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when he remembered Ben mentioning the letters and suddenly wanted to see them. Michael had no letters of his own, not even a postcard; Clarence telephoned the few times they were apart. But Ben’s letters were all from 1972, long before Clarence knew Michael, before Clarence really became Clarence. He didn’t even sound like Clarence here, the Clarence he knew, whose speech was full of unfinished sentences and desperate noises and thoughts he could express only with his hands. These letters had his headlong rush, but they were campy, which Clarence wasn’t, and they prattled about sex with a glee that was positively adolescent. Michael wasn’t disturbed by the amount of sex Clarence seemed to be having fifteen years ago, although he wondered if Clarence was actually saying he had slept with Ben. What disturbed Michael was that there was no mention of him. He was eight years old when these letters were written and such a distant past seemed irrelevant, but he felt strangely hurt that there wasn’t even a wish, or place, in Clarence’s thoughts for someone like Michael.
    There was shouting inside the house: Ben and Danny were fighting again.
    “You can’t go outside like that! What’ll the neighbors say?”
    “Listen to the big radical! What neighbors?”
    “People drive by on their way home, dammit!”
    “You think two old hippies like your sister and brother-in-law are going to care who sees me like this?”
    The tall house was implausibly compact, like the exterior of a house in a play, and every word was audible outside. The big white dog continued to doze on her chain by the door, a heap of angel-hair, already accustomed to the noisy fighting. Michael was accustomed to it, too, but he believed there was something flawed and cowardly about Ben and Danny for them to fight like this and still be together. He would never stay with anyone who shouted at him the way they shouted at each other. They had been on their best behavior last night and this morning, overjoyed to have a guest. They had been so sweet and attentive over dinner, teasing each other while they asked Michael about Europe, food, and men, that Michael had become worried they might ask him to join them in bed. Ben and Danny had a reputation for threeways. Now they were back to their old selves.
    “Get off my case!” Danny cried. “You’re just bored because there’s nobody to make speeches at out here!”
    “And you’re getting at me because you didn’t get any summer stock!” Ben snarled.
    “I would’ve if I didn’t have to temp and provide this household with one decent income!”
    “You’ll get your turn! What I’m doing right now just happens to be more important than your occasional flings with acting.”
    “Important to your ego, fucker!”
    “Fuck off!”
    Boots banged down stairs inside the house. The screen door was kicked open and Ben charged out, arms folded tightly across his chest. Jesse, the dog, jumped to her feet and went wild with joy, thinking Ben was here to take her for a walk. “Cool it,” Ben told the dog, and stood there, breathing deeply and glaring up at a window. Then he saw Michael at the other end of the lawn, smiled sheepishly, undid his arms, and ambled toward him as if nothing were wrong.
    “Well,” he said, touching Michael on the arm. “Great to be out of the city, isn’t it? Nothing like a little peace and quiet.”
    Ben Slover was short, which surprised people who had seen him only on the local news or up on a podium. His auburn hair was combed back to show his receding hair-line, which was supposed to make up for the seriousness he lost when he shaved off his mustache last year. His upper lip looked very long, mild and flexible after being covered for so long. Clarence had a mustache when Michael first met him.
    Standing beside the chair, Ben was reading over Michael’s shoulder. “Oh yeah. The good old days. What do you make of all that?”
    Michael almost covered the letter before he