For chrissakes, his mother said. I really don’t have time for this today, Galen. She came around the car and lifted him up by his armpits, stuffed him into his seat, and closed the door, without slamming it.

You think you’re cute, she said as she ducked into the driver seat. She closed her own door and they were off, crunching gravel down the hedge lane.

They have wonderful pumpkin pies at Bel-Air, he said as they passed the shopping center.

Stop, his mother said.

They really do have lovely pies, he said. It was what his grandmother had said repetitively every day before his mother stuffed her in the rest home.

His mother was trying to ignore him, something she was not always good at. The pumpkin especially, he said.

His mother believed she was a good mother and a good daughter and a good person, so she would hold back from saying anything ugly. She looked bruised, her face gone dark, the smile no longer there.

If only I weren’t locked away in the rest home, he said. Then I might taste pumpkin pie again.

Galen’s grandmother was in perfect health with the exception of her memory. Suzie-Q, she said when Galen’s mother walked in. They had a hug, and then it was Galen’s turn.

Galen didn’t like to be hugged. His family was all women, and they were always hugging him, many times every day. He would have preferred never to be hugged again for the rest of his life.

Look at you, she said. My handsome grandson. Are you getting ready for school in the fall?

Galen’s upper arms were pinned in her hands. He tried to let his arms relax, as if they were someone else’s arms. But she wasn’t letting go. Her face was very close. A different face now than a few months ago. New dentures, and somehow they had entirely changed her face, made rounder and softer and foreign. As if it had never been his grandmother but always someone else hiding in there.

Not this fall, he finally said. I’ll be deferring a year.

She looked at him closely, examining his face and eyes, trying to remember, perhaps. What she couldn’t remember was that this was now his fifth year of deferral. Yes, she said. Yes, of course, some time before you start. We talked about that. Always a good idea. Maybe travel a bit, see the world first.

The imagined year abroad in Europe, the well-off young man carrying a small suitcase and boarding ocean liners and trains, throwing open the shutters in a hundred old rooms to look out over spires and stone. Wearing a linen suit, drinking in cafés, chatting in half a dozen languages. What made Galen angry was the fact that it could have happened. If he’d had a father and a normal mother, parents with jobs, and a grandmother who hadn’t lost her memory, the extra money from his grandmother could have made this happen. Instead it was paying for the rest home, metallic orange paint jobs, and a mother who would never work.

Mom, you’re going to tear Galen’s arms off.

Yes, well, his grandmother said, letting go. You know you’re my favorite grandchild?

White hair curving down in a bob, blue eyes bright still. Favoritism wasn’t very nice, really, but he did love his grandmother. He’d always liked her better than anyone else.

Thank you, Grandma, he said. You’re my favorite grandma.

Mm, she said, and hugged him again.

The room was very small, shared by an older woman confined to bed. Her eyes were always wet, and she was smiling at Galen now, looking like she was crying.

Maybe we should go for a walk, Galen said. He had to leave this room. Linoleum floors and plain white walls, sliding plastic curtains around the beds. A place to die, but his grandmother was well. A shared room because his mother wanted to preserve as much of the trust as possible and it wasn’t clear his grandmother remembered she had money.

That sounds nice, his mother said. We’ll go for a walk in the garden.

Last one there is a rotten egg, his grandmother said.

So they made a little game of racing out to the garden. Waving to the nurses in the hallway as if they were going away for good. Galen’s mother smiling because they were being special. Specialness was her favorite thing.

Ah, she breathed out when they hit the garden and stopped racing. She grabbed her mother’s arm and leaned in close. That was fun, wasn’t it?

The garden a cement courtyard with planter boxes on wheels. They could be moved all around, so it was never the same garden twice. None of the plants reached higher than five feet, and there was no shade.

Galen’s grandmother gave him a big smile. He tried to return it, what felt like a lopsided little grin with his mouth closed, a bit of skin stretching. Maybe he had different cheek muscles. They wouldn’t pull upward on their own.

Look at all the flowers, his mother said, and it was true there were flowers everywhere. They pulled up to a trough of petunias, white and pink and purple in the sun. Like little faces, his mother said.

What time is it? Galen’s grandmother asked.

Oh, look over here, Mom, some lovely roses.

They walked over to the roses, red and loose and thorny. Galen leaned in close to smell. He liked the smell of red roses.

Like Ferdinand the Bull, his mother said.

Thanks, Galen said.

You remember Ferdinand the Bull, Mom?

But Galen’s grandmother was looking around now, worried. What time is it? she repeated.

He’s the bull who won’t do anything except lie around and smell flowers.

Maybe we should go, Galen’s grandmother said. It’s getting late. We should go home.

Look over here, Galen’s mother said. They have nasturtiums.

We should go home now.

Galen tried to focus on his exhales.

Which way is out? his grandmother asked, looking around. Sweat on her face from this heat, her shirt going dark. There was no shade. I can never remember which way is out.

This way, Mom. We’ll go back to your room.

We need to go home.

Maybe we can play cards, Galen said, trying to be helpful. He couldn’t bear any of this.

That’s a wonderful idea, his mother said. Let’s play a hand of cards, Mom.

I want to go home. Why won’t you take me home?

Chapter 2

When Galen and his mother returned home, Galen’s aunt and cousin were waiting. His aunt standing at the door, his cousin Jennifer slouched in the wooden love seat under the oak tree. Like gangsters. Galen’s mother pulled up behind their crap Oldsmobile.

His mother went to the door, and Galen walked over to his cousin. This oak tree with limbs stretching out fifty feet in every direction. They’d played here as kids, played endless hours with Barbies and G.I. Joes in the shade.

Hey, Jennifer said.

Galen tried not to look. But she had one foot up on the bench, knee bent high, and a short skirt, and he could see her panties, light blue, could see the smooth skin of her thigh. She was seventeen, and he’d been taking peeks like this for at least four years now, unbearable. He looked down at the ground, at the grass that was up to his shins.

Hey, she said. You’re looking good. So hot. I love your “I’m never going to take a shower again” look. The homeless are so sexy.

You take enough showers for both of us.

True, she said. I like how soft my skin feels afterward. She ran her fingers along her inner thigh. It’s unbelievable, she said. Do you want to feel?

Stop it, he said, and he walked away, into the house. The parlor, cool and dark, the shades drawn, and he stood in place a moment at the bottom of the stairs. The baby grand that no one knew how to play. The old photos on the walls. The wide dusty planks. He creaked up the steps to his room and locked the door. Pulled out a Hustler magazine and lay on his bed.

The pleasure the same as despair, a deep and awful need, and his imagination terrible. Samsara, the world of suffering. So he put the magazine down, stopped moving his hand, left his dick hard. He took his tape recorder off the nightstand, put the headphones on, listened to Kitaro. Closed his eyes to camels in the desert, long journeys across sand and wind and time. Felt his spirit reaching across lifetimes, across incarnations, felt freedom. This body only a dream.