The Mysteries Of Pittsburgh

wore. Solace is in the fabric of sweatshirts. 'Please, Phlox, you have to forgive me, you have to. I don't have any feelings for this woman. It's nothing.'

She whirled around, angry and curious, eyes red.

'What does she look like?'

'She's blond. Very blond and cold.'

'As blond and cold as Arthur?'

'What's that supposed to mean?' I said.

She wrapped her arms around my neck and said she didn't know. Phlox said that I could tell her anything; she would believe anything I told her. She cried, on and off, for the rest of the day. It was a wounded, slow, delicate Sunday; our feelings and the things we said to each other were cautious and tender. It rained in the late afternoon. We half-undressed, climbed out onto her roof, and stood barefoot in the puddles, and under the cool water the tar of the roof was still warm against the feet. Across the neighborhood, drainpipes chuckled and rang, and we could hear cars tossing up curtains of water in the street. I smoked a cigarette in the rain, which is the best way to smoke a cigarette. I looked at Phlox's beautiful sad lunar face and wet lashes. When we came inside, we dried each other's hair and ate with plastic forks out of cold Tupperware bowls. The day before, Phlox had bought a little bottle of bubble soap and a plastic pipe, and we filled the air of her bedroom with bubbles and damp little pops; in the evening I took her picture. I resolved that I would not see Arthur for a whole week.

When I walked into work the next day, Ed Lavella was manning the cash register, ringing up the fifty-seven- dollar purchase, an eight-inch tower of books and magazines, oi my father, who held out a hundred-dollar bill. My father was dressed for business, in a blue suit and sober tie, and he had the closed, unreadable face he always adopted at ten o'clock in the morning of what he hoped would be a full day's work. I knew that he despised Boardwalk Books, so he was obviously here because he wanted to speak to me, but we both realized as soon as we saw one another that now was not the time. He had work to do and wouldn't want the wild words of his son ringing in his ears all day, and I would be frustrated, by his professionally blank look and by our being there for all to see, in any attempt to obtain his forgiveness or solicitude. So we stood in the aisle by the best-sellers, unable to speak. He smelled of aftershave. Finally he asked me to dinner and a movie on Wednesday night, slipped me a twenty-dollar bill, and went out. At lunchtime I noticed that the money, rolled into a little green ball, was still in my hand. I had a dozen roses delivered to Phlox at the library. As I came out of the florist's, I ran into Arthur. That morning he had had his hair cut short, but a long, fashionable, forward-falling lock hid his left eyebrow. He looked odd, boyish, and gay.

'You live,' he said.

Women passed us on either side, carrying sandwiches and ice cream cones, talking with their mouths full. The weather, after yesterday's rain, was unusually dry and fine, and dazzling Forbes avenue filled with nurses and secretaries who had freed themselves from air-conditioning and fluorescent light. I laughed because the air was full of these women's talk.

'Have you eaten yet?' he said. 'Let's go sit over by the law school.'

Yes, I remembered my resolution. With a pang.

'Okay, sure,' I said. I blew a puff of air at his face, which lifted the lock of hair and bared for an instant the familiar yellow arch of his eyebrow.

That afternoon I telephoned Phlox at work and lied to her. I told her that I would be dining with my father, that tonight was the night the reviews would come in. Of course I had not said a thing to her about my most recent audience with my father. As I lied, I saw that this lie would tomorrow entail another whole set of lies, and that this set might on Wednesday entail another set, after my father told me what he really thought of her, as he was sure to do if indeed I decided to meet with him. But the first lie in the series is the one you make with the greatest trepidation and the heaviest heart. She sounded neither disappointed nor jealous.

'The flowers arrived not five minutes ago,' she said. 'You're such a wonderful boy.'

After work, we headed toward the steps where we had eaten lunch almost two months before, behind the Fine Arts Building, wanting to walk but undecided yet about where we would spend the evening and what we were going to do. I had suggested the Lost Neighborhood. We leaned against the rail and looked down. Arthur stood as though calm, but I caught from him a whiff of nervousness or excitement; his fingers on the rail tap-tapped. Down in the Lost Neighborhood they were grilling food; smoke rose in ragged fountains, and crickets talked in the dry brush that surrounded our perch. Arthur laughed. The sky was rosy red and orange with chemicals.

'Cleveland and I drove down there once,' he said. 'Right after he told me about this job of his. We took his motorcycle down along the junkyard, past the two Devil Dogs, and tried to pull into the neighborhood. But we couldn't get in; it was funny. That is, we really could have gotten in, but Cleveland didn't want to. There were all these little kids, and bicycles lying in the street, and Big Wheels, and toy trucks. He cut the engine. We sat there. Cleveland wanted to watch, I guess. I'm hungry. Where should we eat?'

'My choice this time.'

'No, I believe it's my choice this time,' he said. 'In fact, you always choose.'

'So choose.'

'Chinese.'

'Very good.'

We went. The food was brown and wriggly and spicy as hell. We cursed the fiery soup and ate it up. The cashews in the chicken dish were quiet little bland islands in an ocean of pepper. My lips swelled and burned. We swallowed glass after glass of ice water and emptied three pots of tea. I plucked small naked tangles of rice from the bowl with chopsticks; Arthur used his fork and swirled the rice into the sauces that pooled on his plate. It was a meal that held one's attention. Arthur and I hardly spoke.

After we had finished cigarettes and read our fortunes twice-'It is the loosest string that sings the longest,' mine said-we came outside. It was seven o'clock. I headed to the left, heard Arthur say the word 'No,' turned to the right, and there was Phlox, standing at the corner of At-wood and Louise with her hands at her sides. She whirled and walked off, and I ran after her, calling her name. I caught her at the avenue and took her elbow in my hand.

'Hey,' I said, and then that was all I could think of. We looked at each other for a long time, and she did not cry.

'I'm a fool,' she said. 'I'm a complete fool. I'm an idiot. Don't say anything. Shut up. Go back. I'm a fool.'

We turned toward Arthur, who walked our way. He looked serious, but it was false; I could tell by his smirking eyes.

'I hate both of you,' she whispered.

'What are you doing here?' I said.

Rather than answer me, she looked up at Arthur as he came to stand beside us. They stared, Phlox angrily, Arthur furtively, shifting his gaze away from her to something that lay at his feet and then back.

'I was thinking of getting some lime sherbet, ' he said at last.

'That's a good idea,' I said. 'Let's all go get some lime sherbet.'

'No!' said Phlox. 'I'm not going anywhere with you, Arthur. ' She drew herself erect and threw back her shoulders, and her eyes glazed over with a kind of Vivien Leigh haughtiness; she enunciated. 'Please come with me, Art. I'm only going to ask you this one time.'

I looked at Arthur, who gave me a cool shrug.

'Okay, okay,' I said. People on the sidewalk turned their heads our way. 'That's enough. Stop. Okay? Can we cut it out? Can we just stop it? Okay? Okay, look, we have to get rid of this thing once and for all. ' I was surprised that I could speak. I turned to Arthur and said, 'Arthur, I love Phlox.' I turned to Phlox. 'Phlox,' I said, 'I love Arthur. We have to learn to be together. We can do it.'

'That's bullshit,' said Phlox. Her teeth flashed.

'She's right,' said Arthur.

'I hate you, Arthur Lecomte.' She whirled. She was atavistic and gorgeous in her anger, with her splayed fingers, her cheeks. 'I'll never forgive you for doing this.'

'You'll thank me.'

'What are you talking about?' I said.

'Come with me, Art.'