In the City of Shy Hunters

by Tom Spanbauer

  Breathing from everywhere you could hear, in and out, in and out, words above my head on the ceiling intercom, somebody coughing. Wax buildup on the floor in the corners and along the walls. Pine Sol, urine, stool samples, blood, recycled air. The flowers I bought for Harry, miniature red and yellow roses. I put them up to my nose.

  My eyes on my combat-boot feet. Step. Step. Step. Step.

  Policing my body. New-shoe stiff.

  My breath in. My breath out.

  On my right, on my left, doorway after doorway, under their one dirty window in their room, skinny gray men in beds with tubes and flowers, canned TV laughter, General Hospital, Days of Our Lives. The Manhattan sky was the gray shine on them, on their boxes of facial tissues, their bent plastic straws in plastic glasses, their fancy get-well cards from Mom, Manhattan sky the gray shine on the shiny green floor.

  Harry was another doorway, his body just lumps in the bed, his mouth open, a blue tube in his mouth, blue tubes in his nose. The tubes made a sucking sound like at the dentist. His eyes were closed tight the way a child pretends to sleep. Coming up from deep, on his face, cauchemar.

  Fiona was sitting in a tan Naugahyde chair covered with a purple velvet shawl with fringe. Fiona all in black. Her black hair in a French twist under a little hat with a veil.

  Leonard Cohen in drag.

  The room was full of lilacs. Lilacs on the windowsill, on the nightstand; lilacs in a big vase on the floor. Lilacs on the swingaway tray of the bed. A strip of purple velvet, a valence above the window. A purple lava lamp next to an amethyst crystal the size of her big red leather purse. Brian Eno on the boom box.

  Fucking Nurse Rat Shit! Fiona said. The fat bitch who runs this floor is one motherfucker! Told me I was not allowed to redecorate the hospital. Redecorate? I said. Redecorate! Since when is a lava lamp redecoration? Besides, I said, Everybody knows daytime television gives you cancer. And lavender is healing, Fiona said. Lavender is the color of your fifth chakra, and if you could sit in a purple room with amethysts and lilacs and other purple flowers and listen to Brian Eno, you’d be fine, just fine. But Miss Nurse, Miss Grand Chooser 1987, Miss Nancy Fucking Reagan bitch cunt won’t have it. She wouldn’t know Ruth Draper from a Baby Ruth. So I called my lawyer, right here on this phone right in front of the Nancy bitch, and Father told me I have every right—Harry—has every right in the world to have a purple lava lamp in his room if he wants it.

  It’s a free fucking country! I yelled at the nurse, Fiona yelled at me. And the bitch yells back, Not on my floor!

  Big fucking deal, Fiona said. So what, who cares? Who cares what a bunch of assholes think?

  Fiona stood up. Her long black skirt, her black leotard ankles in her black shiny Doc Martens, Fiona walked around the bed, long strides like her mother, between me and Harry, didn’t touch me, didn’t touch Harry, looked out the dirty window at the dirty gray sky.

  How is he? I said.

  Who? Fiona said.

  Harry, I said.

  His fucking mother and father won’t come to see him, Fiona said. I called them and his mother wouldn’t talk to me, and his father said, My son died years ago, and then hung up.

  Can you imagine, Will? Fiona said, His own fucking father!

  Harry’s skin is all gray, his eyes closed tight, tubes in his nose. An IV in his arm.

  New York’s only Irish Catholic homosexual, I said.

  Just then, a nurse walked in the room and heard me say homosexual. She was young, with that Farrah Fawcett hair. The nurse didn’t look at Fiona or me. She went straight to the boom box and pulled the plug. Then over to the bed, looked close at Harry, put her hand to his neck.

  Then, when the nurse took her hand away—ta-da! abracadabra!—Harry’s eyes opened. A big smile on Harry’s face. Harry pulled the blue tubes out of his nose and mouth, out of his arm, threw the covers back, said, I say, Terence! Let’s have a cocktail!

  Fiona said, Cool!

  And we walked out the door, laughing at Harry’s bare pink butt sticking out of his hospital gown.

  But it’s not the truth.

  Harry’s eyes stayed tight.

  Fiona stared into Manhattan gray.

  The nurse said, Here, let me put the flowers in some water for you. The nurse didn’t smile. She took the flowers from me like the flowers were sick too.

  In the corridor I asked the nurse, What’s wrong with him?

  Pneumonia, the nurse said.

  Your friend has AIDS, the nurse said.

  Lletre ferit: AIDS.

  The nurse brought back the flowers stuck in a clear plastic vase. She moved a vase of lilacs on the bedside table, set the flowers down, left the room.

  Fiona plugged in Brian Eno.

  One of Harry’s hands jumped.

  Thank God you didn’t buy carnations! Fiona said.

  ON THE STREET, a young man with a shaved head and big sideburns was sitting between two cars, in the gutter, his head lying on his arms. When I first heard him, I thought he was laughing.

  The WALK / DON’T WALK on Seventh Avenue flashed to WALK, and the heels of Fiona’s Doc Martens hit the asphalt crossing Seventh Avenue the way shoes sound on women who know where they are going.

  Fiona was another black hole in the gray day. I caught up with her, and we crossed Greenwich Avenue, walked down Seventh past a grocery store, past a place you could buy old books, then a porn shop.

  Fiona stopped in front of the Art Family in the window, at the one in the leather head mask, hanging from a chain hooked to a leather harness.

  Fiona reached into her red leather purse, pulled out a compact, a lottery ticket, a Seven-Up can, a Trojan, and then the joint. She put the joint in her mouth. I lit it. Fiona sucked in hard, let the smoke come out, French inhaled.

  Fiona held the joint to me.

  Kiss? Fiona said.

  I looked up the avenue, down, took the joint, toked, gave the joint back to her.

  My mother called, Fiona said.

  Fiona’s red lips under the black veil were rubber around the joint.

  Mother says, Fiona said, To tell you thanks.

  For what? I said.

  For getting her ass out of that crack! Fiona said. Dog Shit Park—you know!—the night I turned into a total asshole in front of my very eyes.

  Smoke from out of Fiona’s red lips, from out of the curl, through the veil.

  Not to mention my whole family, Fiona said. Kiss? Fiona said.

  I took the joint, toked, gave the joint back to her.

  We were all scared, Fiona said. Scared the shit out of me!

  Me too, I said.

  In the plate glass of the porn-shop window, an ambulance drove by slow, behind us on Seventh Avenue, no siren, just the amber light flashing.

  The Art Family mannequin had both her legs helium heels in the air.

  Loud disco music when some guy opened the door of the porn shop.

  Seems like such a long time ago, Fiona said. My God.

  It was a great opening night, I said. Magical.

  Fiona’s black hat and veil, the orange marijuana fire, were reflected in the window exactly between the Art Family mannequin’s heliumheel legs.

  And how’s your friend? Fiona said. The homeless guy who pulled the knife on us.

  Ruby Prestigiacomo, I said.

  The junkie, Fiona said.

  He’s fine now, I said.

  In rehab? Fiona said. Or dead? Kiss? Fiona said.

  I took the joint, toked.

  Dead, I said, holding in my breath like you do.

  Fiona leaned against me, the veil of her hat tickling my nose. She put her arm around my waist, looped a finger in a back belt loop.

  I thought so, she said.

  Why’s that?

  Death, Fiona said. You can feel it around people.

  Like Harry? I said.

  Fiona quick pulled away. Put her arm on the window glass, leaned her head against her arm.

  I put my hand onto Fiona’s shoulder.r />
  Never touch me.

  Kiss? I said.

  Fiona took the joint and flipped it into the gutter.

  Before he died, I said, Ruby told me your name was Fiona. He also told me not to fall in love with you.

  Fiona lifted her face up off her arm, stared into her reflection.

  Fiona? Fiona said. Fiona what?

  Fiona, I said to Fiona’s reflection in the glass, Or Phaedra, or Persephone, or Daphne, or the fair Ophelia—one of those fucking f’s.

  Fiona lifted the veil and pulled it back over the black hat. Her red lip a life all its own.

  Her skin, white cake batter with vanilla.

  Fiona! Fiona said.

  Beautiful according to Dracula.

  In my forearms, up to my shoulders, down through my heart.

  Fiona stepped closer to the porn-shop window. She touched her face and her reflection touched its face.

  My name is Fiona! Fiona said.

  Fiona stared into the window. Her index across her forehead, down her cheek, to her chin, around her chin, up to the corner of her mouth, to her lip, the scar, the red red scar.

  Death is only a door, Fiona said.

  Fiona’s index across her upper lip, up the side of her nose, down her Roman nose.

  Hunter and Gus are in the hospital, Fiona said.

  Your brothers? I said. The YUFAs?

  Fiona’s index across her eyebrows, down under her eyes.

  The Hyannisport Homos, Fiona said. They do everything together.

  Is it...?

  Fiona closed her left eye, touched the eye.

  Fiona closed her right eye, touched the eye.

  All of us silent, all of us all one thing.

  Dehydration, Fiona said. Exhaustion. Mother says they’ve been working and playing much too hard.

  Fiona raised her head, put her index to her chin.

  They just need some rest, Fiona said.

  CHAPTER

  TWENTY-THREE

  The end of October, Bobbie and Charlie and I hitchhiked into Pocatello in the back of some guy’s pickup. He dropped us off at Idaho State College, which was pretty close to the house where Bobbie had her appointment.

  The house was narrow, with that gray siding that’s supposed to look like bricks, on Fifth Street next to the Fanci-Freez across from the cemetery.

  Bobbie opened the screen and knocked on the door. Charlie and I stood behind her. The guy who opened the door was maybe forty, gray at the temples, a mustache, and hom-rimmed glasses. He wasn’t wearing any doctor clothes, just a mustard-colored shirt with a white T-shirt under it and brown slacks.

  Barbara Parker? he said.

  Bobbie, Bobbie said.

  I thought they told you to come alone, he said.

  These are my brothers, Bobbie said. They come with me.

  Very well then, the guy said, like a Holy Cross nun. He opened the door and we walked into a small room with white clapboard walls and a copper and yellow linoleum floor.

  Have a seat, he said. Do you have the money?

  The only place to sit was on an old orange couch that was in front of a window with a yellow sheet hanging over the window.

  Bobbie took the hundred and fifty dollars out of her front Levi’s pocket—a big wad of dollar bills and fives and tens and twenties—and the twelve rolls of quarters we’d rolled up, and put the bills in the guy’s one hand and the quarters in his other hand.

  The guy looked at the wad of money and at the rolls of quarters in his hands. All at once, his face looked like he was going to cry and I felt sorry for him.

  How far you along? the guy said.

  Bobbie shrugged her shoulders. Two months, she said, maybe three.

  Did your bring your Kotex? the guy said. You’re going to bleed.

  I’ve got it in my backpack, I said.

  Give it to me, the guy said.

  I took the box of Kotex out of my backpack and gave it to him.

  The guy told Bobbie to come in the other room, which was the kitchen, and Bobbie walked in after him, and Charlie and I stayed sitting on the orange couch and could hear his footsteps and hers on the linoleum floor, and then we heard a door close.

  I moved closer to Charlie on the couch. The light in the room was ugly because of the yellow sheet, and there were dust balls on the floor in the corners. No pictures on the walls, no coffee table or magazines or floor lamps, just a square white room with the orange couch and the yellow sheet over the window. The room smelled closed up, and there was an awful smell of something like in hospitals.

  Bobbie yelled, more of a shout—angry, like Fuck you—and Charlie and I looked at each other. Then we heard something that sounded like a vacuum cleaner and that’s all we heard for several minutes and then we heard Bobbie really yell.

  Charlie and I ran into the kitchen and went to open the door but the door was locked. Bobbie was crying and moaning and sighing low sighs and every once in a while would go, Oh! Oh! Oh! My God!

  Charlie and I were banging on the door, saying Bobbie Bobbie you all right in there? Then Charlie: You motherfucker better open this door, or we’ll break the fucker down!

  The guy yelled at us to keep it down, that Bobbie was fine, that it was sometimes painful, he was almost finished, and not to worry because everything was going fine and Bobbie was going to be all right.

  It’s OK, Bobbie said. It’s OK.

  Charlie went to the kitchen cupboards and opened the doors. There were no dishes or anything in the cupboards. He turned all the burners of the stove on but none of them got red. There was no refrigerator. A yellow sheet over the window in there too.

  Charlie and I stayed standing in the kitchen. After about twenty minutes or a half hour, the guy unlocked the door.

  Bobbie looked like hell. Real sweaty and her face all scrunched up, her eyes were puffy, and she was holding her stomach. She looked yellow. I thought it was the sheet over the window, but when we got outside, Bobbie was still yellow.

  Drink lots of liquids, the guy said. You’ll bleed for a couple days, and there’ll be discharge, but that will end. You’ll probably feel sick for a while. Get some rest.

  Charlie and I helped Bobbie across the street and into Mount Moriah cemetery and went to the Chinese section under a huge cottonwood tree and Bobbie lay down in a pile of leaves. Charlie lay down too, and so did I.

  Bobbie curled up in the leaves and held her stomach and didn’t say anything at all, even though Charlie and I kept asking questions.

  Just shut the fuck up, Bobbie finally said, and laid her head so her face was in the sun. Charlie was on one side of her and I was on the other, but neither one of us touched her. She just lay there with her arms between her legs.

  After about an hour, Bobbie pulled her hands from her crotch and there was blood all over her fists.

  Fuck! Bobbie said, and got up and walked slow to behind a Chinese marble pillar that had Chinese writing on it. I could see her take off her pants and take off the bloody Kotex; then she wiped herself with another Kotex and put a third Kotex on. Threw the bloody pads in the ditch just beyond the cottonwood tree.

  BOBBIE TIED THE sweatshirt I was wearing around her waist like an apron in front of her. At Idaho State College, we stuck our thumbs out, and a ’58 Mercury stopped and it was a priest, for chrissakes, Monsignor Verhooven. We told him we’d come into town to make confession at Saint Anthony’s and went to visit relatives in the cemetery, but you could tell he didn’t believe us.

  Young lady, are you feeling all right? Monsignor Verhooven said.

  I’m fine, Monsignor, Bobbie said, Just fine.

  While the monsignor drove, he was preaching at us that we were too young to be out on the road, and he was going to call our parents, and what were we going to amount to, living like we were living, and he made us say the Act of Contrition.

  I made the sign of the cross and Charlie made the sign of the cross after he watched me do it. Then I started the Act of Contrition. Charlie mumbled along.
Bobbie was holding her stomach and saying it too, but she didn’t make the sign of the cross, just held her stomach, and there were big tears in her eyes and she stared out the window.

  Oh my God I am heartily sorry for having offended thee. I detest all my sins because of thy just punishments.

  Charlie told the monsignor that Mother was going to pick us up in front of the Green Triangle Café, so he should drop us off there.

  That’s a bar, the Monsignor said.

  It’s also a café, Charlie said. We got money for hamburgers, Charlie said.

  WE WEREN’T STANDING on the Yellowstone Highway ten minutes before we got a ride with Father’s Indian friend, Lou Racing, who’d just been elected reservation sheriff, in his white ’60 Chevrolet Apache with RESERVATION POLICE on the side.

  I didn’t want to ride in front with Lou Racing, so Bobbie and Charlie rode in front, Charlie in the middle even though the girl is supposed to sit there.

  Bobbie said, I need the air and that’s all there’s to it, so I’m sitting by the fucking window.

  Bobbie hung her head out the window all the way home, her short brown hair every which way in the wind. Lou drove us right up to the front door of the Residency. Mother was out in the yard in her violet dress with the orchid all the way down the front, pinning an American flag on the clothesline upside down, like it was a bedsheet.

  Lou yelled out his window, Afternoon, Mrs. Parker! Lovely day, isn’t it?

  Yes, Mr. Racing, Mother said, It is a lovely day.

  I got down out of the back of the truck and stood between Bobbie and Mother. Charlie was standing on the other side of Bobbie. I looked on the seat and there was a smear of blood, so I jumped in and sat on the blood and when I got out again pulled my butt hard against the seat and took the blood smear with me.

  You know, Lou Racing said, I think this whole family of yours is plumb crazy.

  Fuck you very much, Lou Racing, Bobbie said, smiling with her mouth, and slammed the pickup door.