“It is right, because I called my lawyer to confirm as soon as I left the room. They have every legal right to do this.”
“You have a lawyer?”
“Yes, and as soon as Beezon said he dismissed Frieda Myers I informed him and those Dementors who work with him that I would gnaw off my own arm and eat it before I’d be a party to any more discriminatory patient firings. Furthermore, I said, he could anticipate the wrath of hell descending upon him if my patients did not receive a full apology and an open-armed invitation to return, and I told him I have a vicious, brilliant, ruthless attorney who is fully prepared to kill on command.”
“Good.”
“Yeah. Except that’s a lie: Terz”—one of Jonah’s friends, a patent lawyer—“has a friend who does some kind of discrimination law, but no one in their right mind is ever going to refer to Stewie as a killer. Unless he kills by talking people to death. But anyway.”
“How did Beezon respond?”
“Let’s just say he successfully contained his unease at the threat,” Jonah said. “If anything, he looked thrilled. And he countered with a bluff of his own. Or at least I thought it was a bluff.”
“And?”
“He gave me a totally putrid choice: either I inform certain patients I can no longer care for them because doing so would violate the moral standards of the practice; or I can inform all of my patients I can no longer be their doctor because I have violated the standards of the practice. We’re meeting again sometime next week so I can give them my decision.”
“He literally spelled out which patients?”
“Sure,” he said, running a hand along the length of his face. “The ones like me.”
If you possessed some degree of power, there were a million subtle ways you could harass a gay man who worked with you. You could leave the room every time he walked in; you could, in his presence, audibly muse about the train-wreck lives of certain gay actors, or the pedophilic tendencies of gay priests; you could offer ostentatious displays of interest in everyone else’s spouses and significant others and dates, but never mention his. Or you could ramp it up a notch: take away his assigned parking space; claim budget cuts require him to share his PA with two new physicians; assign him to some bullshit committee that meets at seven o’clock on Friday nights. None of this could be traced to overt homophobia; all of it was easily explained away. You could cut, and cut, and cut, until you forced him out. And if he was stubborn enough to stay? Then you could fire his patients. And you could do all this, without worrying you’d go to jail or pay a fine, because it wasn’t uniformly illegal in the United States to discriminate.
To Jonah, this wasn’t a personality conflict or a partisan thing or a manifestation of sexual politics. In his case, adhering to the guidelines of someone else’s religious freedom meant two things: he would lose his job, and his patients would lose their doctor. Unable to think of what to say, Georgia pulled Jonah to her, wrapping her arms around him until he dropped his head onto her shoulder. They stood, silently, until someone, muttering in incomprehensible Dutch, began banging on the door.
* * *
—
By the time they made it out of the bathroom, they’d regained their composure. Their table had been cleared during their absence, but the server caught them to say he’d already poured another drink; did they still want it? Jonah carried it to the bar, an ancient piece of carved wood next to a fireplace. It was cozy and comfortable, the polished wood of the bar shining in warm yellow light from sconces and the hot, flickering light of the fire, and after a few moments of silence they did what they always did when something was bothering them: laugh about it.
“You know, I don’t think Beezon has thought this through,” Jonah said. “You really do not want to rile up queer folk.”
“Or what?”
“Or they will unleash upon you a volley of witty insults on Twitter.”
Georgia nodded wisely. “Death by a thousand tweets.”
“And if that fails, they will create memes.”
“Lacerating memes.”
“And GIFs.”
He started to say something else about the munitions of the gay army but paused mid-word, staring over Georgia’s shoulder. She sensed a presence before turning to catch sight of him: Mark, at the door to the restaurant. If they hadn’t been so messed up, surely they would have remembered earlier: he’d been supposed to join them. The table, set for three, had reflected his absence, and even the waiter, she now remembered, had made some allusion to waiting before they ordered. But none of that had registered; the two of them, in their self-absorbed, drug-addled stupor, had simply forgotten about him.
Walking in their direction, Mark hadn’t spotted them yet, which gave them the opportunity to study his face. As he drew closer, Georgia could make out his attentive, interested expression.
Jonah’s eyes widened. “That’s him, isn’t it?”
“That’s him.”
“My stars!” Jonah whispered excitedly. “He’s forty feet tall.”
“Lower your voice,” she hissed, but kept her gaze on Mark.
Jonah looked at her looking at Mark, and then swiveled in his seat, a hand on his hip. “Well, well, well.”
“What?”
“I’m surprised he hasn’t burst into flame. There’re, like, twenty smoldering holes in his chest from the way you’re looking at him.”
“Jonah, shut up right now.”
“I’m serious. What is this look on your face? I’ve never seen it before.”
“Jonah, I would hate to have to destroy you.”
He raised his hands in mock surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll behave. But I am highly intrigued.”
Mark looked up and saw them. “Georgia!”
“Hey,” she said, unable to hide her pleasure as he approached. Jonah stood to greet him, politely bowing his head before raising it up. And up. Georgia watched as he and Mark sized each other up, in the midst of the subtle jockeying that occurs whenever any two men meet. Jonah, who stood two inches taller than she did, now had his head tilted nearly all the way back as he regarded Mark.
“This is my friend Jonah.”
“I’ve heard so much about you,” said Mark. “I’m Mark McInniss, Georgia’s new friend.”
“Jonah Tsukada,” Jonah said, adding after a beat: “I’m her beloved.”
“Is everything okay? You guys look a bit tired.”
This comment was aimed at Georgia, but Jonah’s hand fluttered by his bloodshot eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he said. “Too much ganja. I seem to be somewhat . . . dampened.”
She wrapped an arm around him. “We hit a bar before dinner.”
“It was gruesome.”
“Awful. We got lost, and then there was an incident—”
“—with the door of the restaurant—”
“—and then we got a little emotional . . .”
“I see,” Mark said, a perplexed look on his face as they all took seats. Georgia and Jonah did that to people sometimes: the syncopated rhythm of their speech, their obvious closeness, the unadulterated fun they had in each other’s company—all these things had bothered previous boyfriends of both of them, even though neither of them, of course, could possibly present as a romantic rival. But Mark didn’t seem threatened, just alert. He shifted his attention back to her.
“You’re easy to spot, Red,” he said, cupping a hand at the base of her scalp, his fingers trailing through her hair. “Even if you weren’t wearing a lot of sparkles.”
She smoothed out her hair and then her sequined halter.
Jonah imitated her, brushing back his silky, inky hair. “Did you know eighty percent of the world has black hair?”
“Jonah is half-Japanese,” Georgia said to Mark, as if this explained anything.
“I’m half-Irish,” Mark said, pointing
to his own dark hair, and then, gesturing to her: “Where do you think you got your red hair?”
“Autosomal recessive mutation on the MC1R gene, probably.”
“Okay!” Jonah clapped his hands together. “Enough chitchat. Let’s go out. Mark? You in?”
Mark stood, pushing back his chair and extending an arm to Georgia. “Absolutely.”
They glided through the restaurant and into the cool night. The intermittent rain had eased, and in place of the low clouds hung a massive golden moon. Soft moonlight mingled with the glowing orbs of the cast-iron streetlights, flicking effervescent daubs of light onto the dark water of the canals and illuminating everyone’s faces with an alien radiance. The ancient bridges, the cobblestone streets, the couples strolling arm in arm—all of it combined to produce an atmosphere of such romanticism it felt almost contrived, like a scene in a Hollywood movie about Amsterdam.
They ambled along in no particular direction, Mark offering cheerful getting-to-know-you conversation and Jonah exercising previously undemonstrated powers of discretion, in that he failed to mention any of Georgia’s prior romantic debacles as he shamelessly prodded Mark for personal information. She listened with interest: she and Mark had engaged in several of the obligatory tell-me-about-your-life chats one tends to engage in on dates, but they hadn’t gotten to the point of exchanging complete biographies. However, Jonah failed to unearth anything outrageous, extracting from Mark stuff she already knew: he’d been born in a middle-class home in Cincinnati, he’d attended business school at Duke University, he’d never been married.
As they moved farther from the restaurant, the noise and light increased, little by little, until eventually they found themselves standing near a conglomeration of streets throbbing with a carnival atmosphere. The moon, chastened, retreated behind a wall of neon.
“Oh,” she said. “The red-light district.”
“Yep,” said Mark. “I guess you have to see it at least once, right?”
An alley reared up in front of them. This was where romance and ambience came to die, apparently, replaced by some sordid, businesslike approximation of lust and at least ten thousand dopey, gawking tourists. Catching up to Georgia, Jonah picked up her hand and squeezed it as they passed the lighted showcases of the prostitutes. To their right, a young woman with coarse blond hair and broad Slavic cheekbones appeared on the verge of dying of boredom, standing in her underwear in her glass-walled cubicle, aggressive hipbones jutting out all over the place, a cell phone to her ear. Jonah studied her.
“I’m not feeling it,” he said.
“You’re gay, Jonah.”
“So? I appreciate beauty in all its forms, as does any man. But I also appreciate a little more, you know, joie de vivre.”
“Or at least consciousness,” Georgia agreed. The prostitute, expressionless, had closed her eyes. She appeared to have fallen asleep, still on the phone.
“I leave in two days,” Mark said into her hair. They’d wandered a short distance away from Jonah, but she could tell from the shift in his posture he could hear them perfectly.
“Ah,” she said.
“Come with me.”
“Mark,” she said. “You know I can’t.”
“You can’t what?” Jonah asked, wandering over.
“Mark has a business obligation. He wants me to join him in Germany.”
“Paris, actually,” Mark interjected. She turned to him, wide-eyed. He turned up his palms. “Slight change of plans.”
“I can’t,” she said again. “I have to be back at work this week.”
Intensity lit up Jonah’s features. “You can,” he said.
“Excuse me, Jonah—”
Jonah thrust up a palm to silence her. “You can, and you know you can, and what’s more, you want to,” he said. “You could cancel your cases for a few days. Don’t ruin things.”
“I can’t do that; people plan their entire lives around their surgeries. It wreaks twenty kinds of havoc to cancel last minute.”
Jonah started walking. After a moment of confusion, Mark followed him, sensing an unexpected ally. Behind him, Georgia started walking too; they traipsed along single file until Jonah whirled around, bright-eyed and fiery. “Me!” he said. “I’ve always wanted to go to Paris!”
Georgia glared at him. “I don’t recall anyone inviting you.”
Jonah looked pointedly at Mark, who paused, bewildered. “I’d love to take you to Paris, Jonah?” he said.
“All settled,” trilled Jonah. “Thank you, Mark, I’d love to come.”
“Georgia?” Mark tried. She looked down.
He picked up her hands. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s really okay. I understand and I admire your dedication to your work. Of course you can’t just pick up and leave.” Still, she stared at the ground. He went on: “Jonah and I will enjoy ourselves.” He paused. “On a trip to the single most romantic city on earth.”
“Hot damn,” said Jonah, eyes shining. “I’m going to Paris.”
“That’s not going to work, you two,” Georgia said, but despite herself, she smiled.
“No, it’s fine,” said Mark. “I’ve always pictured myself, windblown and glamorous, atop the Eiffel Tower with . . . Jonah. I just didn’t know it.”
“We’ll tango by the Seine at night! Have croissants and cappuccinos in alley cafes for breakfast! Drive around in a vintage Citröen!”
“Gaze at the Cézannes in the Musée d’Orsay.”
“Sing the blues in a wine cellar!” Jonah wiggled his hips seductively. “Stroll the Left Bank in matching berets!”
“Buy ancient books in Saint-Germain-des-Prés.”
“We might even get engaged in the Temple Romantique!”
Mark held up a hand. “Okay, now you’ve gone too far.” A constellation of smile wrinkles bracketed his eyes.
“Excuse us for one moment, please, Mark?” Jonah barked. He stormed over and yanked Georgia to the edge of the street.
“Don’t be a damned fool,” snapped Jonah. “Men like this come along never.”
“I have surgeries. Plus, there’s no way I’m leaving you again right now.”
“I grant you permission.”
“I’m glad you approve of Mark, even though, I must point out, you just met him. But you of all people know canceling days of work would create a monumental shitshow. I can’t do it. Not to mention what it would cost.” She shook her head. “Plus, I need to come back with you. You’re not going to be facing this alone.” She put her arms around him and drew him in. “No man could ever compete with you, Jones.”
“Thank you?”
“You’re welcome.”
“Then what was this? A fling?” He gestured in Mark’s direction, who, mistaking the movement for a wave, waved back.
“I don’t know,” she said. “He lives here, so I don’t know where it could go, anyway.”
“Bullshit. You can fly here again, you know. He can fly to Charleston. All is not lost.”
“Well, of course,” she said. “I could fly anywhere. But I only met him a week ago, so I’m not exactly ready to plan a wedding. We’ll just take it slow, and—”
“Oh balls,” said Jonah. “You’re going to do it to this guy too? This guy?”
“Jonah, you are in no position to give anybody relationship advice.”
“He’s perfect for you. You can’t see that?”
“You met him twenty-five minutes ago, Jonah. How would you know?”
“I’m a keen judge of character. Plus, I just—I wasn’t kidding when I said I’ve never seen you look like this. You are thirty-six years old, George, and you are shriveling before my eyes into a withered, sexless heap of dust. You should jump on this while you still have some flower left.”
“Flower?”
“I thought that was how women referred to
their fertility.”
“No one refers to fertility that way. Are you sure you’re a doctor?”
“It’s not a medical term,” he said haughtily, “it’s slang. The hipsters say it, I think. Anyway, I am trying to help. You need to trust me.”
“Jones,” she said, lowering her voice as much as possible. “I do trust you, and I love you, which is why I’m coming back for your meeting.”
Jonah’s face crumpled a little, but recovered before she could be certain she’d seen it. “That’s a beautiful gesture, George, but it’s misguided. Beezon thinks you’re an even bigger menace to society than I am.”
“Yeah,” Georgia said. “He’s right about that.”
“Fine, come back,” said Jonah. “I’d love to have you with me.” He sighed, then knocked his shoulder against hers. “But please: try not to make them any madder than they already are.”
PART
TWO
10
APOCALYPTIC SCORN
Georgia awoke every morning of her first week back in Charleston disabled by jet lag. Everything was an effort: getting out of bed, forcing herself to go on her run, eating and showering and dressing. She’d previously disliked her long morning commute, but over the past few days, having discovered it was the best time of day to talk to Mark, she’d been enjoying it.
This morning Mark answered right away. “Hey there,” he said, and she smiled at his voice. “How was last night?”
“Busy,” she said. She’d had to take two extra call shifts to make up for having been gone, so she hadn’t had time to recover from her fatigue.
“Tell me what you did.”
“Well, let’s see. Yesterday at work I spent the day in the operating room, whacking kidney stones, fighting strictured urethras, wrestling a few problematic prostates.” These procedures had technical names, of course, but there were times in this career when Georgia felt it more accurate to employ the language of battle when describing what she did. “And then I was on call, so I spent half the night in the OR, trying to extract a bobby pin from some guy’s urethra.”
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