the faucet
– a reverse volcano into which water was rushing. Steam rose off the liquid’s surface.
‘Do you remember anything?’
Simon shook his head. He thought it was best if he remembered nothing. If he had nothing to say he was less likely to say the wrong thing, to give himself away.
Samantha pulled his corduroy coat off and hung it on a brass hook poking from the door, and then unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off him.
‘I thought you donated all these clothes to Good Will.’
‘I – I boxed them up, but I never drove them over.’
Samantha unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down his legs. They piled at his feet and he stepped out of them. He had hairy white legs covered in skin like a plucked chicken, thin hair except
at the knees, which his pants had rubbed bare, and thin calves lined with blue veins.
‘Get in the tub,’ she said. ‘I’ll scrub you down.’
He walked to the bathtub and stepped his right foot into the water. At first he couldn’t tell whether it was hot or cold – the shock had confused his body – but after a moment
his nerves were reoriented, and he yanked his scalded foot back out, sucking in air through his teeth.
‘Don’t be a baby. Get in.’
Simon tried a second time, going easily, first one foot and then the other. He stood still a moment, letting his body adjust, and then lowered himself in slowly, hands gripping either side of
the tub. He was all right until his scrotum touched the water, and then he stood up again, or tried, but couldn’t manage it before Samantha pushed him back down. His skin turned pink.
He kept waiting for Samantha to see some scar or birthmark on his body that Jeremy didn’t have, or to notice the absence of a scar or birthmark, but neither of those things happened.
Samantha grabbed a dry loofah from the edge of the tub, soaked it in the water, squeezed it out, and scrubbed Simon’s back.
‘How did you get home?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your car’s been in the garage.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘So?’
‘I took the train,’ he said, despite the fact that he had never used the city’s public transportation system. He had seen the tracks near Union Station, and occasionally saw
one of the light rail trains rolling to or from Pasadena, and every once in a while walked over subway grating on the sidewalk, in Hollywood and Koreatown, but he’d never actually ridden one
of the city’s trains, or even one of its busses. Still, it was the first thing that came to mind, and it seemed to do the job – Samantha asked no more questions.
She scrubbed at his back silently for a couple minutes.
‘My show’s tonight.’
‘Your show?’
‘My exhibition. My paintings.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have to go. Gil’s been planning it for weeks.’
‘Okay.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I’ll stay home if you want.’
‘I don’t feel comfortable leaving you home alone.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
‘Do you think you’ll be okay? I know you hate crowds, and on top of everything else—’
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Sure?’
He nodded.
Samantha bent down and kissed the back of his head.
‘Okay. Now wet your hair.’
Then she shoved his head down, forcing it underwater.
There were still beads of water dotting his naked back, and his clean underwear was spotted with moisture. He stood in front of his side of the closet – Jeremy
Shackleford’s side of the closet – looking at ten suits, five of them gray, three black, one brown, one dark green. They were hanging on wooden hangers, and they were all facing in the
same direction. To their right, about a dozen dry-cleaned white shirts. To the right of the shirts, cardigan sweaters in various colors, about half of them plaid. And at the end of the closet, a
tie rack with at least a dozen silk ties hanging from it, each facing out so that Simon – Jeremy – could examine the patterns and pick which one he wanted. On a shelf above all this,
several white
– a reverse volcano into which water was rushing. Steam rose off the liquid’s surface.
‘Do you remember anything?’
Simon shook his head. He thought it was best if he remembered nothing. If he had nothing to say he was less likely to say the wrong thing, to give himself away.
Samantha pulled his corduroy coat off and hung it on a brass hook poking from the door, and then unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off him.
‘I thought you donated all these clothes to Good Will.’
‘I – I boxed them up, but I never drove them over.’
Samantha unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down his legs. They piled at his feet and he stepped out of them. He had hairy white legs covered in skin like a plucked chicken, thin hair except
at the knees, which his pants had rubbed bare, and thin calves lined with blue veins.
‘Get in the tub,’ she said. ‘I’ll scrub you down.’
He walked to the bathtub and stepped his right foot into the water. At first he couldn’t tell whether it was hot or cold – the shock had confused his body – but after a moment
his nerves were reoriented, and he yanked his scalded foot back out, sucking in air through his teeth.
‘Don’t be a baby. Get in.’
Simon tried a second time, going easily, first one foot and then the other. He stood still a moment, letting his body adjust, and then lowered himself in slowly, hands gripping either side of
the tub. He was all right until his scrotum touched the water, and then he stood up again, or tried, but couldn’t manage it before Samantha pushed him back down. His skin turned pink.
He kept waiting for Samantha to see some scar or birthmark on his body that Jeremy didn’t have, or to notice the absence of a scar or birthmark, but neither of those things happened.
Samantha grabbed a dry loofah from the edge of the tub, soaked it in the water, squeezed it out, and scrubbed Simon’s back.
‘How did you get home?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Your car’s been in the garage.’
‘Oh, right.’
‘So?’
‘I took the train,’ he said, despite the fact that he had never used the city’s public transportation system. He had seen the tracks near Union Station, and occasionally saw
one of the light rail trains rolling to or from Pasadena, and every once in a while walked over subway grating on the sidewalk, in Hollywood and Koreatown, but he’d never actually ridden one
of the city’s trains, or even one of its busses. Still, it was the first thing that came to mind, and it seemed to do the job – Samantha asked no more questions.
She scrubbed at his back silently for a couple minutes.
‘My show’s tonight.’
‘Your show?’
‘My exhibition. My paintings.’
‘Oh.’
‘I have to go. Gil’s been planning it for weeks.’
‘Okay.’
‘What do you want to do?’
‘I’ll stay home if you want.’
‘I don’t feel comfortable leaving you home alone.’
‘Then I’ll come with you.’
‘Do you think you’ll be okay? I know you hate crowds, and on top of everything else—’
‘I’ll be okay.’
‘Sure?’
He nodded.
Samantha bent down and kissed the back of his head.
‘Okay. Now wet your hair.’
Then she shoved his head down, forcing it underwater.
There were still beads of water dotting his naked back, and his clean underwear was spotted with moisture. He stood in front of his side of the closet – Jeremy
Shackleford’s side of the closet – looking at ten suits, five of them gray, three black, one brown, one dark green. They were hanging on wooden hangers, and they were all facing in the
same direction. To their right, about a dozen dry-cleaned white shirts. To the right of the shirts, cardigan sweaters in various colors, about half of them plaid. And at the end of the closet, a
tie rack with at least a dozen silk ties hanging from it, each facing out so that Simon – Jeremy – could examine the patterns and pick which one he wanted. On a shelf above all this,
several white
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