“It’s cool.” Annie points to a picture of a Greenpeace raft next to a gigantic whaling ship. “Would you ever want to do that?”
“Yes,” I say, but I’m not that brave. We sit down on my bed, and I hear myself babbling to Annie about saving the whales. Annie nods.
“Yeah, like if we save the whales from extinction, we can save ourselves. Activists can change things,” Annie says. “I believe that. I’m just not a very good one.”
The clicking and buzzing of night insects come in through the open windows. Annie says she won’t miss that noise.
“I wish I could go with you,” I say.
“You can visit any time.”
“Ohio sucks.”
“Get through high school. Then you can get the hell out of here and never have to see any of these people again.”
My muscles coil like springs. For Annie, telling the truth is the only way to live. She isn’t like my family. Every word out of her mouth is hard and shining like her eyes. I’ve been thinking about what it means to be brave, and what it means to be weak. I don’t want Annie to think I’m just some dumb kid.
“I know about Brian,” I say.
She looks at me with surprise. “Know what?” she asks cautiously.
“He has AIDS.”
Her puckered lips soften. It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. The crickets suddenly stop.
“Shit, kid. How long have you known?”
“I don’t know. A few weeks.”
She asks how I figured it out. “I just did,” I say vaguely, and she squeezes the top of my thigh. Her nails are long and the color of a grape popsicle.
“I need a cigarette,” she says.
I follow her over to the open window. The chirping starts up again, louder this time, like the crickets have found their way inside the house.
“I want one too,” I say.
“Your mom would kill me.” Annie takes the pack out of the rim of the waistband of her shorts, a lighter tucked inside. “You shouldn’t smoke,” she says. “But just this once.”
We blow smoke through the screen. Ashes fall on the sill like tiny flakes of gray snow. Annie’s staring ahead, and then she turns to me.
“Your mom washing the sheets separately, washing his dishes separately, that’s fucked up. You know that, right?”
Her face is hard, angry, sad all at once. Maybe she is thinking of Brian, or all her other friends who have died.
“Your brother worries about you. I told him you’re tough. You have to be. You have to be brave. You cannot care what people say.” Annie holds her eyes on mine. “He’s going to get sicker,” she says. “It’s going to get worse. Do you understand?”
I nod. She takes another drag, and then gives me a small, sad smile. What would she say if she knew about my betrayal?
Annie steps closer and leans her head on my shoulder, and for a moment I’m still as can be, as if a butterfly has landed on me and I’m trying my best not to startle it. Then, slowly, I raise my arm and put it around her, like a boy would, and we both look up at the night sky. I want to ask her if Brian is going to die, but I don’t want to ruin this moment. Her hair smells like wildflowers, like the woods after a hard rain.
“Do you think there is life out there?” she asks. “On other planets. Other galaxies?”
I feel older, like I just added a decade. “Only if there is water,” I say. “Water is the source of life.”
Sharon
Finally, she’s gone. I couldn’t stand having her in my house. Her grating, know-it-all voice and the trampy way she looked—all that makeup, and her bra straps showing. She’d sit next to Brian on the sofa, one arm over his shoulders like she was guarding him. From who? My son, a pale and tiny mole. What happened to my beautiful son?
I check with Brian to see what he wants for supper. Now we can actually eat a meal that we all enjoy.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Well, if you want, I can make—”
“I said I’m not hungry,” he snaps.
The anger in his voice startles me. I know he’s upset she’s gone, and I start to say something, but what? My mouth moves, stops. I want to grab him by his skinny wrists and make him look at me. What have I done wrong?
The kitchen is a mess. The blender clotted with yellow-brown foam, along with a stack of dirty dishes. A blackening banana peel, an open jar of peanut butter. All week Annie blended protein shakes and cooked up tasteless grains that she brought from New York, and Brian thanked her, called her a gem, a sweetheart, a savior. Before she left, she wrote down the name of a doctor at the hospital in Madison. She put her hand on my shoulder: “Sharon, do you understand what is going to happen?” I hated her condescending attitude, the way she looked at me as if I was helpless. And, yet, look here—she left one last mess for me to clean up.
I leave it sit—let someone else clean up for a change—and get out a package of bacon. Nothing sounds appetizing to me either. But I’ll make supper because that is what I do.
As I stand at the stove, watching the bacon sizzle and pop in the hot grease, the phone cuts into my thoughts. One, two, three rings. “Can someone get that?” I shout.
Nobody does, of course. I set down the spatula, and pick up the phone. “Hello?”
The intimate sound of another’s breath—calm but loud, like a child breathing open-mouthed.
“Hello?” I say again.
His tone surprises me, how gentle: “We don’t want no faggots here.”
A click, followed by the flat droning dial tone. I stand still but feel as if I’m tilting. The receiver slips out of my hand. It stops before it hits the floor and dangles from the stretched, coiled cord. Something’s burning. Smoke swirls from the frying pan. Shit.
Bile rising in my throat, I scrape the supper nobody wanted into the trash, still hearing the man’s hateful words, his soft librarian-like voice. People know.
“What’s wrong?”
Travis walks in, tracking dust onto the floor. He’s spent the summer working outside, putting in extra hours, whatever he can do to stay away from us, and his face and arms are burned a pecan brown, but the pale skin around his eyes, protected by his sunglasses, makes him look wide-eyed, innocent.
I stand at the sink, turning my back to him, and spray the blender with hot water. Who am I kidding? If I don’t clean up the mess, no one else will.
“Why is the phone off the hook?” he asks.
“Why do you think?” I switch off the faucet and turn around quickly, ready for a fight. But he’s just standing there, stiff as a pole. He says he doesn’t have any idea, and looking at him, I think maybe he really doesn’t.
“Someone called and said things about Brian. Hateful things.”
Realization dawns over his face. We stand like statues, saying nothing. Then, maybe to break the stillness, he walks over and puts the phone back on the wall. The air conditioner kicks on and cold air shoots from the vents. A few years ago Travis had central air put in. Used money we didn’t have because he didn’t want to feel suffocated anymore. His brothers never said anything, but I saw their looks—they thought we were being extravagant.
Travis rummages in the fridge, looking for a beer. He cracks open a can, holds it out to me. Exhausted, I take a sip. The air smells acrid and smoky. Open package of bacon on the counter. Supper in the trash. Suddenly, I miss my mother. That ghost of a woman. Occasionally, when she was well, she would cook a big dinner on Sundays: fried chicken, thick slices of tomatoes, corn on the cob, mashed potatoes. The times she did give me attention—played paper dolls or read to me—were brief and thrilling, like falling in love.
“You should talk to Brian,” I say. “He needs to know…”
“Know what?” Travis covers his mouth with his hand, breathes into it. Grease-stained, callused. The other night, late, in the dark, he reached for me with those hands but I rolled away.
I try a different tactic. “We’re going to have to tell them.”
He tilts back the beer and swallows, holding onto words he won’t say. When he sets the beer on the counter, it’s half gone.
“Who?”
“Your mom. Your brothers.”
He shakes his head.
“If we don’t, they’re going to hear it from strangers. People know, Travis.”
The hardness in his eyes dims. He looks befuddled, too old and gray for his age. I see us twenty years down the road, in this kitchen, worn down and sad. Twenty years down the road—a strange, unexpected sound creaks out of my mouth—my son won’t be here.
“You okay?”
I hold back a sob. Travis starts toward me, but the ringing startles both of us. We stand apart and watch the phone like it’s something alive, something dangerous.
“Don’t pick up,” he says. “Let it go.”
Brian has been home a little over two months. We haven’t had any big talks about the future. There are moments, usually at night, when an image from the news or a magazine will haunt me—a man’s face covered in hideous sores, a fragile thing of bones in a wheelchair. Then a terrifying urgency seizes me, like I’ve entered a cellar and the door closes behind me. I’m trapped under the dirt and darkness of my own thoughts and questions. I remember Rock Hudson’s picture on the cover of supermarket tabloids, that gaunt face, terrified eyes. A few weeks later, he was dead. I try not to think about the future, or about how he got this disease, and most of the time I can keep the worst of these thoughts at bay. There’s been no one to talk to about it because nobody knows. But now?
Travis has decided we’ll tell the family that Brian has cancer—this will elicit sympathy and understanding, and kindness.
“The reason I asked you to come over to Mom’s…” Travis starts, and his eyes dart around the dining room table. His older brothers, with their wives by their sides, sit across from us, and Lettie’s at the head. When she reaches for a cigarette, the rings on her fingers glitter as if they are worth something.
Travis takes a deep breath. I reach under the table, squeeze his knee. I just want to get this over with, and I’m not the only one. Wayne leans back in the tall-backed chair, tipping the front legs off the floor, looking both bored and ready for a fight. On the front of his T-shirt a lone wolf bays at a purple moon.
“If you won’t say it, then I will.” Impatiently, Wayne brings the chair forward, all four legs on the floor. His top lip curls. “He’s got the AIDS,” he says.
The air sucks out of the room and Travis tenses and I move my hand away, feeling both sickened and relieved. The big brother Travis looked up to, seeking his approval, his camaraderie, glares at him. There will be no lie about cancer. Finally, someone has spoken, and the words burst our bubble. Wayne’s been wanting to say this for a long time. The box fan rattles. No one at the table looks shocked.
“I’ve known for a while, and I’ll tell you what—it makes me sick,” Wayne continues. “Absolutely sick.” Carol lifts her pudgy hand to pat his shoulder, like she’s tempering a wild dog, but Wayne won’t be quieted.
“You’ve been letting him come over here to Mom’s, eating, using the toilet, spreading his germs. He could make all of us sick. He’s been around my grandchildren.”
“Wayne,” Paul starts.
“You feel the same way, buddy. We’ve talked about this.”
Travis’s face falls—his brothers have been talking behind his back. Paul pushes his glasses up, sighs. Liz gently strokes his forearm, her long red nails gliding through the dark hair. Travis says nothing. My throat aches, I’ve swallowed a ball of fire. The sudden thought—Why is my husband so weak—startles me.
“Boys,” Lettie says, “listen.”
They turn to her obediently. Lettie and her sons: who can touch that kind of love? She sits there calmly smoking. All made-up, hair sprayed into place. All eyes on her, waiting.
“I already know,” she says.
“Mom,” Travis says, but she waves her hand, dismissing him. She doesn’t have time for excuses. She doesn’t want to be mollycoddled.
“Tell me. How bad is it?” she asks.
Travis opens his mouth, but no words come out. He looks at me for help. He has no idea how bad it is. He wants me to tell her everything is okay, to reassure her, to reassure him.
“We don’t know, Lettie,” I say. “We just don’t know.”
The wrinkles Lettie works so hard to hide suddenly let loose, the sad creases and lines and folds of skin, and Travis clenches his jaw, disappointed in me.
“Well, he might could get better. People will surprise you,” Lettie says. “I seen it just the other day on TV. Doctors told a woman her son was in a coma, as good as dead. Wouldn’t you know a couple days later, he woke up and first thing he said was he sure would like meatloaf for supper.” Lettie sits up straighter, pleased. “There’s miracles every day.”
Liz and Carol look away, embarrassed, then meet their husbands’ eyes. They’re a team, the four of them. Their kids are healthy. They do not understand the ache, the fear in my heart. I hold back tears; I won’t let them see me break down.
“Mom, people are going to talk—” Wayne starts.
“Let them,” Lettie snaps.
Wayne takes a deep breath and blows it out through his puckered lips. He will not fight with his mother, but he won’t stay here either wasting his time. So many years ago, Wayne welcomed me into this family. Threw his arm around me, told me I was too pretty for his little brother. Laughing, joking, kind. But he never liked Brian—I can say that now.
“You never should have let him come back,” he says to Travis, to me. “You knew,” he accuses.
He stands up, gives Travis one last long look, and then he heads to the door. It bangs behind him. Carol, flustered, struggles to get off the chair and gather her purse, but she’s too fat to move quickly. “I’ll call you later,” she says.
Paul gazes out the window, and Liz fiddles with her cigarettes. Travis won’t look at us. His head tilts down, a strange start of a smile on his face—because he’s worried he’ll weep, or because he thinks Wayne is right?
When he gets up, he mumbles something about how hot the house is and then he’s out the front door too.
Liz makes an excuse about getting to one of their grandkids tee-ball games, smiling apologetically, and Paul follows her, waving goodbye. It’s just me and Lettie.
My thighs stick to the seat. A car backfires. A dog barks. Lettie holds my gaze.
“Can I have one?” I ask.
She shakes out a menthol, doesn’t bat an eye. Cigarette between my lips, I lean toward the flickering flame. She knew. All this time.
“It’s going to get bad, Lettie.”
She exhales a stream of smoke. “People can run their mouths all they want. We’ve got bigger things to worry about, don’t we?”
Brian
July 16, 1986
Change of scenery. Here is the creek behind my parents’ house. I used to spend hours out here, watching the minnows, the birds. This is an Osage orange tree. When you peel back the bark, it bleeds orange. Gus and I used to rub it on our faces, pretending to be warrior Indians.
Gus knows, Pam knows. Josh Clay. And my grandmother and Jess and uncles and aunts and cousins, all of them know. But nobody has said anything to me, except my grandmother, and only indirectly: You’re going to be fine, she said. Everything will be okay.
When I was a kid, after a hard rain the creek would rise, and you could swim in it. I miss swimming. I was good at it. Jess, terrified, used to cling to me. Trust the water, I’d tell her. One day I let go of her and she floated out, paddling her hands and feet. You’re swimming, I yelled. It was beautiful to watch.
In the city, I hardly ever swam, except for a few times we went to Coney Island, Shawn and Annie and me. It was dirty and polluted, but I didn’t care. The first time waves knocked me over and then lifted me back up, I felt exalted to the point of tears. I always thought I’d be the one to take Jess to the ocean for the first time. I wanted to
do that—give her that experience, that pure, animalistic joy.
Annie asked if I want to talk about It, but I don’t—I can’t. What are my wishes? How do I want to be buried? Goddamn it. These are not questions a twenty-four-year-old is supposed to ponder. In New York, the memorials and funerals never stopped. Ashes blowing into the East River and the Hudson, raining down from bridges. Am I supposed to imagine my dead body in the ground at the Chester Cemetery, where my grandfather is buried, a man I never met? Maybe they’ll refuse to bury me. Why should I care what my funeral looks like?
I grew up believing in God—it wasn’t something anyone ever questioned in Chester—but as a teenager, I started to have my doubts. I honestly don’t know what I believe anymore. It’s hard to believe when we’re all dying and everyone’s telling you this is part of God’s plan. I prayed Shawn wouldn’t die. I prayed I wasn’t infected. It wasn’t really prayer—just words, desperate hope.
I used to be scared I was going to hell. I’d have terrifying nightmares where I was screaming for help and my mother was sobbing and my father was walking away.
Shawn would gently shake me awake. You’re tearing yourself up, baby, he’d say. You’ve got to let go of this shit or you’ll never be free.
He didn’t push me to come out to my parents. He’d seen too many times how families turned away from their sons and daughters. He knew how it felt. His parents kicked him out of the house when he was seventeen. They didn’t want to see him even when he was dying.
But he worried about the silence between me and my parents.
Talk to them. What’s the worst that could happen? he used to ask. You already left home.
Eventually, I sent the letter and a picture of us. The response? Silence. It didn’t matter, I told myself. My life was in New York—I had a boyfriend and best friend, and friends who accepted and loved me.
But it wasn’t like all that anxiety, sorrow, and guilt just disappeared. One time, during a fight with Shawn, I told him maybe it was better his parents had just cut him off. It was easier that way, at least he knew where he stood with them.
The Prettiest Star Page 14