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cigarette
in the ashtray then turned back to O’ Fauh. “Get me those tickets,
please. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen a show that wasn’t my
own.”
     
     
    MORTUARIUM
     
    Then.
     
    Bode waited on the stairs
for Kilroy to arrive. From the living room came the click of his
father’s knitting needles, and the clack of his mother’s marbles as
she shot them over and over across the hardwood floor.
    Outside, it was dark. A
streetlight illuminated a large, misshapen pile of dog waste across
the road. The neighbors’ pointer, Lefty, number two-ed in the same
place every day, creating an ever growing mound that no one ever
cleaned up. Bode wished he had time to run across the street and
shovel it into a garbage can. He wanted Kilroy to be impressed with
where and how he lived. Though even from what little he knew of
Kilroy so far, he suspected Kilroy would be fascinated by the idea
of a dog that mountained its crap, and a family too bored to clean
up after it.
    Kilroy arrived wearing a
black suit with red pinstripes. His hair was pulled back into a
short gold ponytail, and he looked…nervous? Not nervous enough to
shake Bode’s image of him as someone assured and ambitious, humble
enough to admit he didn’t always know what he wanted, and yet
confident in his ability to get it once he knew. But his speech was
quick, his movements jerky, and Bode flushed with
satisfaction. He was rattling Kilroy Ballast.
    Kilroy stood on the porch
and held out a single point-petaled rose. Bode took it and smiled,
and was about to step out when he heard his mother’s voice. “Bode?
Where are you going?”
    Bode glanced over his
shoulder, surprised. “Out, Mom. I have a date.”
    Nothing else but the snick
of marbles colliding with marbles. Bode joined Kilroy on the porch,
shutting the door behind him. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She doesn’t
usually even notice if I’m there or gone.”
    Kilroy’s mouth twitched
up—again, that hint of nervousness. “So you don’t need me to assure
her I’ll have you home at a decent hour?”
    Bode laughed. “No. You can
have me out all night, if you like.” His skin immediately grew hot,
and he had to step past Kilroy and walk toward the car in order to
shake off his embarrassment.
    The performance was
called Mortuarium , and it featured music pieced together from sounds of dying
hospital patients—groans, whispers, cries, last breaths, and
prayers. Laughter, sometimes. Curses. Questions. The music played
over eerie scenes, some of which were performed live, some shown on
a video screen.
    It was hardly a romantic
date, but Bode wasn’t inclined to expect romance from
Kilroy.
    Still, he struck Kilroy
lightly on the arm as they left the theater. “That was morbid.
That’ll give me nightmares. Goll- ee , you sure know how to pick a
date.”
    “ Did you like
it?”
    “ Well, now all I can think
about is being dead.”
    Kilroy shepherded Bode
across the street amid the slew of cars pulling away from the curb.
“It was beautiful, though, wasn’t it?”
    Bode glanced at him. That
fine, smooth face gave the impression of impassivity, unless Bode
looked close. Kilroy seemed enlivened somehow by the performance.
His mouth turned up slightly, and his pupils were
dilated.
    “ I guess,” Bode admitted.
There had been something oddly impressive about the
experience.
    In the past two weeks,
Kilroy had come to see Bode twice more in the revue at the Little
Comet. Both times afterward, he’d come backstage to talk to Bode.
The last time, he’d taken Bode to get dinner.
    He’d questioned Bode in
depth about dancing, wanting to know how and where Bode had
learned, how many people came to each show, and whether Bode’s solo
garnered more applause than his costars’ numbers. Bode, knowing his
show was a collaborative effort yet unable to resist the urge to
preen, said that he was one of the more experienced dancers there,
and that his solo seemed to be the most popular part of