “It's got to be your way, huh? You don't care that your mother and Zoe and Susan and I