Clayton decided to get personalized plates for the Bronco. They came on Tuesday: CLAY CRG. Hello? If he loves me so much, how come I’m the one who gets abbreviated? So yesterday I went down to the DMV and ordered plates for the Miata: CRAIG CL. When he found out about it, he made me sleep on the couch.
Our getaway house in Cape Vincent is practically finished—and except for a couple dozen carpenters, plumbers, and electricians, we built it ourselves. Clay drove up to make sure the roofers had left, but when he came back home he said the living room was crooked. That’s when I remembered the support things I was supposed to put in my half of the floor but I went to take a piss first and when I came back I got sidetracked by the ribs and baked beans he was making on the grill. He didn’t accept my alibi with much grace. While he was chasing me across Loughberry Lake, I kept trying to explain that he should have known better than to trust a job like that to a boyfriend who still looks for an on-off switch on a hammer. But he wouldn’t listen.
He’s about to buy three hundred acres next to Saratoga Lake. Given what it’s going to cost him, we have three choices: (a) We can live on Cheetos and Gatorade for the next nine years; (b) he can sell two and a half million power mowers by Friday; or (c) you and I can fabricate a reason to sue U.S. Steel and win. He wants to build eighteen condominiums, a golf course, and a high-toned shopping mall—sort of like Levittown for the loaded. I told him he has a moral obligation to consider affordable housing for low-income families that haven’t gotten any breaks yet, and then I called him a bloated plutocrat. So he called me a mismanaged Robin Hood—and a short one.
You now have all the facts. Which one of us is the dreamboat and which one’s the insensitive capitalist bully? Be impartial.
We’re driving to the Cape for the weekend. In addition to learning how to walk uphill in our living room, we talked each other into renting a sailboat that neither one of us knows how to sail. If I don’t show up on Monday morning, call the Coast Guard.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Craig
FROM: Charleen
DATE: May 29, 1998
SUBJECT: Pressing Matters
* * *
The score is 2–1, Clayton. You’re lucky you weren’t shut out entirely. If you’d pulled the license plate crap on me, I’d have run you over with the Bronco.
On my way back from the Ballston Spa depo, I stopped off in Utica to pick up Jody’s financial statements. He was wearing an olive-green T-shirt. Did I ever tell you about my Marine Corps fantasy? If not, I’ll fill you in at lunch.
Yes, I saw the newspaper. Who was Margo and why did you pull down her underpants?
Would you date an attorney named Evan if you’d met him in the mergers and acquisitions section of the law library? Decide quickly because he’s taking me to dinner at T-Bird’s on Monday night. You and Clayton are invited. If you think he’s another rhinestone in my necklace of dead-ends, just tell me so. I’m almost 38. I no longer have the time to find these things out for myself.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Charleen
FROM: Craig
DATE: May 29, 1998
SUBJECT: Nice Try, Sweetheart
* * *
You stopped in Utica on your way back from Ballston Spa? That’s an eighty-mile detour. Each way!
I’ll reserve judgment on Evan until dinner Monday. But remember the law of inverse proportions: the bigger the bore, the bigger the dick. This is what we mean by “mitigating circumstances.”
Margo was the first of three heterosexual impulses I was obliged to endure between birth and the day Travis fell into my arms. (Number two resulted in a social disease, which simultaneously shocked my mother and earned me a bigger allowance from my father. Aren’t men gross?)
You’d be well advised to keep your Marine Corps fantasies to yourself over lunch. Otherwise, you’re going to have to hear mine—and you don’t want to go there. Neither does anyone else in the Sweet Shop.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Both of You
FROM: Kevin Grobeson
DATE: May 29, 1998
SUBJECT: Hey!
* * *
Craig: Clayton is the original Prince Charming and you have a depo in twenty minutes.
Charleen: Small word. Sounds like “motion to compel.” Department C. 10:30. If you need further motivation, pretend Jody’s going to be there.
Now can we get some work done?
KG
LOUISE MCKENNA, M.D.
OBSTETRICS/GYNECOLOGY
Jefferson Medical Plaza, Suite 100
903 Saint Charles Street
St. Louis, Missouri 63101
Darling:
Disregard my last letter. Doug Colson met an ophthalmologist named Brad and they’ve already signed a two-year lease in Maplewood. You see what happens when you don’t seize an opportunity? But I’ll keep my eyes open—after all, we can’t afford to be picky. Unless it’s some crank from high school who’s trying to track you down. (This one had issues, so he didn’t get your phone number. But watch your back anyway.)
I appreciated Clayton’s birthday card, but I wish he wouldn’t. It’s so difficult being pleasant to him. Especially when he writes “Happy 64th” three times in the same sentence. Don’t tell me he didn’t do that on purpose.
Call me. I’m always here.
Love,
Mom
* * *
1998 WEEK AT A GLANCE
MONDAY MAY 25 THRU SUNDAY MAY 31
CLAYTON BERGMAN
CRAIG McKENNA
MONDAY, MAY 25
MONDAY, MAY 25
Memorial Day Observed
Memorial Day Observed
Store opens at 8:00
Prep Stringer trial
TUESDAY, MAY 26
TUESDAY, MAY 26
Loan papers re: Saratoga Lake property
Prep Stringer trial
FIGHT WITH BANK
Research re: Kessler petition
WEDNESDAY, MAY 27
WEDNESDAY, MAY 27
Air conditioners and barbeques due in
Prep Stringer trial
THURSDAY, MAY 28
THURSDAY, MAY 28
Train new cashier
9:00 A.M.—Stringer trial, Dept A
INVENTORY—Late night
Prep Halvorson depo
FRIDAY, MAY 29
FRIDAY, MAY 29
New window display
10:00 A.M.—Halvorson depo, here 1:30 P.M.—Lunch with Jody Kessler, here
FIGHT WITH BANK
SATURDAY, MAY 30
SATURDAY, MAY 30
SUNDAY, MAY 31
SUNDAY, MAY 31
GOLD TIME WITH CRAIG—CAPE VINCENT
ME AND CLAY AT THE CAPE
* * *
Craig McKenna
Attorney Notes
We found Cape Vincent completely by accident shortly after we’d violated the Federal Uniform Boyfriend Act, Title IV, Article 3. (“Never Ever Ever Vacation with Your Sig Oth in Provincetown.”) It’s a complex story that involves a routine tea-dance, a boy in tumescent Speedos with his hands on my ass, an anthropological observation to Clayton (“Boy, was he cute!”), a shoving match in the middle of Commercial Street, and a change of venue to a hotel in Sackets Harbor (“a charming bayside community populated exclusively by retired couples”). But somehow we made a wrong turn out of the Tower Records parking lot in Watertown and ended up at Cape Vincent instead.
“Honey, look at that,” breathed Clayton, forgetting that we hadn’t been on speaking
terms since Speedo Boy seventeen hours earlier. The dirt road had dead-ended at a purple-pink sunset over a green sliver of land—wedged between a glittery Wilson’s Bay on the left and an indigo Lake Ontario on the right. Instinctively, we reached for each other. How could we help it?
* * *
FEDERAL UNIFORM BOYFRIEND ACT
Title IV, Article 6
(“The Cape Vincent Law”)
If you build it, he will come.
* * *
Six weeks later it was ours. Now we have a deed, a house, a tilted living room, a Great Lake in our backyard, and a rented sailboat tied up to our very own pier. (I’m still not sure how Clayton worked it, but ever since escrow closed, our sky’s been the color of a turquoise Crayola crayon, and we’ve cornered the controlling interest in the breeze cartel.) It’s the kind of hideaway where two people can forget all about the ass-kicking week they’ve both survived in the real world and grapple with the issues that really count:
11:00
Wearing only cutoffs, we’re lying on our backs in the sailboat, my head on his chest and his fingers all tangled up in my hair. Clayton’s eyebrows are bunched up, so I can tell he’s got something hefty on his mind. Finally he spills it.
“Remember the time we drove down to Baltimore to see the Sox play at Camden Yards?” he mumbles absently. Who wouldn’t? We rear-ended Brady Anderson in the parking lot.
“What about it?”
“Where did we go for dinner?”
“The crabcake place. You had clams.”
“Oh,” he sighs, relaxing all at once. “Right.” His eyebrows go back to normal. Sometimes he’s so very easy to fix.
Noon
Lunch. Marc Antony is feeding Julius Caesar red grapes. He’s also pouting in an entirely un-Richard-Burton-like fashion.
“Why don’t you have a nickname for me?” demands Clayton, licking grape juice off my nose.
“Huh?”
“You know what I mean!” he insists, possibly blushing for only the third time since I’ve known him. “I call you ‘Honey’, but you still call me ‘Clay’. It’s just not right.” I prop myself up on one elbow and play with his navel. There’s a fast cure for this crisis.
“What if I called you ‘Pokey’ instead?” I suggest, staring up into his big brown eyes with counterfeit sincerity. Hastily, he shoves another pair of grapes into my mouth.
“Forget I said anything,” he growls.
1:00
A passing motorboat kicks up a spray that sends us bobbing gently into one of the pilings. Clayton sits up and steadies the keel (or whatever the hell it’s called). He looks a little distracted.
“Honey?” he mutters nervously, picking up a towel and drying us off. “Should I go through with the Saratoga Lake deal?” I knew this was going to happen sooner or later. Even tough guys get scared sometimes.
“Cold feet?” I ask, as though it hadn’t even occurred to me.
“Uh—yeah.”
“Don’t worry,” I assure him, toying with his always-sexy stubble. “I’ll keep them warm for you.” With a relieved grin, he loops the towel around my neck and yanks my face toward his.
“I love you,” he says.
“Duh,” I reply.
2:00
I flip over on my stomach so he can rub sunscreen on my back. He probably knows it’s making me horny, but I’m not about to admit it—at least not directly.
“Clay?”
“What?”
“Can we untie this thing from the dock and take it out into the bay where nobody can see us?”
“No,” he retorts, slapping my ass (which only makes things worse). “Drowning’s not on today’s schedule of activities. I have other plans for you.” Then he rolls over on his side and flexes his lats at me. He’s insidious.
3:00
Clayton reaches into the cooler for another beer, then drops an ice cube on my neck to see what happens. I yelp.
“How come we fight so much?” I ask, sliding one down the back of his cutoffs.
“How come a dog licks his balls?” he replies, squirming.
“Because he can.”
“It’s the same principle.”
4:00
A pair of cumulocirrus clouds passes directly above us. From a vantage point between Clayton’s clavicle and his chin, I can make out South America. Clayton sees Ho Chi Minh’s face.
“You think we’ll ever adopt a kid like Noah?” I sigh, snuggling closer. Clayton frowns.
“I already have a kid like Noah,” he retorts. “His name is Craig.”
“Kiss my ass.”
“Later.”
5:00
The temperature’s dropping, so we put on our T-shirts. Mine smells like turpentine. His smells like Clayton. It occurs to me that I haven’t tormented him in five hours. I must be slipping.
“Pokey,” I murmur innocently. “How about if I sue the Republican Party when Ken Curran asks me to?”
“It depends on whether or not you behave,” he snaps.
“What does that mean?”
“No tear gas. And stop calling me Pokey!”
6:00
Clayton’s head is on my shoulder. He’s sound asleep. In a minute I’ll wake him up so that he won’t miss our sunset, but for now there’s one last issue I need to handle by myself.
* * *
FEDERAL UNIFORM BOYFRIEND ACT
Title IV, Article 9 (enacted 5/30/98)
(“The Travis Law”)
Stop wondering who’s trying to get in touch with you from high school. It’s probably only Kerry Fusaro or Tom Lee.
So put your heart back in Clayton’s pocket where it’s safe. Your life is complicated enough already.
* * *
NEW YORK STATE DEMOCRATIC COMMITTEE
ALBANY HEADQUARTERS
151 STATE STREET
ALBANY, NEW YORK 12207
June 1, 1998
VIA FACSIMILE
Craig S. McKenna, Esq.
McKenna & Webb
118 Congress Park, Suite 407
Saratoga Springs, New York 12866
Dear Craig:
Thank you for your prompt reply to my letter of Friday. I’d like to schedule a meeting with you some time during the next few days if at all possible. Please let me know if your schedule can accommodate me.
Very truly yours,
Wayne Duvall
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
June 1, 1998
VIA FACSIMILE
Mr. Wayne Duvall
New York State Democratic Committee
151 State Street
Albany, New York 12207
Dear Wayne:
Sorry we keep missing each other. My calendar’s a little jammed this week, but I can rearrange Thursday to meet with you at your convenience.
If I’m out when you call, please schedule a time with my assistant, Kevin Grobeson. He’ll be expecting to hear from you.
Meanwhile, I’ve already begun to research Ken’s suit against the Republican mudslingers and will fill you in when we get together.
Very truly yours,
McKenna & Webb
Craig S. McKenna
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Kevin
FROM: Craig
DATE: June 1, 1998
SUBJECT: The Democrats
* * *
KG:
When this guy calls, get him in here as soon as you can. I need to kick some GOP ass.
CSM
P.S. If you’re not doing anything for dinner, bring your boy du jour to T-Bird’s. One of my college buddies is opening a sixties act he calls Johnny Angel and Venus (true names: Grid Tarbell and Rachel Schwartz), and in between sets we can all make fun of Charleen’s n
ew steady.
MCKENNA & WEBB
A LAW PARTNERSHIP
118 CONGRESS PARK, SUITE 407
SARATOGA SPRINGS, NEW YORK 12866
MEMORANDUM
TO: Craig
FROM: Charleen
DATE: June 2, 1998
SUBJECT: Boyfriends
* * *
Thank you for alienating my date. Had I known he was a fundamentalist, I would have done it myself. Remember when you and Clayton were considering the honeymoon in Greece? That wasn’t NutraSweet he kept dropping into his tea—it was Tylenol.
Jody sent me geraniums. Why is he doing this?! Is he stimulated by rejection?
Ch
P.S. Please assure me that Grid Tarbell wasn’t as erotic in college as he was at T-Bird’s. My “Missed Opportunities” dance card is already at critical mass. And I can’t believe it was actually Clayton who talked you and Grid into “Light My Fire” last night. Either he’s forgotten what happens whenever you wander near a stage (about as likely as Bill Clinton forgetting he has genitals), or else Harvard was a lot tamer than we remember it.