Mirage

by Perry Brass

  I told him I understood. I'd seen the whole thing; I'd even seen his parents. I could pick them out in a crowd. I knew they weren't as horrible as he made them out to be. They weren't monsters—they were simply stupid and immature. They'd never grown up. They'd lived their lives on the golf course. He'd had to grow up for them, and still hadn't quite made it. Maybe that's why I was in love with him. Like his story had just stopped someplace, and now I had picked it up.

  I wanted to kiss him. Hold him. My cock stirred; my Egg was going nuts. It was all crazy—desiring this sick man, whom Wright only saw as a guinea pig to take back with us. But I saw him as someone completely different: as a man I was terribly in love with. How could I take him back, and just give him up to someone else?

  A young nurse came in. She was Oriental, perhaps Filipino. She was soft-spoken, courteous, but wearing a surgical mask and gloves. "You will have to leave, sir," she said. "You may wait out in the hallway."

  I went out in the hallway. A tall well-built Indian doctor in a white lab coat approached. "You are here for Mr. Hetzak?" he said.

  I told him I was. I was his half-brother.

  "I don't believe that's true, but it is alright. I understand you guys. You are very close with each other. I am Dr. Panjit. You may call me Paul."

  I shook his hand, and told him my name. He asked me to come into his office. It was beyond the nurses' station at the end of the hall. "Mr. Hetzak had a very bad time last night. He could have died. He has a bad infection and we're not even sure what it is. Tell me, are you HIV-positive?"

  I told him that I didn't know. As far as I knew—or remembered—Alan hadn't taken the test.

  He shook his head. "I'm not sure about the test myself. What it means—you understand? But you must be very careful being around him. If you are engaged in—" his voice broke off.

  "We've been careful," I said. "I know I'm healthy."

  "Good, Alan. Sit down." I sat down on the only other chair in the small back office, cluttered with charts, books, and instruments. He offered me some coffee that looked like it had been in the coffee pot by his desk for a week. I told him no, but he took a cup. "This hospital is a terrible place for your friend. I've treated him here before, and it's never good for him. I think there are more diseases here than he's got."

  I agreed with him, and told him I wanted to get Robert out as soon as possible.

  "Yes," Paul Panjit said. "The mental condition of a patient is very important. Especially with Mr. Hetzak's problems. Myself, I think he's living on borrowed time. But then, maybe, we all are. Tell me, Mr. Kostenbaum—Alan—have you ever looked at this disease," he paused for a second, and then said the word, "metaphysically?"

  I told him no.

  "Sometimes I think it is God calling these young men back earlier. Their work here is done. Do you understand what I mean?"

  "No," I said.

  "Perhaps then you don't believe in Metaphysics?"

  "I don't believe his work is done," I said. "But I'll do anything possible to get him out of here."

  "Good," the doctor said, and rose. I shook his hand, and walked back to Robert's room.

  "They've stuck the hell out of me," Robert said. "They've stuck me and cultured me, and taken blood and all that. They said they should find out a lot more by tomorrow."

  The noise level in the room was full bedlam. The doorkeeper kvetched about hospital food, TV, the nurses, and Robert. He bellowed across the room at us. "They put your friend with the AIDS here! Me, I'm honest. You can do what you want, but I don't want to be in no room with AIDS!"

  Another patient, a kid still in his teens with Walkman earphones so loud the sound bleed-off could be heard in the next state, beat time with a spoon on the sides of his bed. The third patient, a tattooed, dirty blond, who looked like a biker, was having a fight with his wife. "Fuck what the cops said!" he informed her. "I didn't get him first! He had a knife. I had nothing in my hands but a bottle!"

  "I've got to get you out of here," I said. I drew the drapes around the bed and held his hand. "This is like being in hell," I said.

  "The last time I had to stay here," Robert said, "I was in a semi-private room. A lot better. Semi-sane. The other guy was gay. His lover used to come in and bring us good food. Magazines. Now it's different. The hospital is more crowded. Budget cuts. I don't want this place to drive you crazy too, Alan. The best time here for you is the afternoon. Fewer visitors."

  I thanked him for the advice, and quickly kissed him once more.

  "Don't feel so bad." He smiled at me. "I'll survive. I'll get out of here no matter what."

  When I drew the bed curtains back, all the noise suddenly stopped. A muscular black male nurse, obviously—at least to me—gay, strode in, rooting himself in the center of the room. He wore a fresh, white uniform, with rolled, short sleeves pushed out by large, chocolate-smooth biceps. He had short hair, a thick neck and a face of Roman gravity. He looked out at the room. The kid banging with his Walkman cut down the sound. The biker fighting with his wife stopped and became silent. The nurse looked at me and then quickly turned his gaze away. Only the doorkeeper kept it up. "Looks like the Gestapo just come in."

  The nurse faced him down. "No problems today, okay? Keep that mouth buttoned, or I'll have you transferred to plain Alcohol Detox, where you belong."

  "Yes, Ma'am."

  "I said buttoned shut!"

  The gatekeeper looked away and muttered to himself, while I walked out. I wondered what would happen to Robert after I left—and what could I do for the nurse to keep him on our side. I waited in the hall, out of sight, for a moment, until the nurse came out. When I saw him going over to the nurse's station, I walked up to him.

  "I should thank you," I said. "The noise was driving my friend crazy."

  "Drives everyone crazy. It's a bad ward; they put patients there they don't know what else to do with. I'll try to get your friend out, but I can't promise much. Not now anyway."

  I asked him how long it might take. He told me a week. My face fell. "Listen," he said, "if that moron bothers your friend, I'll get him out. There are worse wards. Believe me. By the way, my name's Edgar."

  He extended his hand. He had beautiful hands, and I smiled directly at him, and then walked over to the elevators. He followed me, and I turned around. "If you have any problems getting into the ward," he said, "let me know."

  I nodded. I really brightened; everything—at least for that moment—started to feel better. I left the hospital, and the day poured out in front of me, turning into a beautiful morning. I couldn't face going back to the house. I was afraid someone would come for the Foundation. What could I say to him?

  I decided to take a taxi to the National Gallery. It was my favorite place in Washington, both the old section and the new East Wing. The East Wing—all angles and chopped-up levels—was where they kept the new, modern stuff. That usually made me happy. I went into the modern wing, just as it was opening. Suddenly, the East Wing seemed cold and empty. Even the huge Calder mobile turning slowly in the skylighted central hall looked dull and mechanical. I used an escalator to an underground passage to the old Renaissance-style wing.

  I walked through the galleries of the big masterpieces—the Botticellis, a Da Vinci, a Raphael, the Vermeers—and stopped at some of the Impressionists. Renoirs. Van Goghs. Gauguins. Monets. Manets. Then, in a room of French paintings that was often overlooked, a painting arrested my attention.

  It was called "The Baptism of Christ." Nicolas Poussin. (1594-1665, the wall plate said.) In the middle of the picture was John the Baptist pouring water over the head of a young Christ. What interested me, though, were the other men taking their clothes off—casually, like it was the most normal thing in the world. Nothing about removing their clothes and being naked changed anything. They were part of a landscape of their own intentions and innocence, these men with beautiful bodies and calm faces.

  I looked at it for a long time. There was couch next to it, and I sat down and
just poured over the picture, and realized that Christ reminded me of Robert, though I certainly wasn't John the Baptist. I didn't know who I could be—maybe one of the tiny figures in the background, just looking out into space, at clouds and distant trees.

  I stayed at the Gallery until after one, then took the Metro back home, took a nap, and read the Washington Post for a while. In the early evening, Wright came back with George.

  "Terrible about your friend," George said. His dark eyes looked at me and suddenly melted. I had never felt that kind of warmth from him. It was truly moving. We were in the office, where I found them after I came downstairs from our bedroom. It was cooler now; the air conditioner was off and the windows open. They had been talking for a few minutes before I got down there. I got the feeling I'd interrupted something. Wright asked me how Robert was—and then it occurred to me that I hadn't heard from Wright all day. I hadn't called him at George's apartment. Neither had he called or left a message on the Foundation's machine. I looked at him. He looked colder than George did. While doing this Sumerian research, were they exchanging personalities, too?

  "He could have died last night," I said. "But I think he's going to pull through. I want to get him out of Washington Public as soon as I can."

  "I can understand that," George said. "Poor guy. I've heard it's a real hell hole."

  I told them about Dr. Panjit, and his "Metaphysical" ideas. George laughed. "What people won't come up with. You get sick and they tell you it's your fucking fault. Your goddamn karma's up. Sometimes the worst people are those who try to make it easier for you." He lit up a Marlboro and casually blew the smoke up towards the ceiling. He handed one to Wright, who rarely smoked. Wright put it in his mouth, and George gamely struck a match for him.

  "Why don't we have a drink?" George asked nervously.

  "Sure," Wright said, exhaling a bit of smoke. "Sounds good to me. I've got an almost virgin bottle of Macallan around that's aching to be fucked."

  George smiled and shook his head. "Macallan? You are a Scotch freak, Wright! How could you live without the stuff?"

  "I'd take up something else."

  "You would?" George looked perplexed. "Like what?"

  "Sumerologists, maybe." He winked at George.

  George let out a big belly laugh; then stopped. "I don't know what it is, but there's something about being here that always makes me want to have a drink. Weird, isn't it?"

  Probably nerves, I thought. Besides being in this strange setting—Holy Resurrection was enough to give anyone the willies—George had to deal with Wright and me. That could cause anyone to drink. I admit it: I wasn't feeling great about Wright. Edgy, might be a better word.

  I wondered what was Wright trying to pull off?

  First, he'd been so concerned about Robert that I started to love him again. Then he went back to treating Robert like he was only a convenience—a body we'd take back with us—to take my place with strangers, regardless of my feelings about him. Now Wright seemed virtually opaque: I got no message from him at all. He was a mystery again, beached somewhere between those two personalities he could not control. I told George I'd go upstairs to the kitchen and get a bowl of ice. I started off, when Wright stopped me.

  "Why don't we go upstairs and have this drink? You get the ice and some fresh glasses. George and I'll bring the Scotch from down here."

  "Okay," I said, stiffly.

  "Relax!" Wright broke into funny, cold smile. "It's more comfy up there. Down here, I still feel like I'm in a funeral home. Or a social service center for the down-and-dumped-on."

  That smile, a bit too casual—too icy—bothered me. I went upstairs by myself. In the kitchen, I pried out a tray of ice cubes from our ancient refrigerator-freezer. I shook the cubes into a glass bowl, put three highball glasses on our thrift shop tray, and then walked down the hallway to our bedroom.

  The light was out in the bedroom. At first, I wondered if George and Wright were still downstairs. Then, as my eyes became more accustomed, I saw Wright lying on top of George in bed. They were both naked. Wright snapped on the reading light next to the bed. "Isn't he beautiful?" he said, looking down at George Marshall's hairy, dark body. "Have you ever seen so much hair on a guy—and such big balls? Just the way he smells drives me crazy."

  I thought I was going to drop the tray. "Why didn't you tell me this was going on?" I asked.

  "Did you think we were working on Sumerian tablets all the time?" He grabbed George's large, cut cock and plopped it into his mouth, like it was the head of a plum. I watched, while he did a few mouth strokes, then pulled it out. "Je-sus! Couldn't you just die? Have you ever seen such a handsome brute?"

  George sat up. With his dumpy clothes off, he looked much better. He had a huge, hairy chest, and ditch digger’s upper arms shaggy with black, shiny hair. He turned his head towards Wright. "This was a tacky thing to do. Why don't we just have that drink?"

  "My friend here doesn't like the idea of me enjoying myself," Wright blurted out. "It's okay for him to do it with every sick twinkie he meets on the street, but I—"

  "Just shut up, Wright!" I said.

  I didn't want to hear anymore. I dropped the tray that had been glued to my hands the whole time, and stormed out. I ran down the stairs. I was furious. What the hell was going on? I remembered Jack Cohen. Jewish Daddy-type. George—although certainly, as far as I knew, not Jewish—seemed to fit that mold. But something told me—intuition, maybe?—that this hadn't been going on long. Wright was stressed out, and seeking relief in sex.

  Was he looking for me to join them in bed? I think George bashfully was, but I didn't know about Wright. I think Wright only wanted to come clean with me—the only way he could. He could never talk about what he did, but he could certainly show it to me.

  I had to get out of the house. Suddenly, I felt extremely hungry. I saw George's car parked out front, which meant they came back from his place in separate cars.

  I decided to take the Honda out, although I hate to drive. I drove over to a gay steakhouse near Georgetown. I ate well, and suddenly felt good. The waiter was really cute and he kept cracking jokes and flirting in a nice innocent way. "You're married," he said to me. I told him I'd been married twice, "To the same man." He winked. "Some boys have all the luck. I never even get asked out twice."

  I could tell that was a lie. He was too good looking—maybe not a third time, but he definitely got asked out twice. I left him a large tip, and walked back to the car, then drove back towards where we lived.

  It was still early, and I didn't want to go home. I circled Pennsylvania Avenue, then parked close to Remington's, a Country and Western dance bar. The music was down-homey and corny. I had a couple of beers, and forgot about everything. When I got back to the car, parked almost in front of the bar, I saw a big scar scratched into the finish, by the driver's door. It looked like it had been done by a knife. Or a screwdriver. In white chalk, over the slash was written "F A G C A R."

  I unlocked the car, and opened the door as wide as I could before getting in. I looked in the backseat. No one was hiding in it. I turned on the ignition and thought about the little shits who'd tried to kill Robert. Were they following me? Was there this whole network—or noose—of gay-bashers who talked to each other? Sent out signals? I tried to calm myself, but it didn't work. I felt furious and helpless all at the same time. I kept seeing people jump out in front of the windshield on the short drive back. They weren't jumping, but some were drunk and loud. No one was parked in front of Holy Resurrection. George had left. I dragged myself up the stairs, and went into the bedroom. The light was off, but I could tell Wright was in bed. He was still drinking, with a cigarette in his hand.

  "When did you start smoking?" I asked.

  "It's nice habit to pick up for a short time. Why did you run off?"

  "What was I supposed to do, watch while you sucked him off?"

  His head hung down. "I thought you might enjoy having it with the two of us."

&
nbsp; I told him I thought he was full of crap. I still couldn't figure out why he did this performance in front of me. I asked him to tell me honestly what he felt about George Marshall.

  "I'm not in love with him, but I'll miss him something terrible. We had sex today for the first time. We hadn't been doing it every day. That's the truth."

  I told him I'd thought so. But why bring him back here? They could have continued having sex at his apartment. Wright hesitated. I could see, even in the dark bedroom, the tension in his face. Finally, he told me.

  "Because you're in love with Robert. I know it. It's been eating me alive, Alan. Do you have any idea how I feel? I had to show you I had some one else I was nuts about. What are you going to do? You'll never be able to give him up when we take him back."

  "I'll have to," I said. "If he stays here, he'll die."

  Suddenly, Wright smiled. I asked him what he was smiling about. "Holy Resurrection. . . . Great name, isn't it?"

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The next morning, Wright disappeared at nine o' clock. At breakfast, he told me he had things to do; I didn't want to ask any further questions. I knew he was going back to George, and frankly, this didn't bother me. Whatever relationship he had with George at least got Wright out of my hair for a while.

  I needed that. I needed the breathing space, because what was happening with Robert was taking my breath away. I was anxious. Suppose he died? I realized I could never go back if Robert died. Like Zachariah, I would stay here forever. Despite all the hardships of life on Earth—the hatred for people like me; the loneliness they lived in; the fear of them which I learned had been dubbed homophobia—I wouldn't be able to leave. And then what? Stay by myself? Desperately try to save what seed I had to preserve my life?

  As soon as Wright left, I started off for Washington Public Hospital. Despite what Robert told me—about coming in the afternoon, I couldn't keep away any longer. When I arrived on the fifth floor, Edgar spotted me in the hallway. "Your friend's not doing well," he said. "Let's talk for a second."