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yet to go.
       Once again I think maybe I'll just pop my head in at the kitchen door to see if Wesley wants me to make him a nice panino in the press his mom gave me for Christmas last year; he must need some thing , as he's fifteen and it's 2:42 and he's probably in there growing. So my feet hit the floor, or I think they do, for somehow there's a gap between my panino intention and the morning; I wake to the smells of fall— cinnamon and garbage, smoke and rust— and realize Wednesday has happened without even asking me. I realize, too, that I'm alone in bed. Kenny's in the shower, singing some tuneless song, or maybe just talking to himself, rhythmically. Y a got trouble, my friends. T he song takes me over; I was Harold Hill, at Camp White Way, when I was what? Fifteen; Wesley's age. Tr ouble right here in River City . . . I hit the floor and tiptoe to the door. When I peek into the hallway I see Wesley's door is closed.
       "Wes?"
       Silence. Then a "Hey, George" from behind the door.
       "I just wanted you to know there's juice," I say.
       Another silence. "There's always juice, " he says at last.
       " There is. And there's a marvelous muffin."
       "What makes it marvelous?"
       "I can't answer that."
       "That's alliteration," he says. "Like it matters. And besides it's not there because I ate it last night, late. Which you totally know because I heard you."
       "How could you have? I was just thinking ."
       He opens his door. A fresh zit glows on his forehead, which I work hard not to notice. "Come on, George," he says, on to me.
       "Come on, what?"
       "Just notice it, and get it out of the way."
       I laugh, musically, starting at Tebaldi, ending at Bacall. "Notice what?"
       "My pimple." He touches it. "This. It's actually worse if you pretend it's not there when, clearly, it is ."
       "You're right," I say. "I'm nauseous from it."
       "And also, could you maybe not call me 'Wes'? Not to be rude, but it makes me feel like a boy in an E. B. White book, or something." He calls out, " W-e-e-e-e-e-e-s? You done your chores? My name sucks."
       "You're right. It's a terrible name."
       " Really?" he says, flushing with worry.
       I see how careful I have to be; he loves his snark, even enjoys being his own target, but the bow and arrows have to be his. And also— I should ask other people with boys— I've noticed that he's not interested in apologies, that it's almost as if he doesn't hear them.
       "This guy I dated once?" I say. "He was a classics scholar. And you know what George means in ancient Greek?"
       "Ummm . . . falafel salesman?"
       I don't laugh, as I've noticed that's not the deal with him, not what he wants; he even looks a little disappointed, in me, that is, when I do laugh. "It means agriculturist. Tiller of soil. So from now on you can call me Tiller. Or Ag. Up to you."
       This gets a laugh out of him, or, even better, what he and Theo do, because they're so cool, instead of laughing. "Ha," he says. Not haha. Just ha , which means I'm Yorick, Henny Youngman, other people he's never heard of; I asked him once if the lone ha meant I was pathetic, but he said it was just the opposite.
       And now, suddenly, here's Kenny, glistening, splendid enough at forty-five, with the sweetly puzzled look I find so annoying; either he can't find the unwaxed mint floss or remember the name of a song he has in mind. I always know where things are, he says, and I always know the song. And I do, pretty much.
       "Hey, Dad," says Wesley.
       "Shit," says Kenny, jumping back. "You scared me!" His towel falls, and for a moment he's naked in our hallway. I know his body; I've conducted a decade's census there, and yet I turn away. Because— and I see this, standing here— since Wesley's been with us we've both become dickless mannequins, straight-acting and straight-seeming and at night afraid to breathe. Would it be differ ent if we