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call that living. And I have to; it's my life.
       More steps, shuffles, even; I decide Wesley's doing a sand step, that move of Astaire's in something or other. You fling a handful of sand, dance upon it lightly. Has Wesley even heard of Astaire? Why would he have? Ideas of grace change every year, maybe every day, now. Swing Time ; that's the one; white telephones, whiter people, black patent-leather floors that never show a scuff. I've got the DVD somewhere, or I used to. I'll look. Maybe he'll like it, as he seems to like most of what I show him. I'd like to see it again, anyway.
       And more steps now, faster. I've heard him on the roof many times recently, and have never said anything about it; I try not to ask too many questions. But this is the latest he's been up there, at least as far as I know. Shouldn't he be asleep? Well, no; he should be on the roof, because that's where he is. But why? He came home last night, wanted to talk to us and actually asked to do so. So something must be up. And then Kenny couldn't get home; it was Election Day, which would be his Christmas if he was a store, this talk show and that wanting him to come on and straight-actingly reassure their audience that the Gays will have rights, all right, but don't worry, we're not talking tomorrow (his words, not mine). And as I'm resident equipment charger, I see the four hundred ten messages and e-mails he got yesterday morning alone; I'm surprised his phone doesn't blow up in his hand. He needs a new one. We all need new somethings. Wesley needs shoes, I need the American theater to thrive, so those who attend it will want focaccia and fegato after the show and I can make a buck for the first time in too long. Needs, needs, needs. I couldn't sit down with Wesley alone last night; it wouldn't have been right. He needed Kenny.
       That's why he's with us. For him. I didn't know how it might be to have him here. I knew him, of course, but I never came along on the Saturdays when Kenny did his divorced-dad routine, and given our depraved lifestyle (quilting, Bingo, weekly Leather-'n'-Scrabble) and the fact that where we lived at the time was so small it wouldn't have been seemly for him to spend the night; it was so small it was hardly seemly for us to spend the night, and we lived there. Or maybe that was just an excuse, easy and hard to challenge; I didn't know what to say to boys when I was one. But when we moved here, into our theoretical " two-bedroom," so perfect for me in terms of taking the stairs, and not the train, to work, an excuse that we'd never been asked to make died. Lola and Ben came to our Oscar party two years ago. As I was helping Lola into her coat at evening's end, she whispered to me.
       "Wesley needs to know his father," she said.
       I agreed, forgetting about it until, a year and a half later, she showed up at Ecco for lunch, alone. I was up and down, sitting with her as I was able to. She had an idea; if it was all right with us, and we should tell her right away if it wasn't, she wondered if Wesley might be able to spend the fall semester at our place. The minute it didn't work he could go right back uptown to her and Ben. He'd be with them, on East End Avenue, Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays, but she felt—again, if it was all right with us— that Wesley at this moment in his life, when he was becoming a man, needed to be with the one who was his father. Just till Christmas. She called Kenny and discussed it with him, too; I don't know what she said but it must have been effective, as when I brought it up Kenny said, "Till Christmas. Four days a week."
       I didn't know if I'd like it, and doubted Wesley would like me; even after these couple of months here I still don't know if he does. But I've found it doesn't matter, with a kid, if you know that or not, because from what I can see as to how the Boy mind works, they may not know themselves. What does matter is that you hurtle forward with them,