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with old William Randolph Hearst, and built the Montecito place to be reasonably near him. How many is that?”
    â€œToo many,” Leonard said. “Will you forget the goddamn houses.”
    â€œLenny is like my mother. They both have what Thorstein Veblen used to call the conscience of the rich, which is as much of a lie as everything else, because the rich have no conscience. I like to bring up old Veblen because nobody in our generation knows who he is.”
    â€œYou impress me,” Clarence said.
    â€œCome on, Jonesy, you’re too smart to be impressed by me.”
    â€œWill you come down,” Leonard said plaintively. “It’s wonderful to see you like this, and I hate to lay the worst kind of shit on you, but I have to.”
    She stopped her chatter, looked at him thoughtfully and waited.
    â€œYou and me. This is not for Mom or for the senator—do you understand. Just you.”
    â€œAll right,” she whispered.
    â€œBegin with the fact that I’m gay.”
    Elizabeth smiled wistfully. “That’s all, Lenny? I’ve always known it—a long time, anyway.”
    â€œI know. I wasn’t sure.”
    â€œSo what? Jonesy here is gay, and the poor bastard’s black. Suppose Jonesy were Jewish—Jewish, black and gay, that would be something—”
    â€œDon’t kid about it,” Clarence said.
    She smelled it and sensed it. It was as if the gentle morning breeze had stopped, as if everything had suddenly turned into winter. She saw it in their faces, in their eyes.
    â€œOh, my God, what is it?” she begged them.
    â€œPoor darling Liz,” Leonard said, his eyes brimming with tears. “I have Aids.”
    Elizabeth stared at him for an endless moment, and then Leonard saw her face collapse. Something tore away all the flesh and muscle that supported her beauty, leaving a crinkled, distorted mask of sorrow and horror. Leonard went to her and embraced her, clutching her to him while she buried her weeping face on his breast. He held her like that, feeling her sobs contort her body, and whispering to her, “It’s all right, Lizzie. I didn’t want you to cry. Please don’t cry. You know what happens to me when you cry.” He was crying. That’s what happened to him when his sister wept, but it had not happened since they were children; and now clutching his sister, he remembered how, eight years old, he had felt his first intimation of mortality, a little boy alone in bed with the cold image of death.
    â€œDon’t cry, please.”
    Clarence, watching, found himself being drawn into their grief. Close as he was to Leonard, he could never let down his walls of defense for a white man. He had his own hours of terror and despair after the tests told him his own final truth, and being black, he kept that as well as other things inside himself. He resisted the forces drawing him to the brother and sister as long as he could; then he dropped into a chair, covered his face with his arms and wept. He was weeping for himself. How lonely it is to weep for oneself.
    Leonard pulled them out of it. “For Christ’s sake, there comes Dad! No tears, please! I can’t face him with it—please!”
    They had dried their tears and pulled themselves together as the senator came onto the pool terrace. He wore a pair of pink and yellow swim shorts, and in spite of being thirty pounds overweight, he was a fine figure of a man, broad-shouldered and well built. He shook hands with Clarence with an energy that excluded any sensitivity to what might have been going on before he arrived. He boomed a cheerful good morning to Leonard and he kissed Elizabeth with exuberance. “So you’re young Jones,” he said to Clarence. “Heard a lot about you, and glad you could come. Make yourself at home. We have a fine library and a nice selection of those movie cassettes that seem to be engulfing the country.