“How was the party?” Harry asks.

“My brother’s bar mitzvah was more fun, maybe,” Raymond says, glancing over at Steve, whose eyes look permanently half-closed, a dumb grin locked on his face, nodding to no one.

“They were actually playing Springsteen,” Steve says.

“Jesus, I know,” Raymond agrees. “Springsteen, for Christ’s sake. Who was D.J.?”

“But you like Springsteen, Raymond,” you say, ignoring the green Jell-O, lighting a cigarette, your four hundredth of the day.

“No, I don’t,” Raymond says blushing, looking nervously at Steve.

“You do?” Steve asks him.

“No, I don’t,” Raymond says. “I don’t know where Paul got that idea.”

“See, Raymond has this theory that Springsteen likes getting, to put it mildly, boo-fooed,” you say, leaning in, talking directly to Steve. “Springsteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Listen to ‘Backstreets.’ Gay song definitely,” Donald says, nodding.

“I never said that,” Raymond laughs uncomfortably. “Paul’s got me mixed up with someone.”

“What was the adjective you used to describe the cover of the ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ album?” you ask. “Delicious?”

But Steve’s not listening anymore. He’s not interested in what passes for conversation at the table. He’s talking to the Brazilian boy. He’s asking him if he can get him some Ecstasy for tonight. The Brazilian boy says, “Saps your spinal fluid, dude.”

“Paul, why don’t you just mind your own business,” Raymond says with a resentful glare. “… And get me some Sprite.”

“You had this list, Raymond,” you say, causing more trouble. “Who else was on it? It was quite a list: Shakespeare, Sam Shepard, Rob Lowe, Ronald Reagan, his son—”

“Well, his son,” Donald says.

“But isn’t this the century no one cared?” Harry asks.

“About what?” you all ask back.

“Huh?” Steve asks after the Brazilian leaves.

But you stop listening because we all have lapses of taste; we’ve all slept with people we shouldn’t have slept with. What about that tall, lanky guy with the Asian girlfriend who you thought had herpes but didn’t and the two of you made a vow to never tell anyone about your two nights together. He’s across the room right now, sitting with that same little Oriental girl. They’re fighting. She gets up. He gives her the finger to her back, the wimp. Now Raymond’s talking about how great Steve’s “dabbles in video” are.

“Your stuff is great. Is that class any good?” he’s asking. Now, you know Raymond loathes anything that has to do with videos and that even if this guy did something amazing, which is doubtful, Raymond would still loathe it.

“I learned a lot from that class,” Steve says.

“Like what?” you whisper to Donald, “The alphabet?”

Raymond hears and glares.

Steve just says, “Wha?”

Harry asks, “Was there a nuclear war somewhere over the weekend?” You turn away and look out over the room. Then one final look at Steve sitting next to Raymond, both of them now laughing about something. Steve doesn’t realize what’s happening. Raymond still holds his stare at the three of us, and his hand shakes for a second when he brings his glass to his mouth and gives Steve a quick glance which Steve catches. The quick glance gives it all away. But what could it possibly mean to the blond boy from Long Island? Nothing. It meant only “quick glance” and nothing past that. It meant a shaking hand lighting another cigarette. After Sean left, songs I normally wouldn’t have liked started having painful significance to me.

PATRICK The limousine should have picked him up any time between ten-thirty and ten-forty-five. He should get to the airport in Keene by at least ten to twelve, where the Lear will fly him into Kennedy, where his arrival time should be one-thirty or one-forty-five. He should have been at the hospital thirty minutes ago but, knowing Sean, he probably went to The Carlyle first to get drunk or smoke marijuana or whatever the hell it is he does. But since he’s always been so mindless about responsibility and about keeping people waiting I’m really not at all surprised. I wait in the lobby of the hospital checking my watch, making phone calls to Evelyn, who will not come to the hospital, waiting for the limousine to get him here. When it appears that he’s decided not to show, I take the elevator back to the fifth floor and wait, pacing, while my father’s aides sit by the door of his room conferring with one another, occasionally looking over at me nervously. One, earlier in the evening, congratulated me, with what I took to be heavy sarcasm, on the tan I had acquired last week in the Bahamas with Evelyn. He passes again, heading for the restroom. He smiles. I ignore him completely. I don’t like either one of these men and they will both be fired as soon as my father dies.