I harmed him beyond imagining, underestimating my own capacity to hurt?
He sprawled on the bed, motioning me toward him. His eyes, though sad, glimmered in invitation.
“What?”
“Be quiet,” he said with tenderness.
My gratitude was boundless, large as a country. Why was I crying? He took hold of my arm, pinned me to the bed, and to my bafflement and surprise began to make love to me.
Chapter 9
I had to know things. I had to take apart everything I saw, even as a kid: lamps, toys, hairdryers, toasters. The world was a flurry of blues, oranges, and golds, unbearable in their vibrancy. Sid and Ursula tried their best to calm me down, but I skated away from their grasp, agitated, voracious. I had to ask, where is this going, how is this put together, why are we so shy, so brittle? There was Beau Roberts’s mouse. I wriggled it in my cupped palm, on its back, eyes red, astonished. I fumbled for the toy knife, gently nicking its fur, wanting more than anything to peel back that white, exposing the pulsing wet bead inside, before Beau’s mother caught me in the act. Our phone rang later that evening. I tried to tell my parents I only loved the mouse, but my words fractured in my mouth. They sat across the kitchen table, fingers latched, gazing at me with their wet, dazzled eyes.
***
The morning air was sluggish and sweet, yellowing the surfaces with pollen. We lounged inside the pool cage, reading through the Herald and eating carambola. On such mornings it was easy to convince myself that there was indeed something between us, that, together, we were actually immersed in the moment. We felt a pleasure in our silence, a camaraderie and a comfort, a mutual respect for the distance between us.
The week had been a good one. On Tuesday, William had surprised me by taking me to the Channel 7 Studios (at last breaking his pact to keep me hidden from his coworkers), where he introduced me to Dinah Strang, aka Dusty Cartwright, host of Casper’s Corners, my favorite childhood TV show. She’d been out of work, in hiding for years, after the FCC crackdown on the endorsement of products by the hosts of such programs—in this case Dinah’s own Dusty Cartwright Dairy Bar. A host of rumors had swirled around her disappearance—one, that she’d lost her leg to gangrene; another, that she was living on the streets of Newcastle, Delaware, a sometime prostitute, after draining her bank accounts and turning over the funds to the SPCA. It was hard to believe any of it now, as she stood before the flying-fish sculptures outside the studio, preparing for her local comeback program, which already gave off the queasy scent of failure. I wasn’t giving up on her, though. She held me close—a big blowsy grandma in a fringed white cowboy suit—as William snapped the picture. “A big smoocheroony for your Aunt Dusty,” she cried, and I kissed her then, unfazed by her pancake makeup, her whiskied breath. She looked at me, confused, stricken, as if I were some demanding child.
William flapped the newspaper once on his lap. In Virginia’s trees next door: a riot of orchids. “Did you know a Todd Bemus?” he said offhandedly.
I moved to the edge of the patio chair and leaned toward him. “Yeah, I went to school with him.”
He raised his brows. The headline of his page read OBITUARIES.
“He died?”
He handed the paper to me. I pulled in a breath and held it. Over his name I saw Todd’s yearbook photo, his white hair—“bleach out,” we called it—his pink, dangerous lips. Already he looked like he knew so much more than the others, his eyes bitter, yet willful. He might have been someplace far ahead in the future. I passed over the announcement: Todd Bemus of Coral Gables, Florida, died Thursday of complications due to AIDS in San Francisco, California. He was 20 years old and is survived by his mother, Cherry, his sisters, Heather, of Port St. Lucie, and Tabitha, of Nags Head, North Carolina.
“He was a friend?”
He sprawled on the bed, motioning me toward him. His eyes, though sad, glimmered in invitation.
“What?”
“Be quiet,” he said with tenderness.
My gratitude was boundless, large as a country. Why was I crying? He took hold of my arm, pinned me to the bed, and to my bafflement and surprise began to make love to me.
Chapter 9
I had to know things. I had to take apart everything I saw, even as a kid: lamps, toys, hairdryers, toasters. The world was a flurry of blues, oranges, and golds, unbearable in their vibrancy. Sid and Ursula tried their best to calm me down, but I skated away from their grasp, agitated, voracious. I had to ask, where is this going, how is this put together, why are we so shy, so brittle? There was Beau Roberts’s mouse. I wriggled it in my cupped palm, on its back, eyes red, astonished. I fumbled for the toy knife, gently nicking its fur, wanting more than anything to peel back that white, exposing the pulsing wet bead inside, before Beau’s mother caught me in the act. Our phone rang later that evening. I tried to tell my parents I only loved the mouse, but my words fractured in my mouth. They sat across the kitchen table, fingers latched, gazing at me with their wet, dazzled eyes.
***
The morning air was sluggish and sweet, yellowing the surfaces with pollen. We lounged inside the pool cage, reading through the Herald and eating carambola. On such mornings it was easy to convince myself that there was indeed something between us, that, together, we were actually immersed in the moment. We felt a pleasure in our silence, a camaraderie and a comfort, a mutual respect for the distance between us.
The week had been a good one. On Tuesday, William had surprised me by taking me to the Channel 7 Studios (at last breaking his pact to keep me hidden from his coworkers), where he introduced me to Dinah Strang, aka Dusty Cartwright, host of Casper’s Corners, my favorite childhood TV show. She’d been out of work, in hiding for years, after the FCC crackdown on the endorsement of products by the hosts of such programs—in this case Dinah’s own Dusty Cartwright Dairy Bar. A host of rumors had swirled around her disappearance—one, that she’d lost her leg to gangrene; another, that she was living on the streets of Newcastle, Delaware, a sometime prostitute, after draining her bank accounts and turning over the funds to the SPCA. It was hard to believe any of it now, as she stood before the flying-fish sculptures outside the studio, preparing for her local comeback program, which already gave off the queasy scent of failure. I wasn’t giving up on her, though. She held me close—a big blowsy grandma in a fringed white cowboy suit—as William snapped the picture. “A big smoocheroony for your Aunt Dusty,” she cried, and I kissed her then, unfazed by her pancake makeup, her whiskied breath. She looked at me, confused, stricken, as if I were some demanding child.
William flapped the newspaper once on his lap. In Virginia’s trees next door: a riot of orchids. “Did you know a Todd Bemus?” he said offhandedly.
I moved to the edge of the patio chair and leaned toward him. “Yeah, I went to school with him.”
He raised his brows. The headline of his page read OBITUARIES.
“He died?”
He handed the paper to me. I pulled in a breath and held it. Over his name I saw Todd’s yearbook photo, his white hair—“bleach out,” we called it—his pink, dangerous lips. Already he looked like he knew so much more than the others, his eyes bitter, yet willful. He might have been someplace far ahead in the future. I passed over the announcement: Todd Bemus of Coral Gables, Florida, died Thursday of complications due to AIDS in San Francisco, California. He was 20 years old and is survived by his mother, Cherry, his sisters, Heather, of Port St. Lucie, and Tabitha, of Nags Head, North Carolina.
“He was a friend?”
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