“Okay,” I said, more to myself than her. “Okay, I understand now. We’re really not getting each other. I’m sorry that’s the impression I gave you. Believe me, it’s the opposite. At first I assumed you’d have no objection. When I found out you did, I held them back. And if you don’t want me to send them, I won’t. I don’t think it’s your work, however, any more than the tapes of Albert are my work. Our tapes belong to all of us and they belong to our profession.”
“That’s naive, Rafe,” Diane said in a new tone. Solemn and blunt without an edge of hysteria and wounded feeling. “I know you’re not naive, but to expect people not to feel proprietary and protective of their work is naive. I’m willing to believe you would react differently if I gave away your tapes, but then you’re exceptional. Most people would feel what I’m feeling.”
“Okay,” I said. “All I want to say right now, what’s really important right now, is for you to understand that I have nothing but the greatest respect for you and the work you’ve done and that I will never release your work, or even my work for that matter, without your blessing.”
Diane smiled. “Now you’re going too far.” She leaned over and kissed me. “You can do what you like with your work.” She settled back, obviously relieved, pleased with me. “But I don’t think you should give anything to that snake. He’s a liar and you can’t trust him.”
“I’m going to talk to him,” I said. “Now, we’d better get going. We’re late.”
We arrived at a quarter after seven, fifteen minutes late. Joseph and Harlan weren’t there, although they had picked the place—a chic, expensive and loud restaurant called Cafe Luxembourg. By then Diane and I had made up. I still didn’t know what I should do about Phil. I was disturbed by the gossip Diane had told me and I was considering whether I ought to go to Webster University and talk to him face-to-face. If he had drifted into the child-can’t-be-believed camp, then I wanted to remonstrate: the mouse scenario was significant, but inconclusive; should he proceed to the pediatrician test prejudging it, that could pollute the results, just as a therapist’s prejudices might elicit false stories. At the same time, although I had resolved the misunderstanding between Diane and me, I was disturbed by an aspect of her behavior that I hadn’t yet challenged, mostly because I didn’t have the facts to do so. Since refusing to deal in any way with Samuel, she had been on the phone to others checking up on him. I worried this indicated that she had drifted into the child-must-be-believed camp. All accusations of child abuse can’t be true, any more than the reverse. Part of our work, unfortunately, was mixed up with the law’s tedious need to pretend there are immutable facts and just punishments. Diane, it seemed to me, was too defensive. No technique is perfect. As a scientist, her first reaction should have been more curiosity about Phil’s work and less energy for debasing him.
At seven forty-five, Diane and I were still waiting at the bar when Harlan rushed in, pushing roughly through the crush of people between us. But upon arrival he stared as if we were a disappointment. “He’s not here,” he said, not a question.
“Joseph?” Diane asked.
“Shit,” Harlan said. He had cut off his ponytail since we’d last seen him, and cut off most of his blond hair as well, so that it seemed to be a flat top, although it was too long to qualify in some places, and the sides were slicked down, not shortened. He wore his usual tight black jeans with no belt, a black silk shirt buttoned to the collar with no tie, and old-fashioned black high-top Converse sneakers—at least they had laces. He hadn’t shaved in several days, but I could tell he wasn’t starting a beard. His light blue eyes were so young and troubled they undercut the tough style of his outfit and grooming.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t know where he is,” Harlan said, not angry, with resignation.
“You had a fight?” Diane asked.
Harlan looked around. “Is there a phone?” He made a move to push back toward the maitre d’.
I grabbed his arm. “What’s happened, Harlan? Tell me.”
“I don’t know.” He lowered his head as if shamed.
“You mean, you’re not supposed to say?”
“I don’t know!” he complained. “I gotta go. Gotta find him.” He pulled away, or tried to.
I held on to his arm. “Harlan, you know Joseph and I are old friends.”
“I’m sorry. Go ahead and have dinner. If I find him, we’ll—”
“Harlan, tell me what’s going on. I want to help.”
A woman beside us at the bar was listening. In those cramped quarters, she had little choice except to pretend deafness. Harlan glanced at her. Diane suggested we step outside.
The street was lively. We walked toward West End, into a warm September breeze blowing from the river. The strip of sky visible between its tall apartment buildings showed a brilliant sunset, the variety of color enhanced by the haze of pollution hanging over Jersey. Harlan told the story in a jumble, making it more complicated and longer than its simple facts. In June, he and Joseph had agreed to be tested for AIDS. Both had practiced safe sex for years, but they knew they were vulnerable anyway, given the long incubation period. Harlan kept his promise and his result was negative. Joseph, however, canceled his appointment and postponed several more. Harlan was amazed that a scientist could be so superstitious about knowledge when it came to his own body. “It’s not like the test is gonna give you AIDS,” Harlan argued. Finally, Harlan presented Joe with an unspecified ultimatum that succeeded. Joe had gone for the test three days ago. He was supposed to get the results that morning; he promised to call Harlan at home as soon as he heard. He hadn’t phoned. When Harlan tried to reach him, he discovered Joseph had canceled a lecture, failed to show at his office at Columbia, and hadn’t appeared in his lab all afternoon. He was supposed to come home to change to meet us for dinner and Joseph had failed to do that as well. Harlan took for granted that Joseph had been told he was HIV positive. That wasn’t his immediate concern. He was scared Joseph had killed himself. He said they knew two men who committed suicide within a short time of hearing the news; Joseph, contrary to Harlan and their gay friends, had approved of their action, at least in casual conversation. “It’s not suicide,” Harlan remembered Joseph saying. “It’s just a very effective painkiller.”
That sounded like my mad, rational friend.
I asked about the hours of each canceled event and when his office or lab would be empty. Once it was clear that Joseph couldn’t be alone in either place until now, I suggested Harlan call the office and lab again. He reached an answering machine at the office; no answer at the lab. He said a machine usually picked up at the lab.
“Can we get in?”
“Not if the door’s locked.”
“No, I mean the building.”
“The guard knows me.”
I said we should go there. Neither Harlan nor Diane questioned my choice. I told Diane she could go home. She said, “Are you crazy?”
She drove us to Columbia. Not to the scene of the demonstrations of the sixties (I was reminded of them anyway) but to an old building on Amsterdam and 118th. The floors aboveground were faculty housing, a normal apartment building. Through a side entrance, manned by a sleepy guard behind a folding bridge table, we took an elevator to three subterranean levels where there were laboratories and also, Harlan explained, the university’s furniture storage.
The elevator was wide, an open cage, and moved slowly to gain power for hauling. We passed two landings lit by yellowing fluorescent bulbs.
“This is spooky,” Diane said.
“I always say to Joey,” Harlan commented in a wistful tone, as if he were talking about the very distant past, “this is where they keep Kennedy’s brain.”
I smiled. Diane said, “I feel dumb. What do you mean?”
The elevator shuddered as it stopped. “It’s missing,” Harlan said grimly.
I pulled the elevator gate open. “We’ll find Joe and Kennedy’s brain.”
Harlan nodded, trying to smile. He moved on, turning to the right. The hall was gloomy, although wide. He passed two dented gray metal doors, stopping at the third.
I touched his shoulder as he reached for the knob. “Wait,” I said. Maneuvering around Harlan, I put my ear to the door. I heard something, too faint a noise to identify.
“Somebody’s in there,” I whispered. “Would you pretend not to be here?”
“What?” Harlan was outraged.
“I think it’s possible he’ll answer if only I call out, as if I’m alone.”
Harlan looked at Diane. She nodded encouragingly. He looked back at me. “That sucks,” he said.
“Because I’m less important to him, I’m easier to face.”
He shrugged. “Okay.”
I knocked. Not loudly or insistently. Casual. I waited. No response from inside. “Joseph,” I called out, loud, but only to be heard. “It’s Rafe. I took a wild guess you’d be here.”
I thought I heard a cough. Then nothing.
“Come on, Joe, it’s spooky out here. You know me, I’m not gonna bug you. Just want to talk.”
Nothing.
Harlan whispered, “Maybe the guard has a key.”
I heard something shatter. Glass, I thought. Harlan reached for the knob. I caught his hand and shouted, “Joe! It’s Rafe. I’m alone. Don’t leave me out here. It’s too fucking scary.” I motioned for Harlan and Diane to move away. Diane urged Harlan down the hall and he allowed himself to be towed away.
I knocked again. “Come on, Joe, or I’m gonna get really scared.”
Without a warning sound of feet or a lock turning, the door opened. Joseph faced me, bare-chested under a partially unzipped black nylon warm-up jacket. He stared at me through smudged eyeglasses as if I were an intrusive door-to-door salesman. “How did you get here?”
“Harlan brought me.”
Alarm. The door began to close. “He’s here?”
“No.” I stepped in, forcing Joe to move back. “Just me.” I shut the door without locking it. I blinked at the bright, expensively furnished place, as different from the gloomy hall as possible. It consisted of two large rooms, the first an office, jammed with desks, computers, printers, file cabinets and, I noticed, an elaborate stereo system. Everything was well-ordered, the kind of neatness I associated with Joseph’s mother’s housekeeping. The partition to the other room was mostly glass, as was the door. There light also flooded a big room, dominated by row after row of chemistry tables, covered by microscopes and big machines I couldn’t recognize, as well as racks of beakers. In the lab, things were jammed together and, although it might be as organized as the first room, my eye couldn’t tell if that were so—it appeared as a jumble of incomprehensible technology.
“I don’t have to explain?” Joe said quietly.
“It’s definite?” I asked.
“Oh, he’ll do another, just for form’s sake. They’re pretty sloppy sometimes, but,” Joe grinned, “what would you think if I told you I expected a different result? Denial, denial, denial.” The grin disappeared. “You want to see something funny?” Joe opened a filing cabinet, flipped confidently through it, came out with a folder, and removed a letter. He gave it to me.
I sat on a desk and read. The letter was from a prominent AIDS researcher, apparently also an acquaintance, upbraiding Joseph for ignoring AIDS in his work. He pleaded with him at least to help raise money, if not devote himself to the search for a cure. The letter wasn’t formal: he accused Joseph of being a self-hating gay man, frightened of exposure if he associated himself with AIDS; he begged Joseph to accept his identity and become an inspiring scientific gay leader. I checked the date: two years ago.
“Such bullshit,” Joseph said when I finished. “I was scared, that’s all. Like a superstitious Jew from the shtetel. Close your eyes and it’ll go away.”
“I thought you didn’t want to come out because of your mother.”
“That’s everybody’s excuse.” I gave him the letter back. He made sure it lay flat in the folder. He returned the document to its rightful place solemnly, pushing the cabinet shut slowly. “He wouldn’t respect that. And, tell you the truth, even if Mom died I don’t think I’d,” he added mockingly, “‘come out.’” He pushed the cabinet flush with a bang of emphasis. “Why the fuck should I have to announce my sexuality? Do you have to announce you’re heterosexual? Do you come with any warning labels? Do you tell your patients your mother committed suicide?” I must have shown a pained reaction. He put his small hands out, saying, “I’m sorry. There’s no comparison.” Joseph lowered his head. I noticed his baldness had progressed a lot, leaving him little more than a laurel. He raised his head abruptly and squealed, “I just don’t care about viruses! They’re not interesting. Not compared to the brain.” He wandered away from me, pleading to his file, “I wanted to find out how we work, all of us, how we’re different from the animals, not how a fucking disease works. Who wants to study the Nazis when you can study Einstein?” Joseph walked into the second room and talked to the lab. “What kind of scientist drops everything because something is killing the people he wants to fuck?” He passed down a row of tables, turned and sat at a corner. My vision was partially blocked by a row of big white machines. I heard something crunch and wondered if he were eating potato chips.
I followed him in, stopping a few feet from his seat. The area around him was covered with glass shards, apparently from broken beakers. There was a tart odor I worried about, being ignorant. Had he allowed something toxic free?
“Why am I gay?” Joseph asked me with the innocence of a child.
I smiled.
“No, I’m serious. What’s the current psychobabble? You know where we’re at—is the hypothalamus smaller, is it bigger, is it pink? Are we genetically encoded? Can we find the address? I never really gave a shit. Small potatoes. If I found the answer to how this works,” he jabbed at his head, “then we know everything.” He reached into one of the white machines and came out with a beaker, holding it gingerly by its curved lips. He let go. It smashed on the floor. I winced, afraid of flying glass. “I’m not gonna know now, even if it’s possible to know. Maybe it’s not for us to see. Maybe the brain is the face of God. So, tell me, please tell me, why am I a faggot?”
“Are you destroying important work?” I asked.
“Of course not. This is childish,” he gestured to the circle of broken glass. “There are records of everything. It can all be done again. I’m being a great big baby.” He lifted another beaker and released. After the crash, he insisted, “Tell me. You’ve always been real polite about it. Why do I like men? ’Cause Mom is so anal? ’Cause Dad used to kiss me on the lips? ’Cause she used a rectal thermometer until I was thirteen?”
I laughed. “Well, they’re more accurate, aren’t they?”
“I really don’t want to die,” Joseph said, eyes filling suddenly. “You know, I thought I was gonna be the exception.”
“Harlan said you were both careful.”
“No, not the exception to AIDS. I thought I was going to be the first person to live forever.” He reached under his glasses to wipe away tears, although none had fallen.
“Joe, just so that I’m sure of what’s going on, you don’t have fullblown AIDS, do you?”
“Ain’t I lucky?”
“You could live for a very long time. They might find a maintenance cure, like insulin. Supposedly—”
Joseph pushed the white machine off the table. I think it sparked when it hit. Many beakers fell and the noise was terrific. A small cloud of smoke rose and dissipated quickly.
“Denial, denial, denial!” Joseph shouted. Screamed actually, out of control.
I let the noise settle. When Joe was finished yelling, he became transfixed by something behind me. I glanced back. Harlan stood at the entrance to the lab. Diane lingered in the office. The lovers looked deeply at each other: Harlan’s light blue eyes sweet and pleading; Joseph’s small and d
ark behind his dirty glasses; they seemed cold and unsympathetic. Did he blame Harlan? How could he? Was he angry that Harlan had tested negative? Was the rage general and merely being displayed? After a long moment of this mute exchange, Joseph returned to me and asked, “Come on. Enough politeness. Tell me why. For once, I won’t give you an argument.”
I stood up. “I’ll let you two—”
“No!” Joseph banged the table with his fist. It made no sound and must have hurt. “Tell me. I really want to hear.” His eyes had welled up again. “Come on, Rafe. It’s a simple question. I’m gonna die ’cause I like it up the ass. I deserve some kind of answer, don’t I?”
“There are a lot of different ideas—”
“I want your answer. Don’t bullshit me. I don’t give a fuck about other people’s theories.” Joseph lowered his head again, as if he were praying to Mecca. “Please,” he whispered. “Say something I can think about. Something I can believe. Something I can make fun of.” He seemed to be crying, although when he raised his head, no tears had dropped from his full eyes. “Give me something to think about, Rafe.”
“I think it’s very specific, Joe. I don’t believe in general theories.” Harlan had gradually moved closer, only a foot or so behind me. I turned to go; allow him to take my place.
“Well, you know a lot about my fucking specifics,” Joe said. “Don’t turn away from me.” I faced him, side by side with Harlan. “So why me?” Joe insisted. “I never wanted women. Not once. I was born this way. I don’t remember ever having a choice. That’s the way it feels for me. But you think that’s crap, right? It’s ’cause Mom didn’t let me sit on the furniture, ’cause she wouldn’t let me have sleepovers with my buddies, ’cause she wouldn’t leave me alone, not for one fucking minute.” He really began crying now, head forward, propped up by his fingers, speaking to the hard surface of the lab table. Harlan pushed past me and bent over Joe, rubbing his back and shoulders tenderly, kissing his neck, his cheek, his temple.
Dr. Neruda's Cure for Evil Page 49