errands to run. They left after about an hour with assurances to both boys that they would be seeing each other the next day at “school.”
Naturally, trying to catch up on well over a year of news of family, friends, hometown changes, who’d died, who’d gotten married, etc. took up most of the day’s conversations. I certainly didn’t mind, and didn’t feel left out. Jonathan soaked it all up eagerly. And, of course, Sheryl and Samuel wanted to know all about Jonathan’s life since he left home. He discreetly left out his first couple of months here when he’d had to resort to hustling to survive, but they seemed very proud of him for going to school and having a job he loved.
And in the discretion department, neither Sheryl nor Samuel asked how we met.
Joshua, who had removed every toy from the cardboard box and scattered them about the room, started coming over to his mom and dad, wanting attention. He’d sit with them for a moment, then get down and go do something, then back again, wanting them to play with him.
Jonathan took the cue and got down on the floor with him. “What’ll we play?” he asked. Joshua immediately picked up a toy car and began moving it around, and Jonathan followed suit. Soon they were chasing one another’s cars around the floor, laughing, crashing the cars into each other, and making various appropriate-to-the-action noises.
After a few minutes, Jonathan said, “I know what, Joshua…why don’t you come help me start dinner?”
“Okay!” Joshua replied, scrambling to his feet.
“Let’s put your toys away first,” Jonathan suggested, and Joshua looked plaintively at his mother, who nodded silently, then started picking up the various toys.
When they were done, Jonathan held out his hand to Joshua and said, “Okay, let’s go start dinner.”
Sheryl got up from the couch. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into,” she said. “I’d better come help, too.”
“Would you like a drink, Samuel?” I asked when they’d left the room. I instinctively knew not to call him “Sam,” just as I knew Joshua was “Joshua” and not “Josh.” Biblical names seemed to be a Quinlan trademark.
“If you’re going to have one, sure,” he said.
I looked at my watch. “Yep, it’s Manhattan time. What would you like?”
“Do you have a beer?”
“Sure,” I said, getting up. “You want a glass?”
He shook his head, and I went into the kitchen.
*
I was glad to have the chance to be alone with Samuel. My crotch was oddly happy, too, I must admit. There was a lot I didn’t know about Jonathan, and Samuel was in a unique position to tell me.
Jonathan had, apparently, always been Jonathan—unbounded enthusiasm for whatever struck his fancy, naive, trusting, openly sentimental.
“You know,” Samuel said, taking a sip of his beer, “so often I’ll look at Joshua and think, ‘My God, he’s exactly like Jonathan was at his age.’”
Samuel was four years older than Jonathan, but their three sisters were considerably older, so they never were overly close to the brothers. As the youngest of the family’s five children, Jonathan was the apple of his mother’s eye, and he worshiped her. When she became ill, Jonathan did everything he could to help her, holding his emotions in check whenever he was with her, and when she died, he was shattered. He ran away from the funeral and wouldn’t come out of his room for a week except to go to the bathroom. Samuel or Sheryl would bring him food, but Jonathan wouldn’t let anyone, even Samuel, come near him. It wasn’t too long thereafter that Jonathan announced he was leaving, and he did.
“I was really worried about him,” Samuel said, “but he’d call every now and then just to let us know he was all right. And then he met you, and…well, I’m glad he did. He needs someone in his life.”
“Thanks, Samuel. That was nice of you to say.”
He shrugged. “Truth’s truth,” he
Naturally, trying to catch up on well over a year of news of family, friends, hometown changes, who’d died, who’d gotten married, etc. took up most of the day’s conversations. I certainly didn’t mind, and didn’t feel left out. Jonathan soaked it all up eagerly. And, of course, Sheryl and Samuel wanted to know all about Jonathan’s life since he left home. He discreetly left out his first couple of months here when he’d had to resort to hustling to survive, but they seemed very proud of him for going to school and having a job he loved.
And in the discretion department, neither Sheryl nor Samuel asked how we met.
Joshua, who had removed every toy from the cardboard box and scattered them about the room, started coming over to his mom and dad, wanting attention. He’d sit with them for a moment, then get down and go do something, then back again, wanting them to play with him.
Jonathan took the cue and got down on the floor with him. “What’ll we play?” he asked. Joshua immediately picked up a toy car and began moving it around, and Jonathan followed suit. Soon they were chasing one another’s cars around the floor, laughing, crashing the cars into each other, and making various appropriate-to-the-action noises.
After a few minutes, Jonathan said, “I know what, Joshua…why don’t you come help me start dinner?”
“Okay!” Joshua replied, scrambling to his feet.
“Let’s put your toys away first,” Jonathan suggested, and Joshua looked plaintively at his mother, who nodded silently, then started picking up the various toys.
When they were done, Jonathan held out his hand to Joshua and said, “Okay, let’s go start dinner.”
Sheryl got up from the couch. “I don’t think you know what you’re getting yourself into,” she said. “I’d better come help, too.”
“Would you like a drink, Samuel?” I asked when they’d left the room. I instinctively knew not to call him “Sam,” just as I knew Joshua was “Joshua” and not “Josh.” Biblical names seemed to be a Quinlan trademark.
“If you’re going to have one, sure,” he said.
I looked at my watch. “Yep, it’s Manhattan time. What would you like?”
“Do you have a beer?”
“Sure,” I said, getting up. “You want a glass?”
He shook his head, and I went into the kitchen.
*
I was glad to have the chance to be alone with Samuel. My crotch was oddly happy, too, I must admit. There was a lot I didn’t know about Jonathan, and Samuel was in a unique position to tell me.
Jonathan had, apparently, always been Jonathan—unbounded enthusiasm for whatever struck his fancy, naive, trusting, openly sentimental.
“You know,” Samuel said, taking a sip of his beer, “so often I’ll look at Joshua and think, ‘My God, he’s exactly like Jonathan was at his age.’”
Samuel was four years older than Jonathan, but their three sisters were considerably older, so they never were overly close to the brothers. As the youngest of the family’s five children, Jonathan was the apple of his mother’s eye, and he worshiped her. When she became ill, Jonathan did everything he could to help her, holding his emotions in check whenever he was with her, and when she died, he was shattered. He ran away from the funeral and wouldn’t come out of his room for a week except to go to the bathroom. Samuel or Sheryl would bring him food, but Jonathan wouldn’t let anyone, even Samuel, come near him. It wasn’t too long thereafter that Jonathan announced he was leaving, and he did.
“I was really worried about him,” Samuel said, “but he’d call every now and then just to let us know he was all right. And then he met you, and…well, I’m glad he did. He needs someone in his life.”
“Thanks, Samuel. That was nice of you to say.”
He shrugged. “Truth’s truth,” he
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