The Truth About Forever(67)

"What's at issue here," Bert said as we headed down the hallway, passing a closed door and another bedroom along the way, "is dots or stripes. What do you think?"

He pushed open the door to his bedroom, going inside, but once I hit the threshold I just stood there, staring. Not at the two button-up shirts he was now holding out to me, but at the huge poster behind him, which took up the entire wall. It said, simply, ATTENTION: ARMAGEDDON and featured a graphic image of a blue earth being shattered to bits. The rest of the room was decorated the same way, with posters proclaiming the end is nearer than you think and one that said simply mega tsunami: one wave, total annihilation. The remaining wall space was taken up by shelves, all of which were packed with books featuring similar titles.

"Stripes," Bert said, shaking one shirt at me, "or dots. Stripes or dots. Which one?"

"Well," I said, still totally distracted, "I think—"

Just then the door behind me opened, and Wes emerged from the bathroom, hair wet, rubbing his face with a towel. He had on jeans and no shirt, which, frankly, was almost as distracting as the mega-tsunami. Or even more so. He started to wave hello to me, then stopped. And sniffed. Twice.

"Bert," he said, wincing, "what did I tell you about cologne?"

"I'm hardly wearing any," Bert said, as Wes put a hand over his nose, disputing this. He held up the shirts again, clearly willing to take all opinions. "Wes, which should I wear? First impressions are important, you know."

Wes's voice was muffled, through his hand. "My point exactly. Were you going for overpowering?"

Bert ignored this, turning back to me. "Macy. Please. Stripes or dots?"

As always, I found myself feeling a kind of affection for Bert, in his weird bedroom, wearing his nerdy undershirt, one piece of tissue still stuck to his face. "The stripes," I told him. "They're more grown-up looking."

"Thank you." He dropped the polka-dotted shirt on the bed, slipping on the other one and buttoning it quickly. Turning to face himself in the mirror, he said, "That's what I thought, too."

"Are you wearing a tie?" Wes asked him, walking back into the bathroom and tossing the towel over the shower rod.

"Should I?"

I said, "What kind of impression are you going for?"

Bert thought for a second. "Mature. Intelligent. Handsome."

"Overpowering," Wes added.

"Then yes," I told Bert, who was now scowling. "Wear a tie."

As Bert pulled open his closet door and began rummaging around, I turned to look at Wes, who'd walked into his own room and was now pulling on a gray T-shirt. Unlike Bert's, Wes's walls were bare, the only furnishings a futon against one wall, a milk crate stacked with books, and a bureau with a mirror hanging over it. There was a black-and-white picture of a girl taped to the mirror, but I couldn't make out her face.

"The thing about the Armageddon social," Bert said to me now, as I turned around to see him struggling to knot a blue tie, "is that it's the one time of the year EOWs from all over the state get together."

"EOWs?" I asked, watching him loop the tie, start a knot, and then yank it too tight before dismantling it and starting over.

"End-of-worlders," he explained, trying another knot. This time, the front came out way too long, almost hanging to his belt buckle. "It's a great opportunity to learn about new theories and trade research tips with like-minded enthusiasts." He looked down at the tie. "God! Why is this so hard? Do you know how to do this?"

"Not really," I said. My father had never been the formal type, and Jason, who wore ties often, could do one with his eyes closed, so I'd had no reason to learn.

"Kristy promised she would help me," he muttered, yanking on the tie, which only made the front go longer. His face was getting red. "She promised."

"Calm down," Wes said, stepping around me into the room and walking up to Bert. He untangled the tie, smoothing the ends. "Stand still." Then Bert and I both stood and watched as, with one cross, a twist, and a yank, he tied the knot perfectly.

"Wow," Bert said, looking down at it as Wes stepped back, examining his handiwork. "When did you learn that?"

"When I had to go to court," Wes told him. He reached up, plucking the piece of tissue off his brother's face, then straightened the tie again. "Do you have enough money?"

Bert snorted. "I prebought my ticket way back in March. There's a chicken dinner and dessert. It's all paid for."

Wes pulled out his wallet and slid out a twenty, tucking it into Bert's pocket. "No more cologne, okay?"

"Okay," Bert said, looking down at the tie again. The phone rang and he picked up a cordless from the bed. "Hello? Hey, Richard. Yeah, me too… Um, striped shirt. Blue tie. Poly-blend slacks. My good shoes. What about you?"

Wes stepped back into the hallway, shaking his head, and went into his room. I leaned against the doorjamb, taking another look at its sparse furnishings. "So," I said, "I see you're a minimalist."

"I'm not into clutter," he replied, opening the closet and pulling out something, "if that's what you mean. If you don't see it here, I don't need it."