“Oh.” It was more a puff of air than an actual sound, and Everett knew before turning that it had come from the mouth of Tommy Cabot.
“Tommy,” he said.
“You know, you’re the only one who calls me that,” Tommy said. “Other than my brothers, and they aren’t—anyway. Good Christ.” He raised an eyebrow at Everett’s basket. “What are you planning to do with that all that? Your teeth will rot.”
“Students,” he said shortly. Tommy’s own cart was filled with actual food. Macaroni, some parcels wrapped in butchers’ paper, a cabbage, a loaf of bread. There was dish soap in there, and what looked like clothespins. Surely Tommy had a housekeeper to buy—and cook—his macaroni. Moreover, what was Tommy doing buying groceries here at all? Everett had assumed Tommy drove from Boston to pick Daniel up every weekend; it hadn’t occurred to him that Tommy might actually live in town.
“I have to get root beer,” Everett said instead of coming up with anything more intelligent.
“This is extremely competent bribery, if that’s what you’re doing,” Tommy said, like he thought the awkwardness in the air might dissipate if he just ignored it hard enough. “Soda pop is two aisles over.” He followed Everett, as if it were perfectly normal for them to go look at root beer together.
“It’s not bribery.” Everett placed twelve bottles of what seemed to be the most popular brand in his cart, then turned toward the cash register, hoping that Tommy would say goodbye and finish his shopping. Instead Tommy followed him.
“If it isn’t bribery, what is it? I don’t recall teachers giving us root beer. Daniel certainly hasn’t mentioned it.” He peered into Everett’s basket. “And you got the good brand!”
“If you want a bottle, Cabot, all you have to do is ask.” It came out of his mouth before he even knew what he was doing, that old easy teasing tone that he wouldn’t have been able to summon up if he had tried. But standing in a mostly empty A&P, its night-dark windows reflecting their images back at themselves, Everett forgot all the very good reasons he couldn’t let his defenses down around this man.
Tommy let out a surprised laugh, as if the last thing he had expected had been a halfway friendly comment. A bit of tension seeped out of his posture. Jesus Christ, what kind of asshole was Everett being, when Tommy—Tommy—was braced for impact whenever Everett opened his mouth. Everett had tried to achieve some level of professional cordiality by sitting next to Tommy at last week’s football game. But he should have known that cordiality would never be enough between them. Compared to what had come before, tepid warmth was an arctic blast.
He paid for his groceries haltingly, American currency still foreign and unwieldy in his hands. Then, the paper grocery sack balanced on his hip, he waited for Tommy to pay. He didn’t pretend he was doing anything other than waiting, and saw Tommy glancing at him out of the corner of his eye, as if expecting Everett to bolt. Everett’s face heated with shame.
When they stepped outside, the sky was black, clouds covering the moon and stars.
“It’s going to snow,” Tommy said. He was right, of course. They both had spent enough winters in western Massachusetts to know what this heaviness in the air meant. “You’d better hurry. Where’s your car?”
“I walked.”
Tommy raised an eyebrow. “Then you’d really better hurry.” He walked in the same direction as Everett. Evidently thinking this required some explanation, he cleared his throat. “My house is a few blocks from here. Right off Maple Street.”
That didn’t make sense. Everett had just walked the entire length of Maple Street from Greenfield and there weren’t any houses. There never had been. Unless—
“I bought the old Franklin place,” said Tommy, and Everett didn’t need to see his face to know the exact sheepish expression it held.
Everett laughed. He couldn’t help it. That house had been a shambles twenty years ago, the sort of place Greenfield students dared one another to approach on moonless nights.
“It’s not that bad!” Tommy protested. “I’ve nearly got all the mice out. And it’s the closest I could get to Greenfield without living in a camper on school grounds and mortifying my only child.”
“Why, though? I mean, if you wanted to be near Daniel, there are boarding schools in Boston and in Washington. Come to that, there are day schools in Boston and Washington.” Tommy didn’t say anything, and the silence stretched long enough for Everett to glance over at him. The other man’s jaw was set. All right then, so that was a sore spot. Everett shifted his grocery sack from one arm to the other and stuck his newly empty hand into his pocket for warmth.
“You ought to leave your groceries with me,” Tommy said abruptly. It’ll snow any minute now, and your bag will get wet and fall apart. You’ll never get all those sweets back to school.”
“I really shouldn’t—”
“It hardly even rates as a favor. Come back tomorrow. If I go out, I’ll leave the bag on the porch.”
He was right, damn it. Everett followed Tommy up the long gravel driveway toward the house. It was too dark to get a good look at the place beyond a sense of hulking dilapidation.
“You could come in for a drink,” Tommy said as he climbed the porch steps and took a key from his pocket. His breath was a pale, translucent cloud against the dark of the night. “Warm up before you head back out.”
“No,” Everett said too quickly. “I can’t—I ought to hurry back before it snows.” He put his bag beside Tommy’s. “Thank you. Good night.” He shoved his hands in his pockets and walked away as quickly as he could.
* * *
“Darling, you do realize it’s past two in the morning,” Pat said, her voice tinny and distant.
“I keep getting all your time zones mixed up,” Tommy protested. “I never know whether to add or subtract.”
“Is anything wrong with Daniel?”
“No, nothing like that. I’m sorry. I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Don’t bother. Actually we’re just getting in. Harry, say hello to Thomas.” In the background, Tommy heard a shouted greeting. “Now, what’s the matter?” Pat asked.
“Why does there need to be a problem? Maybe I just want to hear your voice. Maybe I want to spend all my money on transatlantic telephone calls.” He heard her sigh, and didn’t bother arguing anymore. “I saw him again.”
“Harry, darling, make yourself useful in a different room for a few minutes.” Then, a moment later, “Was he chilly and rude?”
“Not as bad as before.”
He heard the familiar sound of Pat lighting a cigarette. “Is that a good thing or a bad thing?”
“I don’t know. It was a mistake to come here, wasn’t it?”
“So what if it was? Would it be the first mistake you’ve ever made? No, and God willing it won’t be your last. Have it out with him, Thomas. I might have my own theories about why he stopped talking to you after we got married, but I don’t want to put words in his mouth.”
“Patricia,” he pleaded. He had told her the whole tale after he realized that he was—bent, gay, whatever. She had lit a cigarette and stuck it in his mouth, then lit one for herself, poured them both stiff drinks, and announced that she wanted a divorce. Tommy hadn’t been expecting that. They were Catholic, at least in a Sunday mass and paternoster sort of way. But as soon as she said the word, he knew she was right. It was easy enough to get a divorce in Massachusetts, and Pat wanted a chance to fall in love without being branded an adulterous jezebel. He was hardly going to deny that to her.