Name Games by Michael Craft Page B

obvious: “I’m really glad you’re here—I mean working in Dumont on the Quatro project. It feels like we’re living together again.”
    “We are —at least for a few months. Then it’s back to the old ‘arrangement.’” He was referring to the routine of alternating weekends between Dumont and Chicago, requiring long hours on the road. This future separation was not a happy thought, so Neil brought his discourse back to the present. “I really need to set up a workroom here. I’ve been spending my weekdays working out of a spare office at Quatro, which is fine, but I feel like a squatter. I need a ‘base’ outside the plant.”
    “Take one of the spare bedrooms,” I suggested. There was plenty of extra room in the house. “Or rent an office somewhere.” There were plenty of vacant storefronts downtown; retailing in Dumont, as everywhere, had followed the population growth to the farther reaches of town.
    “An office?” He seemed surprised that I suggested it, and I could tell that it had sparked some interest. Then he frowned, dismissing the idea. “Too permanent. I just need some space for a desk, a drafting table, and my computer.”
    I shrugged. “I’m sure you could find a short-term lease somewhere.” I was scheming, of course. If we were to set him up in an office, he might begin to entertain the notion of moving his practice to Dumont. He could leave the Chicago firm and set out on his own here. But that would mean leaving the recognition and satisfying pace of his big-city career, which he would be reluctant to consider. What’s more, building his practice here would be slow going at first. Still, there was no risk—I could easily support him and provide the capital for his venture. I dared not breathe any of this, however. My motives were unabashedly selfish, and I knew he would find any offers of financial assistance demeaning. From the start, we had lived our relationship as equal partners. Though my own fortunes had outpaced his, though eight years his senior, I could never assume the position of boss and provider. And I would never want to.
    “Maybe one of the bedrooms would work,” he thought aloud, adding, “though it doesn’t seem very professional.”
    “No need to fret over it now,” I told him, pouring coffee for both of us. “Let’s just ease into the weekend and enjoy it.”
    He smirked. “Easy for you to say. I need to gird for battle at the supermarket. We’re out of peanut butter, remember.”
    “Thad goes through that stuff awfully fast,” I remarked innocently.
    Neil eyed me askance. “You’ve been putting away quite a bit of it yourself.”
    I couldn’t argue the point, as peanut butter had been a weakness since childhood. Shifting the topic, I joked, “Maybe Miriam Westerman was right—we’re terrible parents, making the kid fend for himself at breakfast. We ought to be whipping up eggs and things.”
    Neil laughed. “He thinks they’re gross—thank God.”
    In fact, in our early days under the same roof with Thad, we’d been through all this, attempting to “cook” breakfast for him, but he just wasn’t interested, preferring whatever milk or juice, toast or cereal, was handy. During a weekend visit last winter, Neil had surveyed the assortment of boxes and bottles that provided our morning meal, quipping that we served the finest continental breakfast in town. Thad thought that was cool, and months later I happened upon a conversation he was having with a friend one day in our kitchen after school. The other kid was bragging about his mother’s cooking, claiming that her eggs Benedict were as good as Egg McMuffins. Without blinking, Thad told him, “We much prefer a continental breakfast.”
    Neil looked over his shoulder at the wall clock—it was well after eight. “Speaking of the tyke, no signs of life yet?”
    “He’s at that age—he’ll sleep till noon if you let him.”
    “So let him.” Neil wiped butter from his lips with his