‘All good,’ he says.
Sun slices through the blinds. There is the sound of a shower running and the bodily, other-person smell of unfamiliar sheets. Simon is naked in a king bed beneath thick white covers. When he sits up, his legs ache, and he feels he might be sick. He squints at the room: a closed side door, which must lead to the bathroom; stock photos of urban architecture in sleek black frames; a small walk-in closet, inside which Simon sees color-coordinated rows of suit jackets and collared shirts.
He climbs out of bed and scans the ground for his clothes before he realizes that he must have left them in the living room – he remembers it vaguely, the night before, though it feels less like reality than the most intense dream he’s ever had. His jeans and polo shirt are crumpled under the coffee table, his beloved 320s by the door. He scrambles into them and looks outside. Hordes of people stride down the sidewalk with briefcases and coffee. In some alternate reality, it’s Monday morning.
The shower stops. Simon walks back into the bedroom just as Ian comes out of the bathroom, a towel slung low around his waist.
‘Hey.’ He smiles at Simon, takes the towel off and rubs it vigorously over his hair. ‘Can I get you anything? Coffee?’
‘Um,’ says Simon. ‘That’s okay.’ He stares as Ian walks to the closet and pulls on a pair of black underwear, then thin black socks. ‘Where do you work?’
‘Martel and McRae.’ Ian buttons an expensive-looking white shirt and reaches for a tie.
‘What’s that?’
‘Financial advising.’ Ian frowns into a mirror. ‘You really don’t know much of anything, do you?’
‘Hey. I told you I was new here.’
‘Relax.’ Ian has a suspiciously handsome smile, as might belong to a personal injury lawyer.
‘The people at your work,’ says Simon. ‘Do they know you like guys?’
‘Hell no.’ Ian laughs shortly. ‘And I’d like to keep it that way.’
He strides out of the closet, and Simon steps away from the doorway.
‘Listen, I gotta run. But make yourself at home, okay? Just be sure the door shuts behind you when you leave. It should lock automatically.’ Ian grabs a jacket from the hall closet and pauses at the door. ‘It’s been fun.’
Alone, Simon stands very still. Klara doesn’t know where he is. Worse, Gertie must be hysterical. It’s eight in the morning, which means it’s nearly eleven in New York – six days since he left. What kind of person is he, to do this to his mother? He finds a phone on the kitchen counter. While it rings, he pictures the one at home, a cream-colored push button. He imagines Gertie walking over to it – his mother, his dear; he must make her understand – and grasping the receiver in her strong right hand.
‘Hello?’
Simon is startled. It’s Daniel.
‘Hello?’ Daniel repeats. ‘Anybody there?’
Simon clears his throat. ‘Hey.’
‘Simon.’ Daniel releases a long, ragged breath. ‘Jesus Christ. Jesus fucking Christ, Simon. Where the hell are you?’
‘I’m in San Francisco.’
‘And Klara’s with you?’
‘Yeah, she’s here.’
‘Okay.’ Daniel speaks slowly and with control, as if to a volatile toddler. ‘What are you doing in San Francisco?’
‘Hang on.’ Simon rubs his forehead, which pounds with pain. ‘Aren’t you supposed to be at school?’
‘Yes,’ says Daniel, with the same eerie calm. ‘Yes, Simon, I am supposed to be at school. Would you like to know why I’m not at school? I’m not at school because Ma called me in a fit on Friday night when you hadn’t come home, and being the good fucking son that I am, the only fucking reasonable person in this family, I left school to be with her. I’ll be taking incompletes this semester.’
Simon’s brain spins. He feels unable to respond to all of this at once, and so he says, ‘Varya’s reasonable.’
Daniel ignores this. ‘I’ll repeat myself. What the hell are you doing in San Francisco?’
‘We decided to leave.’
‘Yeah, I got that far. I’m sure it’s been groovy. And now that you’ve had your fun, let’s talk about what you’re going to do next.’
What is he going to do next? Outside, the sky is a clear, endless blue.
‘I’m looking at the Greyhound schedule for tomorrow,’ Daniel says. ‘There’s a train leaving from Folsom at one in the afternoon. You’ll have to transfer in Salt Lake City and again in Omaha. It’ll cost you a hundred and twenty bucks, which I hope to God you didn’t travel across the country without, but if you’re stupider than I’m giving you credit for, I’ll wire it to Klara’s bank account. In that case, you’ll have to wait and leave on Thursday. All right? Simon? Are you with me?’
‘I’m not coming back.’ Simon is crying, for he realizes that what he’s said is true: there now exists a pane of glass between him and his former home, a pane he can see through but not cross.
Daniel’s voice softens. ‘Come on, big guy. You’re dealing with a lot, I understand that. We all are. Dad’s gone – I can see why you’d get impulsive. But you have to do what’s right. Ma needs you. Gold’s needs you. We need Klara, too, but she’s more of a . . . a lost cause, you know what I mean? Listen, I get how it goes with her. She doesn’t like to take no for an answer; I’m guessing she talked you into it. But she had no right to rope you into her bullshit. I mean, Jesus – you haven’t even finished high school. You’re a kid.’
Simon is silent. He hears Gertie’s voice in the background.
‘Daniel? Who are you talking to?’
‘Hang on, Ma!’ Daniel shouts.
‘I’m staying here, Dan. I am.’
‘Simon.’ Daniel’s voice hardens. ‘Do you know what it’s been like around here? Ma has lost her godforsaken mind. She’s talking about calling the cops. I’m doing my best, I’m promising her you’ll come to your senses, but I can’t hold her off for much longer. You’re only sixteen – a minor. And technically, that makes you a runaway.’
Simon is still crying. He leans against the counter.
‘Sy?’
Simon wipes his cheeks with his palms. Gently, he hangs up.
3.
By the end of May, Klara has filled out dozens of job applications, but she gets no interviews. The city is changing, and she missed the very best parts: the hippies, the Diggers, the psychedelic gatherings in Golden Gate Park. She wants to play a tambourine and listen to Gary Snyder read in the Polo Fields, but now the park is filled with gay cruisers and drug dealers, and the hippies are just homeless. Corporate San Francisco won’t have her, not that she would have it. She targets the feminist bookstores in the Mission, but the clerks glance at her flimsy dresses with disdain; the coffee shops are owned by lesbians who laid the cement floors themselves and certainly don’t need help now. Grudgingly, she submits an application to a temp agency.