—Maybe you need to get out to that park and get your own Lambret, man.
The idea held such promise to the suspended cop that he could not resist further extrapolating on the possibilities of what a Lambret could do for a lonely Romeo. Although Romeo could not afford such luxuries, Chesley added. He nudged Romeo with his elbow.
—What the guy needs is a woman, I’m telling you, Romeo said, ignoring him. Someone who’ll take care of him, not the other way around. I mean look at the kid: He’s halfway to bitch already. I’m not convinced Hay’s into male ass.
The others didn’t respond. They continued to stare at the two in their booth, trying to act like they were not staring. Haycraft’s sexuality had never been touched on in conversation before: It was not a subject worth pursuing; the guy was as sexual as a plant. So they thought.
They continued to watch and wonder as Lambret read aloud from a thick volume while Haycraft lounged, his head reclined on a pillow situated as a headrest behind the booth, his eyes closed in contentment.
—Maybe he plans to adopt him, Romeo ventured.
—I don’t think that’s the kind of daddy the kid is looking for, answered Chesley.
The two laughed a long time on that one. They were able to milk that one for weeks after, every night, any time the hours turned slow.
Beau thought such speculations hurt morale.
—You two hush up about that stuff, he said. I’m trying to sight the positive. That kid has a hard road and look at how Hay’s getting him turned around.
—If I find Hay’s getting it from the chicken here I’ll take him down, I don’t have a choice, Chesley spat.
—And I got a security camera showing you with a gun when you’re not even on the force, Beau said.
—Not officially! Officially, I am not on the force. For now.
It was enough to shut Sutherland up. He needed Beau to vouch for his character at his deposition for reinstatement. Beau would do so, regardless of what Chesley did in the Don Q as long as it did not bring the place down – having a contact on the force can only help a nightclub owner in the long run.
If anyone would have thought to ask him, Lambret, after a good fumble for words, might have explained his relationship to Haycraft as similar to student and tutor. A charged relationship, yes, but when he thought over the details of their brief time together – Lambret was living in Haycraft’s apartment within a few weeks of meeting him – he saw the older man teaching, himself doing his best with addled mind to listen. He was a boy in a hurry to grow out of childhood, and Haycraft opened the gate to a region reserved only for adults. It did not matter that these adults did not like or trust him; Haycraft assured him that eventually they would. And despite his velocity toward adulthood, Lambret still needed the example of an older man, however bent and tattered the model may be.
Haycraft gave the following explanation to Beau:
—He doesn’t want my money, he never asks for anything. We read, and discuss, and I believe he is making great strides, then he disappears for days. He comes back, and I only need remind him of his father’s example to set him straight for a while longer. His father was an adjunct professor, you know. Lambret mythologizes him, the bewitched genius too close to the flame sort of thing. That nonsense. But I’m slowly bringing him around to admit that the father is only an addict, that whatever gifts he may have had he let go for junk.
Haycraft had come to understand the powerful grip of the rags the boy carried, and his supply of aerosol cans, modeling glues; he had no use for the willful dulling of a mind. If Lambret preferred highs to the difficulties of concentration, Haycraft insisted he do it elsewhere. And often, the boy did. But always he came back, stray dogs panting in tow.
—Speaking of fathers, Hay, doesn’t it bother you where he does his business? That’s Edmund Keebler’s statue they pass around. I would think that would bother you.
—My father is not watching, Beau. That statue is not my father.
What Haycraft would have liked to have said is: What business is it of yours? What if, when the boy arrived in early morning, considerate of the time so as not to disturb Hay’s schedule, what if Haycraft opened his door to find Lambret standing alone, his face downcast, his fatigued eyes confessing to how absolutely lost he felt? What if Hay allowed the boy inside, and as he scolded him over his lack of hygiene, began to run the bath? If Haycraft then watched the boy undress and crouch into the tub, then kneeled there beside him, sponge and soap in hand; if he set to agitated humming while he lathered the boy’s soft skin and saw the white flesh redden with the hot water; if he then dried the boy himself in the thickest towel he could find before leading him to the bed to rest. And if Haycraft decided to rest then, too – what of it? If Lambret stretched his thin body long across the coverlet and let his towel fall aside, lying quietly while Haycraft traced shaking fingers the length of his legs, his back, the line of his jaw – was it anyone else’s concern? The boy had been providing himself long enough to have forgotten safety; he was as stubborn and clever as Copperfield without any of that character’s charming innocence. Haycraft saw his ministrations toward the boy as acts of cleansing – washing away the street, the chemicals; washing away the ignorance from the urchin’s mind. Haycraft wanted to gather the Don Q crowd before him and shout: I am not Mather Williams’ cousin dragging the boy behind a dumpster, steak knife in hand. He was convinced that Lambret, his discovery, had no one but him, and Haycraft’s very being was composed of an irascible need to save someone.
It was Glenda who finally mustered enough courage for a direct interrogation. Haycraft gave away nothing:
—We teach each other, he said. It’s very much in the spirit of the Ancient Greeks: I give of my learning, and in turn he gives of his goodness and his will to learn. An eye-opening proposition for me, as I’m sure it would be for you also, Glenda. Like being allowed a glimpse of the future. Lambret has both man and woman in him; he embraces both, both archetypes. That is the way of the future, and I want to understand it.
Glenda smiled. She could display an accommodating smile, one that pinched the corners of her mouth and stretched the thin mauve strips of her unpainted lips, but which had no effect on her eyes. Her eyes remained steady, the flesh about them loose and puckered, thick, soft. It was a smile that said take your time when waiting for a patron’s order, exhibiting infinite patience even at those moments when she had none.
—Yes, very much like the Greeks, or the Romans, Haycraft continued, rolling now. Don’t you see how this folds into all my other endeavors? We read together as in Augustine’s time, when reading was communal and our modern notion of tackling a book in solitude would be passing strange to society, when to read meant to listen; to own a book was to memorize it for recitation – note this down, Lamb, here’s a future editorial subject; perhaps we have become so cut off from one another in this age because of our approach to reading, the massive distribution of books for sale rather than a borrowing-in-common; certainly the isolation of television-watching has its impact in this too; yes, this is a thought worthy of pursuit, it fingers everything....
—Yes that’s all very nice Hay, but remember Beau and I aren’t running a public library here and your friend is very young in the eyes of the outside world, chided Glenda. I’m asking you to keep in mind our situation.
—Yes, yes, of course, I understand. But you must understand that there is something so appealingly vague about him, like holding a memory, a comforting and nostalgic memory.
—The memory I have is coming to see you in the hospital, Glenda answered, covering Haycraft’s hand with her own. She was referring to a time in Hay’s twenties, when he had first become infatuated with another boy from the streets who ended up beating him when Haycraft refused to be more forthcoming with his money.
But Haycraft and Lambret were