sidered jerking off with his back to Abbas, the ultimate fuck-you, only that
felt even sillier. He got up, fished a clean pair of boxer shorts from his travel
bag—he hadn’t brought his pajamas—put them on, and got back under the
blankets.
If he could have sex without orgasm, why not love without sex? Sex is
often strange, but love is even stranger.
His sister tonight probably assumed this weekend was all about sex. He’d
told Amy a little about his open marriage. She was more amused than
shocked. She already thought male sexuality was a raunchy, loveless free-for-
all. Which made Daniel wonder what kinds of fantasies Tony had confessed
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
1 8 5
to her. She didn’t know half of it. But being seen by his sister with his lover
couldn’t help making this trip feel more important to Daniel, more like love.
So was he in love?
When you’re in love, your expectations are often so high that you feel only
disappointment. Or boredom. Or anger. There is love, Daniel told himself,
but the emotion happened yesterday or might happen tomorrow. You’re al-
most never in the emotion. You’re so busy being around the person that you
don’t have room to be in love with them. Maybe you can feel in love with
someone only when you’re apart.
Abbas was here and not here. He was asleep. Sleep didn’t count. The man
had been here and not here all day, but especially since the museum. He re-
mained half hidden in his silences, his family, his ambition, his English-as-a-
third-or-fourth-language. He’d always be here and not here.
And yet, Daniel was in love with him. Admit it, he told himself. Only when
you’re in love do you constantly ask yourself if you’re in love or not. You are
in love. You’re hooked. Now what?
Daniel suddenly felt homesick for Zack. The emotion was a soft sadness,
without guilt or pain. He was glad he was going home to Zack tomorrow. This
other love was a foreign country, and Daniel was only visiting. He did not in-
tend to renounce his homeland. He did not want to emigrate. He’d be going
home for good, eventually.
26
Zack was home on Sunday night, sitting in the basement rec room,
watching the new Forsyte Saga on Masterpiece Theatre. There was no
fire in the fireplace, only the space heater clicking on and off like a giant
toaster. Zack never thought to burn wood when he was alone; Daniel was the
one who loved real fires.
Jocko suddenly lifted his head. Then Zack heard it, too: a car on the street.
When it rolled down the driveway toward the carport outside the rec room,
Jocko went wild. His toenails clattered over the glazed brick floor; he looked
back at Zack, slinging his long tongue out of his mouth, wanting Zack to con-
firm: Yes. He was here. He was back. Jocko loved both of his humans, but he loved Daniel more.
Zack opened the door, letting cold air in and Jocko out. The Toyota filled
the carport, and Daniel was stepping from the car. Jocko leaped at him. Zack
remained in the door, smiling. There was no way he could compete with such
raw canine affection. He was glad to see Daniel, surprisingly glad, as if he’d
feared Daniel might not return.
“Calm down, sweetness. Calm down,” sang Daniel, swinging his travel bag
around the dancing dog. He dropped the bag and threw his arms around
Zack. “Oh, but it’s good to be home.”
E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a
1 8 7
Daniel felt wonderful in Zack’s arms, lean and solid. Then Zack caught a
peppery whiff of tobacco.
“Oh yeah, I let him smoke in the car on the drive back from the airport. I
hope you don’t mind.”
Zack lightly laughed. “If you really love him, you’d get him to quit. Like
you did me.”
“I don’t love him,” said Daniel, “like that.”
For a split second, Zack thought it was over. But that’d be too easy,
wouldn’t it?
“What’re you watching?” Daniel asked.
“New episode of the Forsytes. Don’t worry. I’m taping it. We can watch it
later together.”
“Keep watching. I’ll dump my gear.” He started up the stairs.
“There’s meat and cheese in the refrigerator if you’re hungry.”
“Great. You need anything from the kitchen? No? Back shortly.”
Jocko eagerly followed Daniel upstairs, still delighting in his other human.
The last fifteen minutes of Forsyte Saga passed quickly. Soames continued
his bitter war with his wife, Irene: he loved her but she hated him. It was just
ending when Daniel came back down in his flannel pajamas and leather slip-
pers, carrying a cutting board loaded with cheese, turkey, and crackers. He
brought two glasses of dark beer.