The light was so harsh and Michael’s eyes so tired all he could see clearly on his walk downtown were individual shadows isolated in the brightness.
The angle of light looked like noon when Michael climbed the front steps of a rust-colored sandstone building on Charles Street and pressed the button labeled “Arcalli.” He could hear the buzzer blare inside the building, but there was no answer. He pressed again, then stepped outside to lean over the balustrade and see what he could see through Jack’s window. The apartment was on the first floor and the front windows a few feet to the left of the stoop. The windows behind bars were opened a few inches, and a radio softly played in the darkness inside. Michael knew Jack turned his radio on only when he was out, to discourage burglars.
Something suddenly hit the window from inside, rattling the blinds.
It was Elisabeth Vogler, bounding up to the windowsill to see who was there. She gazed wide-eyed at Michael through the hazy screen and opened her mouth at him without a meow coming out.
“Hello, cat. Happy to see me?” Michael said sweetly. He wanted to hold her, run his fingers through her fur, even bury his face in her warm silkiness. He leaned out and lightly scratched at the screen with an outstretched hand. “You love me.”
She lifted her nose to the hand, glanced sadly at Michael, then folded her forelegs beneath her chest and settled on them, pretending Michael wasn’t there.
He sighed and drew back. He stepped down and sat on the stoop. Jack had probably gone out for food or to Xerox something. Michael could wait for him.
When he leaned against a vase-shaped pillar that was part of the balustrade; things in his coat pocket pinched his side. He reached into the pocket and brought out the notepad, pen, and bag with the packet inside. Could he do it? Would he? He seemed to have made and remade his mind a dozen times, and it angered him to find he still had room for doubt. He was angry with Jack for not being home and forcing him to prolong this anxious doubting.
He put the pad and pen in the bag with the packet and left the bag at his feet. Settling back with the pillar between his shoulder blades, he discovered he was exhausted. He had never gone to sleep last night, had he? He wondered how much that fact had to do with how he felt, yet the burning in his eyes and stretched state of his nerves—like violin strings tuned so tight their pitch was too high for human hearing—felt nothing like sleepiness.
This street seemed sleepy, however. It was so quiet the rustle of air when an occasional car drove past was indistinguishable from the steady breathing of the trees full of leaves like big paper stars. The tree trunks lining the curb looked badly scarred, sycamore trees with patches of gray and yellow bark. The long building across the street looked scarred too, patched red stucco full of cracks and seams, a wall like a mass of sunburned faces.
If he slept, would he wake up without his pain and self-hatred? He imagined sleeping, then awaking to find everything fine again, his craziness gone, his real self lovable and loved again, his memories only a bad dream. Perhaps Clarence would even be alive when he woke up.
Knowing Clarence was dead instantly killed the fantasy about sleep. He could not undo that fact. He turned to a new fantasy, wanting to hold himself to his decision: he imagined meeting up again with Clarence in death. It was a sweet, beautiful fib, perfect for funerals and widowed grandmothers, and Michael could not believe it for a second. He did not believe in life after death, not for himself, not even for Clarence. Which was what made death so attractive, as appealing as the idea of sleep was to him right now. He felt he was already dead. This blind groping inside his head was the initial stage of death, the front stoop, the foyer, the front door. It was a minor annoyance to know a physical act was still necessary to make this state of mind final.
The front door squeaked open. Michael turned and saw Jack Arcalli standing in the foyer, looking down at Michael and gesturing for him to come in.
Confused, Michael stood up. Jack had been home all along. Or no, Michael had fallen asleep and Jack had returned, walking right past Michael and not seeing him because Michael was sound asleep, or not recognizing him because he had never seen Michael sleeping.
“I looked out the window and thought it was you,” said Jack, leading Michael down the hall and into his apartment. He seemed genuinely glad to see Michael.
With all the lights on, the apartment looked bigger than usual. Jack had bought the Sousza’s kitchen and brought it here from Phillipsburg. It was late and Michael was wearing pajamas, the buttons on the fly disappearing and reappearing each time Michael checked them. He stood by the peninsular counter while Jack fixed a sandwich, carefully arranged it on a plate, and left it on the kitchen table with an opened can of beer. Noticing Michael’s baffled look, Jack said, “He still comes by late at night. I like to leave a little snack for him.”
Michael wanted to hide in the cupboard under the sink and wait for Clarence, just to catch a peek of him and see how he was. But before he could explain what he needed, Jack took him by the hand and led him to the bedroom.
They became naked when they embraced and kissed on the bed. Michael felt funny doing this with Jack, but his body enjoyed it so much he couldn’t stop. Jack’s beard was as soft and chewy as cat’s fur, and his skin felt like warm sunlight. People walked past on their way to the bathroom, Ben and Laurie among them, politely averting their eyes. Michael’s only real worry was that by doing this he might miss Clarence.
Then the warmth left their bodies, like the sun slipping behind a cloud, and Michael found an extra arm, an extra shoulder, and a familiarly knuckled hand here with him and Jack. Clarence was somewhere in the bed! Michael kissed and held Jack harder, wanting to conjure up more of Clarence, enough so he could see and talk to him, and apologize for still being alive.
Clarence’s hand gripped Michael’s. Overjoyed, Michael opened his eyes to see Clarence.
And he saw Jack standing in front of him.
Everything was framed in bleared reddish gold light—sun shining through the balustrade on Michael’s eyelashes. The tilted shadows of trees were stretched like a net across the building behind Jack Arcalli. Jack stood on the sidewalk, staring in astonishment at Michael. As if he had watched every minute of Michael’s dream.
Michael was stung awake, hurt it was only a dream: the forgiveness and the sex and the affection for Jack. Here was the real Jack, stolid and baggy, his shoulders and the circles under his eyes heavy with judgment. Jack’s stare seemed sharp and indignant, as if he couldn’t believe Michael had the gall to be here.
There was no possibility of sympathy, no chance of understanding. There was no way to get through to him except to do what Michael had intended all along.
11
“MICHAEL?” SAID JACK. HE was thrown by the way the boy looked at him, eyes wide and mouth open for air, like a frightened child, a heartbreakingly ugly look that turned him into an entirely different person.
Then he pulled his hands from the space between his legs and rubbed his face, as if he’d had his real face balled up in his hands and was putting it back on. “Dozed off,” he muttered behind his hands. “Bad dream.” He lowered his hands and looked like himself again, aloof and self-important despite his bloodshot eyes. “Where have you been?” he said sharply.
“Just out,” Jack said guardedly. Michael’s insolent tone made him feel like a fool for fretting all afternoon. He already felt like a fool after Ben’s accusations and was sure he looked like a perfect fool to Michael, standing here and gawking the way he did. He refused to confess his foolishness to the boy. “One might ask the same of you. Laurie and Carla were wondering where you disappeared to last night.”
“Out,” said Michael. “Dancing and stuff.”
“Dancing?” What an idiot he’d been to imagine this arrogant twit was capable of dangerous emotions. “You could’ve at least given them a call and told them where you were.”
Michael responded with a bored sigh and stared past Jack.
Jack wanted to
slap him. He propped his hitting hand against the front post of the stone railing and stood there, making a special point of not inviting Michael inside. “So what brings you to this neighborhood?”
Michael continued to look past him. “I wanted”—he cleared his throat—“to take a bath.”
Jack snorted and smirked. “You’ve got a perfectly respectable bathtub at home, Michael. Why’re you really here?” As soon as he asked, Jack realized he didn’t want to know, but a bath was too absurd a request to be a disguise for something else.
“Didn’t they tell you?” Michael said contemptuously. “I don’t have a home. They threw me out.”
“They didn’t throw you out.” Was that why he was here, to ask for sympathy? “I’ve talked to them. They asked you to start looking for your own place. That’s all. You shouldn’t be so melodramatic about it.”
Michael glared at him. “I’m not being melodramatic. I’m angry at them and I’m not going back there. Not tonight anyway. I came here to bathe and shave, and then I’m going out dancing again. I’m not going back to those… women until I’m good and ready.”
There was so much false drama to wade through with Michael. He may have stayed out last night to get back at Laurie and Carla, or maybe he simply never thought to call them. Jack suddenly wondered if “dancing and stuff” included spending the night with someone. It must, if Michael intended to do it again, although he didn’t look like he’d had much sleep the night before. The idea of Michael going to bed with another man infuriated Jack. Because of the worry he had wasted on the little shit, he told himself.
“Well?” said Michael. “Can I use your bathtub or are you rejecting me too?”
Jack’s anger had reached the point where his automatic reaction was to go against it, bury it and be polite. “Don’t be silly, Michael. Come on in,” he said wearily. “Scrub-a-dub-dub.”
Michael slowly gathered his limbs together and stood up as Jack climbed the steps past him. Michael continued to stand on the steps and look out at the street when Jack opened the front door and waited for him.
The sun had dropped below the horizon while they talked. The gold light and shadows were gone, and the buildings seemed to crowd closer together. The electric light in the foyer and hall was brighter than the street. Michael stood with his back to Jack, then finally bent down to pick up the paper bag at his feet and came up the steps to the door.
“Been shopping?” Jack asked, trying to be civil.
“Toiletries,” said Michael.
When Jack opened the door to his apartment and turned on the kitchen light, Elisabeth Vogler thumped to the floor in another room and promptly slithered around Jack’s ankles.
“Cat!” cried Michael and he bent down and scooped her up in his arms, leaving his bag on the floor. “Fat cat. Pretty kitty. Hello there,” he baby-talked, brushing his cheeks against her whiskers. He closed his eyes and smiled. His change was so abrupt it seemed schizophrenic, the way people often change around animals. Then, just as abruptly, he looked up and demanded, “What’s that?”
Jack glanced around, until he realized Michael meant the radio, which was left on and tuned to a classical station. A plaintive, familiar melody for flute was playing. “Oh, uh. Cocteau used it. Eighteenth century. Seminal opera.” Jack had to recite facts to himself before he could remember the name. “Orpheus and Eurydice.”
“Yes,” Michael said solemnly. “Clarence liked it.”
“Clarence liked almost everything.” Jack hadn’t meant to sound sarcastic. He usually turned the radio off the minute he came home, but he left it on for Michael while he took off his jacket and hung it on the coat rack. “Let me use the toilet quickly and the bathroom’ll be all yours.”
He hurried back to the bathroom, wanting to get this peculiar visit over with as quickly as possible. Standing over the toilet, he glanced around to see if he’d left out anything that was too revealing about himself. There was something disturbingly intimate about a visitor using your bathtub.
When he finished and opened the bathroom door, he saw Michael still standing in the middle of the kitchen, Jack’s cat still bonelessly draped in the crook of his arm, his fingers lightly stroking her fur. He had the trancelike look of somebody listening to music, only the music was over and a sophisticatedly emotionless announcer was now talking.
What a ham, thought Jack, but he had to say, “Michael? Are you okay?”
Michael didn’t respond, but Elisabeth Vogler did, suddenly squirming around and jumping out of Michael’s arms. Michael rubbed his arms and said, “I’m just tired and dirty. I need a bath.”
“Well, all yours.” Jack gestured toward the bathroom, where he’d left the light on. “The shower works fine if you’d rather take a shower. A shower’s quicker.”
“No. A bath,” Michael muttered, but he stood where he was, gazing through the dark bedroom at the white rectangle of light as if it were a mile away. “When Clarence was sick—,” he began, and stopped.
Had the music set Michael off on Clarence again? If they were going to have another argument about who felt what, Jack was prepared to keep his temper. “Yes?”
“When Clarence was sick, did he resent anyone for how they behaved? Hate or blame or resent anyone for how they acted?”
The little bastard, thought Jack. He spoke stiffly, impersonally. He hadn’t said “you,” but it was clear he meant Jack, hitting him where he was most vulnerable now. “He never said anything. Not to me anyway. I hope not. But I don’t really know.” Jack realized he didn’t want to know. This was worse than what Ben had said to him. To be judged by someone who had died was worse than being judged by the living; there was no way of knowing what the dead really thought of you, no way of arguing with them or yourself. Had Clarence felt Jack avoided or neglected him? “Did he ever say anything to you?”
Michael narrowed his eyes at Jack, a critical, skeptical look. “No,” he said.
“We did what we could,” Jack insisted. “All of us. Although I know some of us could’ve done more.”
Michael winced and turned away, as if he were ashamed of what he’d used against Jack. “I’ll try not to make a mess,” he said and headed toward the bathroom, taking his bag with him. When he closed the bathroom door, he had to close it again and again, until the bolt finally clicked.
The noisy closing of the door hurt Jack: it sounded like an accusation he was someone who might steal a peek at a boy taking a bath. Jack turned off the radio and sat down at the kitchen table. There was a rumble of water filling a bathtub. No, he hadn’t done all he could when Clarence was ill. But does anyone truly believe they did all they could for someone who was dead? Even Michael, beneath his self-important grief and overwrought drama, probably felt he hadn’t done enough. Ben was right; Michael had done plenty. Who was Jack to feel critical of the boy for behaving the way he had during Clare’s illness when Jack had done so little? But even Michael must feel he hadn’t done enough.
With a closed door between them, Jack worried about Michael again. It was neurotic. Irritated beyond words by Michael in the flesh, he again felt sympathy and even fear for him in the abstract. Something bothered Michael today, maybe just guilt for having gone out and had a good time last night. Jack wanted to talk to him, patiently, firmly. But he recognized the violence in his desire to get through to the boy; cracking open the false drama to get at any real drama inside was analogous to cracking open Michael’s skull. Were his good intentions genuinely good? Jack feared he could be moral only when he was alone.
It was the saddest hour of the day, still light outside the living room windows but dark in the living room, pitch-dark in the bedroom, the electric light of the kitchen feeble and lonesome. This was the hour when Jack felt most melancholy and immobile. He sat in his chair and sighed. Leaning forward, he could see the thin crack of light along the bottom of the bathroom door. He wanted to say something friendly to Michael, but he didn’t know what. He hoped to rise out of his stupor and find a kind
word by the time Michael finished his bath.
After he got the door to shut, Michael turned the little paint-caked knob that locked it. He turned around and saw himself in the mirror above the sink, a gray pinched face in a bright room of white tile. The ceramic fixtures were black. The toilet seat was black. There was a pattern of black little squares in the ceramic tiles on the floor. Everything else was white, but a white that looked less clean the longer Michael looked at it. A gray film of dirt coated each horizontal surface: Jack was a pig. Michael felt dirty. There was a black rubber stopper for the tub. Michael plugged it in and turned the hot water on.
The bathtub was low and modern, an elongated roundness inside a rectangle. Michael had imagined a bigger tub, a deep boat with clawed feet. This would do, he insisted, and hung his coat on a hook on the door. He watched himself in the mirror while he unbuttoned his shirt, his blank face blurring into a mask as the glass fogged over, his wild hair hovering like smoke. With his shirt still on, he turned and stood over the toilet. He always needed to pee before he saw a movie, took a test, or had sex, anything that excited him. Water drilled water for a long time, the bubbles multiplying and crowding out. He remembered standing on his father’s shoes so he could get high enough to pee into the bowl, his father holding him by the shoulders so he wouldn’t fall in. He had been three years old.
A louder drilling of water thundered behind him. Would this be like drowning? Would his whole life flash in front of him?
Without flushing, he lowered the lid and sat down to untie his shoes. There was a gouge across the top of one shoe. When did that happen? His fingers felt too big for the knots and he finally pried the shoes off and tossed them in the corner. There was a magazine rack between the corner and the toilet, a wooden box stuffed with The Nation, New York Review of Books, and Stallion. Jack, he remembered. Jack the jerk. Jack the judge. “Some of us could’ve done more,” he had said. He judged Michael as someone so worthless he couldn’t even say “you” when he accused him. Jack was outside the door, already worming in a book or feeding his face straight from the refrigerator, already forgetting Michael was here, never imagining what Michael was about to do to him. Michael would show him. Michael would show all of them. He remembered to pull the note from his shirt pocket before he tossed the shirt into the corner.
In Memory of Angel Clare Page 20