Spring 2008 • Vol. XXX No. 2 Fiction |

Quarantine

"You will see him only the way he is, not the way he was." Jeremy and I have rented a car and are driving to my parents' house. He has never been to West Virginia. All week he has been looking forward to seeing the house where I grew up, my yearbooks, the wood paneling in the living room where I chipped my tooth, the place by the river where I drank with friends. He is annoyed that I am talking about Bapuji again. "Don't you think I know by now how you feel about your grandfather?" he asks. "Yes, but I am warning you. When you see him, you will feel sorry for him. You will forget all the stories I've told you." "I won't forget." "You won't believe me." It is late by the time we reach the house. My parents hug me at the door. They tell Jeremy how much they enjoyed meeting him in New York last year. They are awkward. They half hug him, half shake his hand. They are still not used to their son dating men. "Make yourself at home," my mom says to Jeremy. "

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