Laura Lippman - The Most Dangerous Thing

“Of course,” he replied, although he had assumed she wanted to work. She had seemed so gung-ho ambitious when they met.

“I could go back to work, but almost all my income would go to child care, so what’s the point of that?”

“Of course,” he repeated.

“Which means you’ll probably want to leave the newspaper and go into a corporate position.”

“Of-what?”

They had been living in Charlotte then. It was a hot newspaper, coming off a Pulitzer win for its coverage of Jim and Tammy Faye Bakker, part of a much-respected chain. Sean, who used his aborted premed education to position himself as a medical reporter, had planned to go as far as he could there, then move on to one of the big dogs, the Washington Post or the New York Times. It was not an unreasonable dream in 1989. It would not have been an unreasonable dream even ten years later. Twenty years later-the chain that owned the paper doesn’t even exist anymore. If he had followed his heart, he might have been one of the lucky ones, safe and sound at a big national newspaper when all the other papers started to shrink. But he was long gone from journalism by then, exiled to corporate communications, first in Charlotte’s banking industry, now for Blue Cross and Blue Shield of Florida. He makes good money, and he earns that salary in income-tax-free Florida. It was enough-just-to buy Vivian the house she expected in a neighborhood she deemed worthy, Old Northeast, although without a water view. It’s a good life. Really.

Together more than twenty years, they never fight or raise their voices. They disagree. They often disagree. Then Sean explains his side and Vivian explains hers and they end up doing what Vivian wants. Or so it seems. Sean knows, realistically, that he can’t be losing every disagreement, but it sure feels that way. When he starts to feel sorry for himself, he thinks about his son, who really is a delight, and maybe that’s because of all the attention Vivian has lavished on him. Straight-A student, good enough at track to be certain of a scholarship, sweet, yet popular at school.

And almost certainly gay.

He and Vivian have not spoken about this yet. That’s Sean’s decision, for once. If they speak of it, then it will be true, and he’s not ready for it to be true. Let Duncan bring it up. Isn’t that how it works? It’s up to Duncan to come out to them. When he does, if he does, Sean will be OK with it, he really will. But he’s in no hurry to hear this particular revelation. He could be wrong. He’s known some effeminate guys who were amazing pussy hounds, although Duncan isn’t effeminate. At any rate, Sean doesn’t bring it up to Vivian, doesn’t ask Duncan awkward leading questions. ( I see Ricky Martin came out. Not that surprising, huh. What do you think about “don’t ask, don’t tell”? Gay marriage? ) Instead, he talks to Duncan about the Tampa teams, the Bucs and the Rays, or his inclinations about college, which are kept as close as his sexual preference. Duncan never admits to liking any college, turning all questions back on his parents. “What do you think about Bard?” “How bad do you think the winters in Ann Arbor are?” He is vague, too, about what he plans to study or whether he is committed to the idea of continuing to run cross-country, fearful that he may have peaked, that he’s fighting his body type. The other day, Sean caught him pinching a nonexistent slice of flab at his waist, making a face in the mirror. Would a straight kid do that?

Duncan also watches the strangest mix of television shows- American Idol, another singing show, some dancing shows, a lot of reality television-part of a standing date at a girl’s house. Not a date-date, and not a girlfriend, just a girl who’s a friend. This is how Duncan says it, word for word, in a high singsong voice, followed by a sigh. Not a date-date, not a girlfriend, just a girl who’s a friend, DAD.

Really, it’s almost a relief to have him here in the yard, grumbling about a chore and doing it poorly. It seems more normal, more boylike.

“You have to be careful pruning,” Sean says, taking the massive trimmers from Duncan and demonstrating the technique, the proper place to cut. Duncan sighs and imitates Sean’s motions with arch lassitude.

“Mom says you want to go to Baltimore for spring break.” They usually shoot for a special trip for the spring break, something splashy, often underwritten by Vivian’s parents.

“I’m not sure about want . But I think we need to check in with your grandmother over Easter. It will be hard for her, being alone.”

“She’s not alone. Uncle Tim and his family live twenty minutes away.”

“Still, we should go.”

Duncan focuses on the branch in front of him. “Some kids from school are going to New Orleans to work with one of the house-building programs there.”

“That’s still going on?”

“Of course it is. You don’t rebuild a city overnight.”

Sean knows New Orleans wasn’t rebuilt overnight. His surprise is that school and church groups are still going, that the attention-deficit-disordered world hasn’t moved on to a new tragedy. Events move into the rearview mirror quickly these days. Earthquakes, tsunamis-it seems like every month, celebrities are back on television, running some phone bank.

“I thought I would go,” Duncan says. “It will look good on my college applications. I’m light on volunteering and community service.”

“Can’t you do something similar in the summer?”

“I’m going back to Stage Door, then doing an intensive cross-country camp, one that attracts scouts.”

Scouts mean scholarships, and Sean is no enemy of financial assistance for Sean’s college education, although he knows that’s the sort of bill that Vivian’s family will pick up if he really finds himself on the ropes. And if the school is impressive enough. Sean isn’t sure which schools will make the cut, but he knows his alma mater, Washington University, isn’t among them, although it’s no safety school. But no one in Vivian’s family is familiar with it, and what they don’t know can’t possibly be worth knowing. Vivian went to Duke, and Sean’s room has been filled with blue-and-white devils almost since the day he was born.

“You haven’t seen your grandmother in a while. You didn’t even make it to the funeral.”

“Dad, I had that competition in Orlando. If I hadn’t gone, the chamber quartet would have been penalized.”

“You’re the only grandson-and the only one who doesn’t live there.”

“That’s not my fault,” Duncan says in his factual, even-keeled way, so much like Vivian. “And being the only grandson shouldn’t matter. Are you saying boys are more important than girls to Grandma Dee?”

“It would make her really happy if you came with us. That’s all.”

“But we’ve already bought our plane tickets.”

“We?”

“Mom and me. She’s planning on being one of the chaperones on the New Orleans trip.”

Duncan’s face is turned away from Sean’s. Sean has never been sure how much Duncan picks up on his parents’ dynamic. Sean’s father, if he were still alive, would probably say Vivian wears the pants in the family, but that’s not exactly right. She’s not a ballbuster. Her manner is unfailingly polite, reasonable. She simply cannot see Sean’s side of things. When they clash, her attitude is almost pitying. Poor silly Sean, thinking that’s a viable idea. She humors him, hearing him out.

He thinks of another thing his father liked to say: Don’t marry above yourself or you’ll never get out from under. He chose Vivian because she was a prize, something bright and shiny on a shelf barely within reach. The problem is, she sees herself the same way.