by A F Carter
a nap on the Long Island Expressway. Life was crazy then.
Identities came and went so fast it was like flipping through a deck of cards. Victoria and I weren’t around at that time, only Kirk, the oldest of us. He wanted out of Creedmoor—
desperately, desperately, desperately, as Serena would say—
and so he and the others agreed to watch.
Cho played the movies, maybe a dozen in all, for many
hours over the next ten days. And I have to suppose our
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cooperation made a difference because Cho released us a few
months later. Kirk and the rest were euphoric—free at last—
and they might have remained euphoric if Tina hadn’t made
her first attempt at suicide a week later. It took a day and a half to clean up the blood.
“The movies were unbearable, Doctor. But that’s only
what was told to me by Kirk. The rest of us, except for Tina, had yet to be born.”
Halberstam spun a pen on his desk for a moment, the
flick of his fingers so precise the pen described a perfect circle. I watched his tongue swish over his lips, but when he
looked at me again, I saw only indifference in his gaze.
“Let’s talk for a moment about the incident that pre-
ceded your confinement at Kings County Hospital. One of
your identities, I believe her name is Eleni, made an obscene proposal to a stranger. Do you think she meant to follow
through? If the man agreed?”
Victoria’s as outraged as I am. I know Eleni considers me a
prude, but that’s not remotely true. If she’d only be discreet.
If she’d stop coming home with STDs, stop using whatever
drug her partners chose to share, she could indulge her per-
verted desires from night until morning. There’s no moral
issue here, not as far as I’m concerned.
I have a response to Halberstam’s question prepared, just
not the one Victoria and I agreed on. “You have a computer on your desk, Doctor. Do a Google search for ‘swinger clubs in
NYC.’ You’ll find page after page, club after club, many open to couples only. And if you search a little more, you’ll find agencies dedicated to making your deviant sexual fantasies
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A. F. CARTER
come true. Just tell ’em what you want and they’ll arrange
it. Craigslist, as well. Anything you want. Now, tell me, how many of the men and women who took advantage of the ads
were threatened with involuntary commitment as a result?”
Halberstam only smiles. “The incident that brought Eleni
to the attention of the police didn’t take place inside a club and it wasn’t arranged by an agency. It happened on a public street, stranger to stranger. The inherent risk is obvious.”
“Really?” I’m going too fast now, but I can’t stop think-
ing about all those construction workers who make suck-
ing noises when an attractive woman passes by. “How many
young men and women do you think visited the bars and
clubs in Manhattan last Saturday? How many sought casual
sex? How many went home with a stranger? They call them
hookups, Doctor, and they happen thousands of times every
weekend. But nobody goes to jail because they want to get
laid. Except us.”
“Kings County Hospital is not a jail. It’s an ordinary hos-
pital with a short-term psychiatric facility. In addition, you haven’t been charged with a crime and you won’t be. In fact, I’ll probably recommend that your therapy continue long
enough for me to fully understand your situation and formu-
late a course of treatment. I hope things go well, of course.”
Halberstam smiles at that moment, perhaps expecting me
to express my eternal gratitude despite the implied threat.
That won’t happen because life under Halberstam’s thumb
will include the fear, more or less constant, that we can still be committed. That it’s up to him.
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“That works for us,” I say.
“Excellent. Now, you were late today, and I understand
why. But I can’t have you perpetually late or skipping ses-
sions altogether. And I must become acquainted with each
of your identities, including Eleni and”—he glances at his
notes—“and Tina, the young one. You’ve said that individual
identities can’t be ordered to appear and I believe you. But I’m hoping you can work on it.”
“We’ll do what we can, Victoria and I.”
“Excellent.” Halberstam looks down at his watch. “Well,
we got a late start and our session is at an end. But there is one other thing and I’m going to put the matter bluntly. I
only found out this morning, but your father will be paroled in less than a week.”
I can’t process the information at first, and I stammer,
“What, what, what?”
“You were ten years old when Henry Grand was sen-
tenced to thirty years in prison for what he did to you and
many others. He’s now served twenty-seven. I don’t have
any details, not yet, but he obviously convinced a parole
board that he no longer poses a significant threat to the community. In any event, there’s nothing you or I can do except deal with it in the course of your therapy.” He gestures at
the door. “I’ll reach out to the parole board for more details tomorrow morning. More than likely, some kind of restrain-ing order will be issued. Now, if you’ll be so kind.”
As the door closes behind me, I hear Eleni’s voice in my
ear. “Thanks,” she says, “for standin’ up for me.”
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CHAPTER FIVE
KIRK
I roll out of bed at three o’clock, in sole possession of the body, everyone else asleep. Yea, team. I yank on my usual
costume, gray sweats, top and bottom, and a navy watch cap
to cover my too-long hair. Then I’m out the door.
I don’t get much time with the body and tonight I need to
make the most of it. That’s because I’m convinced that Hal-
berstam is more than an asshole therapist. The scumbag’s
running a game and I can’t see us sitting on our collective
butts until we know what it is. That sick-ass look in his eye when he told Martha about our father’s parole? Behind the
glasses, underneath the gleam, I saw a little boy, a happy,
happy little boy.
A long-term psychiatric hospital is little more than a
prison. The biggest difference? There’s no definite sentence, no time to be served after which you must be released. You
can be held for a month or for the rest of your miserable,
shitty life. Any stumble is your own fault because you are, by definition, your own worst enemy. Else why the fuck would
you be here?
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Bottom line, you’re doin’ it to yourself and you need to
stop. Or maybe submit to a twice-daily dose of Clozapine and spend the hours with drool runnin’ down your chin, your
heart rate so fast you think your chest’s about to explode.
Eleni’s on my side, Serena, too. But not the prunes, Victo-
/> ria and Martha. If they knew what I was doing, they’d try to stop me. Just like they’re doin’ everything they can to get rid of me. Maybe they’re afraid I’ll grow a cock and leave them, for a change, the odd girls out. Just like I’ve been the odd boy out for years and years and years. My rare lovers confined to lesbians who think I’m a woman.
I leave the apartment, cross the hallway and knock on Mar-
shal’s door. It takes a few minutes but he finally answers,
bleary eyed. He’s wearing royal-blue boxers and a Sex Pis-
tols T-shirt with god save the queen written across Queen
Elizabeth’s face. No socks, no shoes.
“Hey, Kirk, wha’sup?”
“Need a few minutes, man.”
“Cool.” He steps back to let me pass, then follows me
inside. Marshal knows all about us, from me and from Eleni,
who’s hauled his ashes a few times. He doesn’t care. Simple
as that. Marshal may be a loser, but he’s also the most accepting human being on the planet.
“Sorry to get in your business this late,” I tell him as I
find a seat between the lumps on his couch. “But I don’t get around much anymore.”
“Yeah, Duke Ellington.”
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“Huh.”
“‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.’ Duke Ellington
wrote the tune. Back in the day.”
I’m supposed to recognize Duke Ellington’s name. Mar-
shal’s tone makes that much clear. Everyone’s supposed to
recognize Duke Ellington’s name. But I don’t.
“You want a beer? You wanna hit the bong?” Marshal
asks. “Both maybe?”
Actually, what I really want to do is run over to a club I
know on West Twenty-Eighth Street, a lezzie hangout where
I pass for a dyke.
“Let’s have a hit on the bong.”
“A hit or ten.” Marshal’s less than thirty years old, still
young, but his scraggly beard is already turning gray. “Why
limit your future before it happens?”
I lean back in the couch as Marshal prepares the bong. I
don’t have to guess about the quality of his weed because it’s always the same, good but not great. Marshal’s been selling
ganja for more than a decade and he’s got enough loyal cus-
tomers to keep a roof over his head, food in the refrigerator, clothes on his back. So what if there’s nothing left at the end of the month? Marshal once told me that he doesn’t let himself want anything he doesn’t already have.
Marshal loads the bong and passes it to me, along with a
little torch. Five minutes later, I’m blissed out.
“Hey, Marshal, you once told me about your business.” I
gesture to the bong. “Where you buy, remember? Somethin’
about the dark web?”
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“Yeah, so what—”
“Well, I’m not prying, bro. I got a reason for asking, so if you’d refresh my memory . . .”
Marshal pauses long enough to hit the bong. He holds the
smoke in his lungs for a minute, then blows it toward the
ceiling.
“Hey, man, this bit about the dark web, which is actually
the deep web? That shit is way over the top. Like, it’s just a lot of websites that haven’t been indexed, so they can’t be found by a search engine. Mostly, the sites belong to private clubs or managers in a large company. Just for example, VPs at
Exxon don’t use the public website, the one you can find with a Google search, to communicate. They have a web address
that’s not indexed. So, what I’m saying is that most of the deep web is legit. Only a small percentage of sites operate illegally.”
I smile. “And that’s where you come in?”
“What could I say, Kirk? I send an email that can’t be
traced back to me because it’s encrypted at least three times by a virtual private network. I send it to a computer that
might be anywhere on the planet and two days later I get
a delivery, usually from a man or woman I’ve never seen
before. No guns, no threats, no fucking paranoia. It’s the
new way.”
Marshal’s nodding happily because he’s found the sweet
spot. If his suppliers get busted and turn snitch, they have to rat up the ladder, not down to him. As for his own customers, he sells them half ounces in a city where a half ounce
isn’t even a misdemeanor. No, the only thing Marshal really
fears is legalization. Which is on the way.
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“So, Kirk, what’s up? I know you’re here for somethin’
specific, so spit it out. If I can help . . .”
I describe what I need as best I can. On my own, when it
comes to computers, I can barely get online. Victoria’s pretty good, but my siblings and I don’t necessarily share memories. For example, Martha is a great cook, but Eleni has trouble boiling water. We don’t know why this is true, but there it is, another stacked card in a stacked deck.
“Acquirin’ what you want, my man, is not gonna be
your biggest problem,” Marshal finally says. “The problem’s
gonna be installing the malware into another computer.”
“I’ll worry about that later. You say you can get me what
I want?”
“Yeah, definitely, on a thumb drive.” He spreads his
hands. “There’s tons of malware for sale if you know where
to look.”
“Great, Marshal. So, give me a ballpark figure. How much
will it cost?”
I’m bracing myself for bad news—I have very little access
to money—when Marshal, his expression quizzical, reaches
out to squeeze my breast.
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CHAPTER SIX
TINA
When you’re a little kid, grownups can do anything
they want to you. Anything. My daddy told me
that’s the law. Grownups can do anything they want to you,
no matter how much it hurts.
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CHAPTER SEVEN
KIRK
I watch myself react, watch my right-hand curl into a fist,
watch the fist slam into Marshal’s left eye, watch Marshal
jerk backward as I reach into the pocket of my sweats to grasp the handle of a paring knife. The knife has an ultrasharp
ceramic blade shielded by a plastic sheath. Because I’ve
practiced the move, I know that if I press the sheath against my thigh, the blade will slide free.
It doesn’t come to that. Marshal covers his eye with his
hand, then sinks into his chair. “Fuck, dude, you couldn’t
maybe say, ‘Keep your hands to yourself?’”
That’s exactly what the others would demand, all of
them. But Victoria and the bunch? They’re women. I’m not.
“Keep your hands to yourself,” I finally say. “Please.”
Marshal looks at me for a moment, then shakes his head.
Lesson learned, he’s not gonna fight. I offer my fist and say,
“No hard feelin’s, man. It’s just . . . well, you caught me by surprise and I reacted.”
He taps my fist with his, relieved, I think, to find the dramatics over and done with. “So, what’s this guy. . . .”
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“Halberstam.”
“Yeah, what’s Halberstam up to that you wanna take this
risk?”
I have to think about it for a moment, to organize my
thoughts. “Look, if you reviewed a transcript of one of Hal-
berstam’s sessions, you wouldn’t find anything to complain
about. It’d all seem normal. But the jerk reminds us at every session, and usually more than once, that he holds. . . .” I’m about to say our, but catch myself at the last minute. “That he holds Carolyn Grand’s future in his hands. If he snaps his fingers, she’ll find herself confined to a crazy house for an indefinite period of time. So, maybe I’m completely wrong.
Maybe Halberstam’s on the up and up. Maybe he sincerely
wants to help me. But I’ve dealt with malignant therapists
before and I’m not willing to take the chance.”
“I hear that, Kirk, and I can’t criticize you.” Marshal nods agreement. “But I can’t give you a price off the top of my
head. Like what you want’s not somethin’ I do, so I gotta
look around. Give me a day.”
Back in our dark apartment, I strip off my sweats and slide
into bed, still nobody else awake. The bed feels empty
tonight, empty and enormous, with me a tiny speck barely
afloat in an empty ocean.
I’m still keyed up and I draw my legs toward my chest.
For all the macho bullshit with Marshal, at heart I’m scared shitless. I’m scared and I’m tired of living under threat and I’m thinking maybe we weren’t meant to survive. I mean,
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not every baby lives to be an adult. Thousands and thousands of little kids die every year. And not just from disease or
accident. Maybe we were meant to be one of them.
All in a rush, Hank Grand—I won’t call him our father—
leaps into my consciousness. He’s been lingering, a shadow
just out of sight, and now he’s come to say hello. Unlike the rest, I watched the movies, as much as I could stand. Hank
appeared in many, his blurred face no more than a dancing
gray balloon. I was also shown a mug shot taken when Hank
was first arrested. His regular features were composed, his
mud-brown eyes slick and shiny, his posture relaxed. Like he didn’t give a shit.
I picture those zombie eyes, compare them to Halber-