Frontal’s frown was a bureaucratic facsimile of empathy. ‘Daniel has been looking out for him, as leaders do, and he’s concerned about some of the boys isolating Ben. I mean, it’s never been easy to come out in a community like this.’

‘Nah yeah,’ Gordon said. ‘Much better to keep it in the closet.’

‘Our boys are at a vulnerable age.’ Frontal’s confidence carried a shadow of threat, the lineaments of which Gordon couldn’t ascertain. ‘Back in the day, we know what happened to gay sixteen-year-old boys. Fortunately, our kids are better than us. The generations mostly improve.’

Gordon could see how Frontal believed this. Daniel possessed the supreme attractions among sixteen-year-olds: a full beard shorn into robust sideburns, a precocious washboard stomach, a square jaw and sturdy eyebrows, not in his father’s wispy ginger but a glossy raven-black. Definitely a generational improvement there. Unfortunately, Ben had thought Daniel was his best friend ever since kindy and, with his uniquely tuned gaydar and unstoppable fantasising, convinced himself that Daniel was potentially his special friend too. Ben had put out feelers to Daniel, who had ‘responded’, whatever that meant—Ben would not add details—but then Daniel had backpedalled all the way into the warmth of the dominant clique and mercilessly ostracised Ben. If Frontal knew any less of these schoolyard politics than the entire text, context and subtext, it would be surprising. You weren’t meant to be too critical of a man and boy left alone by the death of the wife and mother, but fuck Frontal was one over-involved parent.

‘I don’t think it’s a competition,’ Gordon said.

‘Not a competition,’ Frontal repeated, perfecting his beard stroke.

‘If you’ve got nothing else …’ Gordon made for his car but Frontal stepped in front of him, his hands in the air, Gordon realised, in imitation of the way Gordon had blocked Ron from crossing Fishman Avenue.

‘Mate,’ Frontal said, his minty breath clouding Gordon’s eyes, ‘just think about what you’re trying to save. All that shit we grew up with. Old Bluebird. Is it really worth it?’

‘Some of us want to save it for our children.’

‘Really? You want Ben to grow up in our Bluebird?’

Gordon drew a breath. ‘You do it your way, I’ll do it mine.’

‘Sure.’ Frontal clapped a hand on Gordon’s shoulder. ‘And listen, I hated to hear what your old man was saying to you.’

Gordon jiggled his keys.

‘Just before I got out of my car, down at Fishman. What he said. Why were you the one? Gee, Gordo, I know we have our differences, but no son should ever have to hear that from his dad.’

Gordon stood watching, unable to move, as Frontal went to his Prius and failed to open the door. It had relocked itself in the time he had come back to deliver his truth.

COURT

Court