Authors: Renee Manfredi
“The same. Get your rumpus out here.” He walked back in to join Anna.
“He might be just a little while.” Anna poured herself another Scotch, poked at the fire and added another log. “He’s having a little trouble. How to put this delicately? The breakfast cuisine around here is stewed prunes. It’s all the medications he’s taking. His system is going into revolt. Forty-eight pills a day, all carefully timed.” She sat back in the chair, propped her feet up on the table in front of her. Stuart saw the fatigue in her drooping shoulders, the slackness of her jaw line. She was thinner than ever, she who hadn’t anything extra on her to begin with. “I meant to tell you on the phone, Jack has developed a dowager’s hump. It’s a fairly common side effect of the medication, along with a thickening of his neck. But the drugs
are working. He has more lucid days than not, and his viral load is down by about forty per cent, which is a gift.”
“That’s good,” Stuart said.
Anna nodded. “That’s very good.”
Flynn came into the living room, walked over to Stuart smiling. She was huge! Inches taller than when he saw her last, her little-girl figure starting to soften and curve somewhat, though she hadn’t added the pubescent fat around the middle. Everything on her was going to form; she wouldn’t have to wait three years for her figure to emerge, clarified, through the baby padding. “My God, you’re gorgeous.” She returned his kiss, embraced him warmly. “Shucks, Rhett, you make a lady blush.”
He laughed. “Have you been reading
Gone with the Wind
?”
She shook her head. “No, suh, I don’t know nothin’ about it. I’se in the kitchen, keepin’ my nose in business entirely my own.”
Anna spoke sharply. “Flynn! Stop that talk. Do you realize that you’re being offensive? That someone might think you’re making fun of a culture?”
“Yes’m,” Flynn said. “But, Miz Anna, there ain’t be no Southern crackers roun’ heah.” She nuzzled closer to Stuart. “Suh, do you know the plantation heah is crawlin’ with the spirits of the long-dead?”
Stuart felt Anna’s irritation toward Flynn. “Tell me about school. How do you like your new school?”
Her face fell. “It’s okay. I don’t do well with kids my own age, which is how it’s always been. I’m a freak.”
“Are you playing any sports?”
“No. I’m a Celtic dancer now.”
“Are you? Well, it just so happens that I have something that you might like.” He pulled the video of
Riverdance
out of the shopping bag.
“Oh! I haven’t seen this one! Thank you.” She was about to put it in the machine when Anna stopped her.
“Not now, Flynn. Or watch it upstairs.”
“Okay. I’ll wait for Jack.”
“Jack is going to visit with Stuart. Watch it alone, or with Jack later.”
“But I was going to keep it on low. Stuart won’t mind. It’s background music.” She moved toward the television.
“Flynn—”
“Just five minutes. Let me just watch until Jack comes out, then I’ll turn it off. It’s eight o’clock. This is when Jack and I always do something together.”
“No, Flynn,” Anna said, as patiently as she could. Flynn’s defiance was something new. Her moods changed from one minute to the next. It was only to be expected at her age.
Flynn flounced off in a huff. Anna heard her start up the stairs, then come back down. “Jack? Please hurry up in there. You’re upsetting everybody’s schedule.”
Anna stood. “Excuse me,” she said to Stuart. She went into the hallway and took Flynn by the elbow, pointed her toward the stairs. She could abide Flynn’s mocking her, could withstand her defiance and rebellion, but she would not stand for this. “The healthy do not dictate the schedule of someone’s illness. What’s the matter with you, Flynn?” Anna felt both Jack and Stuart listening to her. “What’s gotten into you?”
Flynn looked at her grandmother’s bony bare feet. She didn’t know what to answer. Except that she wanted to be anyone but herself, and couldn’t bear the interruption of routine, even for Stuart, Jack’s special friend. It panicked her to the point of tears not to be able to watch TV or a movie with Jack like they did every night after their musical tour of the ’70s. The world was ending.
“Go feed Hoover McPaws and change his litter. And has Baby Jesus been walked for the night?”
Flynn nodded, her eyes teary. “I want my mother,” she said.
This, too, was something new. Anytime Anna corrected her, Flynn brought up Poppy. “Why don’t you go take a bath? Get into bed, and then Jack and I will be up to kiss you goodnight.”
Instead of moving, Flynn stared off into space, entranced.
“Flynn,” Anna said.
She fell against Anna, sobbing. “Something is wrong with me. Something is really, really wrong. Why can’t I be normal?”
Anna took her upstairs and calmed her down. She ran a hot bath, turned down the sheets on Flynn’s bed, then gave her the option to either come back downstairs when she felt calmer, or go to sleep. “Okay. Okay, Flynn?”
Flynn nodded, and Anna went out.
“Sorry,” Anna called as she came back down the stairs. She went into the kitchen to fix some food for Stuart. She ladled out the soup, cut slices of bread and cheese, decanted a new bottle of burgundy. She needed help with Flynn, another healthy adult to help deal with Flynn’s prodigious energy. Maybe Marvin was right—maybe Flynn needed a hobby. The dance classes didn’t occupy that much of her time, and her attendance was intermittent—since Anna was the only driver and the classes started at seven, it meant racing home from work, whisking Flynn to class, and waiting the interminable hour and half for the class to end. She salted the soup, polished the goblet on the tray. Maybe she would teach Flynn to knit, though that wasn’t much better than Marvin’s insisting that Flynn learn to sew. She needed something, some activity that could absorb her. Flynn didn’t have enough to do with her evenings. Her homework was finished perfectly—Anna checked—in under an hour each night.
She carried the tray back into the living room where Jack was sitting on the sofa with his arm loosely around Stuart.
“Well, well. I was getting ready to send in a rescue team,” she said, and set the tray in front of Stuart. “Did you…did your bowels move?”
Jack laughed. “Sweetheart, not only did my bowels move, they moved and left no forwarding address.”
Stuart laughed, snorted wine up his nose. “That’s my boy,” he said, Jack’s quick sharpness piercing right to the heart of him. Hopeless. There was no way not to bleed right into Jack in his presence. It would always be so. Jack’s appearance was shocking, his neck thicker by far than his thighs, and his back had that old lady’s hump, but the rest of him was thin. His color was pale, but not ashen. Not healthy, but not knocking on death’s door, either. He wore a cabled navy sweater and a loosely knitted cap of fine, light wool through which Stuart saw his thinning hair. Nothing, though—illness, weight loss, humps and bruises—could make Jack anything less than completely beautiful. There was something new in his expression, actually, that Stuart thought made Jack even more handsome, a depth, a glitter in his eyes, as though he was storing his dreams there, instead of in his faulty brain.
“So, tell me what’s new in your world, my boy,” Jack said, patting Stuart’s knee. His eyes took in the length of Stuart’s body. “How’s your love life?”
Stuart pretended shock. “Not in front of Anna’s delicate sensibilities.”
“Oh, please. The iron butterfly? The roller coaster Madonna? The goddess with whom I had a three-hour discussion of the joys of gay sex? The woman knows all our secrets, darling.”
“Not the secrets between the two of you,” Anna said.
“Naturally,” Jack said. “Anna, would you mind sitting on the other side of me?” he patted the sofa. “It makes me anxious to be so far away from you. And where did my girl go?”
Anna walked over to the couch, sat. “I sent her upstairs. She was in one of her moods.”
Jack pulled Anna close to him. “If there’s one thing I can tell the two of you about dying…no, two things I can tell you: the first is that it’s not as bad as advertised. It’s like the nostalgia you feel for a house you’re about to move out of.” He sipped the burgundy, reached for the bottle, which Anna nudged out of the way with her foot. “Careful. You shouldn’t, you know,” she said softly.
“Yes,” he said. “I know it. But I’m about to turn forty, and we’re celebrating Stuart home.” Anna shrugged, watched as he poured a quarter glass and held it up to her for approval. “It’s your liver,” she said, and turned to watch the fire. She, too, was a little drunk, but pleasantly so, warm and content.
“What’s the second thing?” Stuart said.
“What, baby?” Jack said.
“What’s the second thing you wanted to tell us?”
Jack stared straight ahead, as though trying to remember something from long ago. “Oh! The second thing is that it’s important to have people as physically close to you as possible. The flesh is precious.”
“That,” Stuart said, rubbing his hand along Jack’s shoulder and meeting Anna’s hand there by accident, “has been a long-held belief.”
“I should go and check on Flynn. Let the two of you visit.” Stuart smiled up at Anna, but Jack pulled her back down. “No, Flynnie’s fine. Stay for a while. Please.”
“Jack, you see my ugly mug every day. I’m sure you and Stuart would like private time.”
“Anna, please, I cherish you.”
“Jack.” She laughed. “No more of that wine. You’re starting to act like a breeder in a bar near closing time.”
Stuart felt the disappointment sink all through him. He never expected Jack to meet him with heart-fluttering joy and open arms, but it was always a surprise to him how casually Jack regarded him, as if he were merely another houseguest.
Even now, there was so much that he wanted to let float up on calm waters, just the two of them. Anna and Jack talked about Flynn for over an hour, discussed whether or not she needed to be evaluated or treated by a therapist. They moved on to real estate prices in the area, and the question of whom to invite to Anna’s annual Christmas party. “I’m pretty sure I offended half the population last year by not doing it as an open house,” Anna said.
“There are five hundred people in this town. Nobody expects that,” Jack said. “Besides, do you really want every greasy Billy and Bob showing up with Wonder Bread casseroles? Why not be elitist? Who cares about the other side of the tracks?”
“I do. Well, kind of,” Anna said.
“I don’t. Those Yankees? No way. I would have no compunction whatsoever leaving the ‘Fags are going to hell’ side of town off the list.”
Stuart stared at the fire, wondering if it was a mistake to be here. Jack had come back; he was very near to being his old self, the man who lived squarely inside his own heart where there was no room for anyone else. He wished for a little of the heat, the edge, he’d had earlier in the day.
“Well, you’re probably right,” Anna said. “I am a snob. Why pretend otherwise? Still, it might be nice to feel a part of this town. Flynn and I are going to live here a while.”
“As opposed to the rest of us, who are just passing through or dying,” Jack said, and reached for the wine decanter on the table in front of him.
“Jack, you’re making me tired. You and Flynn both are like two fat asses on an overstuffed suitcase.”
Jack laughed. “What the hell does that mean, Anna?”
She was caught between exasperation and amusement. “I don’t know. Just that I’m short on patience today. I am stuffed to the brim and don’t want any more pressure. I’m just not in the mood for your word salads. Your stupid verbal puns or whatever.”
Jack put his arms around her, kissed her neck. “I’m sorry, darling. I’m sorry. I’m thoughtless sometimes. You know I love you.”
Stuart felt a darkness well up inside him. Jack had rarely said words like that to him, almost never showed that kind of tenderness when his feelings were hurt. There was no reason to be envious of Anna. He knew that. It was just that Anna was the one person right now Jack couldn’t afford to offend, to lose. Stuart would not come here again. This was the goodbye visit, the door he would close and lock behind him. He would go home to David and their uncomplicated life, worry about things that didn’t really matter, and be happy for the small things, the daily evenness that made life easy, predictable, and safe.
Later, Stuart lay in bed in the guestroom, listening to Jack talking to Flynn in the room next door. He stared at the rind of frost on the old-fashioned window, shuttered and four-paned, heard the crash of waves at the shoreline, the hiss as they broke against rocks. He hadn’t felt this miserable since he actually lived with Jack, when he would lie in bed and wait for Jack to join him. Stuart heard Flynn’s girlish giggles. She was such an engaging child. Though not really a child any longer. Not yet a young woman, either. The bewitching netherworld where boys and girls were the same, but on the cusp where everything was about to change.
He picked up the phone on the bedside table but then thought better of it. David would probably be awake, worrying about why Stuart hadn’t called, feeling anxious and lonely, and second-guessing his threats of desertion. It didn’t matter. It didn’t matter to him, not really, if David threw his things out on the street. What mattered to him, still, was Jack. It was that simple. Why did he think it would be otherwise? Stuart felt this to a lesser degree the other time he’d seen Jack here, but it was mild enough to ignore or identify as something else. Stuart didn’t especially believe in God, but sometimes, like now, he thought he might believe in this way: God wasn’t a remote omniscient being, but the power of the least pursued. The tug of unrequited love. Nothing in the world, not even outright cruelty or rejection, was more powerful than confirming someone’s notion that he was almost, but not quite, good enough.
A little while later Stuart heard Jack outside his room. The door opened softly, with a slow creak and Jack stood framed in the light from the hall, a dark ghost with a medicinal smell and a wool-encased skull. “Baby?” he said, as though he’d been looking for Stuart for a long time, in
every darkened corner and night-black room.
“I’m here,” Stuart said. “Come in.” He turned down the bed sheets, eased Jack into his arms and held him, surprised by the intact strength of Jack’s body, the muscle tone that didn’t seem to be diminished at all by his illness. Stuart held Jack tighter, entwined his legs around Jack’s and wished time would stop right here so the moment was big enough to live in for a while. He didn’t want to feel the next minute, and the one after that, pressing in with its sadness and tedium and longing. He kissed Jack, swept his fingertips lightly over Jack’s tissue-thin eyelids, as delicate and soft as moth wings.