A man stood before a group of people. It was his party. He knew each person on the couch, the ones crossed-legged on the rope-rug, the others leaning against the walls near the framed black and white photos and the thumb-tacked poster prints. He even knew the guy, he didn't invite, who had arms stretched up at threshold of the door as if he were waiting for his que. The man liked being in the center of the living room, for once. They were drinking the punch he had made. He'd had a few glasses before anyone arrived and he liked having them listen.

"My son, he died."

"Completely wrong, Jake." his friend shook his head. "You sound like you're doing Shakespeare."

"Say it with your hands out," said Ruth. She sat on a big yellow pillow.

"Completely wrong," his friend said again. "I once directed a high school production of Hamlet and I know what I'm talking about."

Everyone laughed. The man's friend, Donald Emate, had directed two Pulitzer Prize winners and was the recipient of a Tony. The man knew him before he was The Director, from their days growing up in the projects in Queens. Emate observed from a crouched position, like a catcher's stance.

"All right. OK, let me finish my lines." He took a deep breath and held out his hands like he was waiting to catch a medicine ball. "My son, he's dead."

Everyone burst out laughing again.

"My son is dying," said Ruth.

"My children are missing," someone else said.

"It's about a son," said the man.

"Look," said Donald Emate, "a line is a line. You got to read it. But let's make it sound alive."

Some of the others smiled; they wanted to see the artist in motion, up close and personal.

"Listen, Emate," the man said. They had thrown drinks, or worse, in each others face before.

"Holy Christ," the woman next to Ruth sipped her drink to conceal her shock.

"Is this a pantomime. Is this a skit?"

"It's very serious," said Thomas, finally stepping from the frame he had made for himself out of the threshold. He wore a black silk shirt tucked into tight jeans and strode slowly across the center on the room, carefully and deliberate in the cowboy boots. He went to the table and poured punch from a soup scoop. "Anyone want some?"

"This cheese is delicious."

"The breadsticks. Pass me a breadstick," said Ruth, her lips were accentuated even in the dim light.

The moment Ruth leaned forward the man standing before his guests wondered what it would be like to make love to her. Her breasts were always firm in her tight blouses. The nipples were like stacks of coins. He could imagine her smell; the shadow the fabric of her skirt caved a dark triangle at her crossed legs, made more mysterious by the quick glimpse of black panties. She always wore black. When she bent low the top buttons of her blouse were open. The straps dangled from the soft curve of her bare shoulder just as it had been last summer in front of the newsstand when she touched his hand and said good-bye.

"Let's all get serious," said Thomas. He had a trimmed beard. Depending on how the light turned or the light shadowed, his beard showed its blonde and red highlights. "Here." Thomas handed the man still firm in the center of the living room a fresh glass of his own punch.

He drank and cleared his throat. "My son, he died. He died because I left him alone."

Thomas started to laugh, innocent at first, then loud. It was a contagious laugh that made everyone smile.

"I can't help it." Thomas said, "I just can't."