Arkansas Read Free

Secret Language of the Cranes.
”
    â€œOh, right.”
    â€œYeah.”
    Long pause.
    â€œAnd did you like it?”
    â€œYeah, I thought it was pretty cool. I mean, to write all that! It takes me an hour to write a sentence.”
    â€œIt’s just a matter of practice,” I said. “Like sports. Are you an athlete?”
    â€œNot really.”
    â€œI was just asking because you looked to be in pretty good shape.”
    â€œI swim three times a week.”
    â€œAt UCLA?”
    â€œUh-huh.”
    â€œIs there a good pool?”
    â€œPretty good. Olympic size.”
    More silence.
    â€œWell, I appreciate your calling, Eric,” I said. “And buying the book. Most people who say they’re going to never bother.”
    â€œThat’s okay. I don’t read much generally, but I thought your book was pretty interesting. I mean, it showed me a lot of things I didn’t know, not being gay myself.”
    â€œI’m glad to hear you say that,” I said in one breath, “because sometimes I think gay writers only write for a gay audience, which is a mistake. The point is, human experience is universal, and there’s no reason why straight people can’t get as much out of a gay novel as gay people get out of a straight novel, don’t you think?” (I grimaced: I sounded as if I were giving an interview.)
    â€œYeah” was Eric’s reply.
    A fifth, nearly unbearable silence.
    â€œWell, it’s been great talking to you, Eric.”
    â€œMy pleasure.”
    â€œOkay, so long.”
    â€œLater.”
    And he hung up with amazing swiftness.
    The next morning I was at the library when it opened.
    I stayed all day. Did you know that Lord Henry Somerset’s father, the Duke of Beaufort, invented the game of badminton, which was named for his estate? Well, he did. Also, Osbert Sitwell once wrote a poem about Lord Henry, in which he lampooned the notorious expatriate as “Lord Richard Vermont,” whom “some nebulous but familiar scandal / Had lightly blown ... over the Channel, / Which he never crossed again.”
    Â 
Thus at the age of twenty-seven
A promising career was over,
And the thirty or forty years that had elapsed
Had been spent in killing time
   —or so Lord Richard thought,
Though in reality,
killing time

Is only the name for another of the multifarious ways
By which Time kills us.
    Â 
    When I got home that evening, there was a message in my room that Eric had called.
    â€œHey,” I said, calling him back, calmer now, as well as more curious.
    â€œHey,” Eric said.
    Apparently it was not his conversational style to phone for any particular reason.
    â€œSo what’s up?”
    â€œNot much, man. Just kicking back.”
    â€œSounds good. You live in a dorm?”
    â€œNo, I’m off campus.”
    â€œOh, cool.” (Lying down, I shoved a pillow behind my head, as I imagined Eric had.) “And do you live alone?”
    â€œI share a house with two other guys, but I’ve got my own room.” He yawned.
    â€œAnd are your roommates home?”
    â€œNope. They’re at the library.”
    â€œStudying?”
    â€œYou got it.”
    â€œAnd don’t you have studying to do?”
    â€œYeah, but I bagged it around seven. Actually, I was feeling kind of bored, so I started reading another one of your books.”
    â€œOh really? Which one?” (How I longed to ask what he was wearing!)
    â€œFamily Dancing.
And you know what’s weird? It really reminds me of my family—especially the one called ‘Danny in Transit.’ I’m from New Jersey,” he added.
    â€œWow,” I said.
Family Dancing
was the last thing I wanted to talk about it. “So what do you do with your spare time, Eric? Besides swim three days a week.”
    â€œYou’ve got a good memory, Dave.”
    â€œThanks. It goes with the territory.”
    â€œLike