I voiced my protest—to no avail—and finally went into my bedroom where I stashed the gun deep in my closet. Back in the front room, I sat again on the couch as Jack picked up where he left off. “If you think your breakdown establishes some sort of moral correctness, Brimm, you’re wrong. Your collapse is just an excuse. There’s nothing noble about your collapse. The only thing your illness proves is that you got weak and quit. Look where you are now and think how much better off you’d be if you hadn’t stopped to question what you were doing.”
Music came from Myrian’s apartment, an old tune by Jackson Browne. (“The world keeps spinning round and round, into the deluge.”) I sipped at my drink. The whiskey warmed me, then passed on and left me chilled. My head ached and my hands in my lap looked suddenly frail. I stared at the ceiling where the sounds from upstairs continued, more rhythmic in their cadence, as if the fat man was dancing. I let my shoulders fall and my head roll to one side as I considered what Jack said, the idea that my collapse amounted to nothing more than a fundamental weakness. (“For Christ’s sake, Brimm, what’s the point if you can’t finish what you start?”) The question plagued me. For weeks I had wondered the same, confused by the inconsistency of my conduct, the speed with which I abandoned my moral compass and the paradox of orchestrating Tod’s ruin only to break down over the corruption of my deed. What good was there in maintaining rigid canons if, as Jack said, everything was arbitrary and at the most critical time morality could be suspended, beaten back by circumstance, and dislodged with the ease of removing a pebble from one’s shoe?
I put what remained of my whiskey on the floor, suddenly saddened and tempted to argue, though I said instead, “Yes, I understand.”
“Good. Excellent. Now then, we can get down to business. I want you to forget about sitting around here crying in your beer and come work for me.”
“What? Jack, thanks, but no. Not now. I can’t. I’m not up to it.”
“Sure you are.”
“Besides, my license is suspended.”
“I’m not looking for a broker. You won’t need a license for what I want you to do.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Go ahead and name your salary.”
“Really, no.”
“Brimm.”
“I’m sorry.”
Jack frowned. “What are you doing?”
“Nothing.”
“Exactly.”
“You know what I mean.”
“No, I don’t. Tell me.”
“I’m waiting for things to sort themselves out. I’m trying to decide what I should do next before I leap again.”
“You’re cowering is all.”
“If I am, that’s my business.”
“But it’s my business, too, Brimm. You’re fucking with my operations, quitting on me like this. Don’t forget, you’re my goddamn talisman.”
“Maybe in a few weeks,” I put him off.
“Suit yourself,” Jack reached out and grabbed up his gloves. “I’m late for a date as it is. I’ll call you next week and we’ll have dinner,” he stood and slipped his coat back on. “In the meantime, think about my offer.”
I promised I would, said that I appreciated his stopping by, then reclosed the door. The hiss from my radiator had stopped and when I went and tried to adjust the knob as Jack had done, I was greeted by a chilly reception. I stared out the window at the falling snow, and looking then around my flat, wondered if I hadn’t made a mistake and whether I shouldn’t hurry and call down to Jack and tell him I’d take whatever job he had to offer. (“We need to get you out of here, Brimm!”) I went to the wall and listened once more to the music passing from Myrian’s apartment; a new song, sweetly concordant, lyrical and harmonic, arranged with piano and guitar. I placed my hand on the surface and immediately felt the vibration enter me, imagining the notes filling my veins, the music’s rhythm, all the elements of meter and harmony, euphony, and symphony evolved and flowing in infinite waves, one after the next, enduring despite occasional static, undeterred in its will to carry on.
I remained this way for some time, and afterward washed and dressed and went next door to join Myrian and Janus for dinner.
CHAPTER 18
Mid-February. I fill my days sitting about reading or staring into space, occasionally writing in my notebook. I scan the newspapers Myrian brings me, stand at my window and observe the vacant alley below, sometimes drinking though mostly not. (Now and again I find the nerve to phone Gee, though my wife remains chilled and unreceptive, and only as I stop trying to engage her in conversation does she allow me to speak with Rea.) Yesterday, as I did each afternoon in an effort to jump start my rejuvenation, I bundled up in a jacket and cap, gloves, and scarf, and the black rubber boots borrowed from Janus and went for a walk.
My route took me across the Avenues, down Mission Street, past Chick’s Bar & Grill, Reed’s Market, and Lilli’s Wigs and Rugs. After some fifteen minutes, I turned and headed back east where I spotted a car identical to Gee’s. The leap of my poor heart—mistaken again—brought me from the curb where I stumbled awkwardly in my haste, twisting my ankle and falling into the road. (“Fuck!”) Disappointed, I limped off in the direction of my apartment, and soon found myself in front of Janus’s clinic where I stopped and went inside.
The waiting area was crowded, each of the several plastic chairs occupied. There was a hook for coats, a coffeemaker with powdered cream and Styrofoam cups on an old metal table, pamphlets discussing the necessity of infant immunization, the dangers of unprotected sex, HIV, herpes, and gonorrhea, how to guard against hypothermia and influenza, signs of sickle cell and diabetes, tests for breast and testicular cancer all set out on a smaller table near the front window. A severely gaunt young woman who may or may not have been asleep sat in one of the chairs, a large man in dark work boots and stiff blue jeans, his right hand wrapped in gauze and held up straight at the elbow two chairs down, while an older woman in a threadworn dress and brown pants beneath, her knuckles knotted against a grey metal cane, sat across the way. Three other men stood over by the coffee machine, conversing among themselves and trying to keep warm.
I pulled off my scarf and hat and gloves and when one of the chairs became free sat looking about the room. The floor was a faded blue tile, swept clean, the walls a rough white brick with cracks and fissures running from ceiling to floor, the patches of water stains behind the bricks impervious to a fresh coat of paint. Janus was in the examination room directly behind the waiting area. (A storage space for files and supplies was further back at the end of a narrow hall.) A retractable partition separated the two rooms, and opened, I could see Janus dressed in a green flannel shirt and faded jeans tending to the bare foot of a child. Inside his damaged left hand, Janus managed to hold a small light that he shined toward the boy’s arch, and speaking soft words of encouragement to mother and child, he removed a large sliver of wood. The procedure lasted no more than a few seconds, though preparation—the swabbing and soaking of the foot—followed by the cleansing and comforting took much longer. I studied the way Janus worked, his manner nurturing and purposeful, soothing and resolute. Despite the fractures in his physical form, he maintained a fluidity of motion, a sense of being and consistency of effort which made the ease of his gestures seem organic.
I slid forward in my chair and watched while Janus helped the boy back through the waiting area, instructing the mother on the need to keep her son’s foot clean and to apply the salve morning and night. He didn’t seem to notice me at first, and approaching the older woman, bent down to say something close to her ear—his words brought a comforted smile to her face—before leading her into the examination room. At the doorway, and without turning around, he said, “Everything all right, Walter?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
He disappeared into the other room, closing the partition behind him this time. Fifteen minutes later, he returned and walked the older woman to the door. He then helped the frail girl to her
feet. Another twenty minutes passed—there was a bit of commotion behind the screen, the girl having come to life, saying, “Shit, doc. Shit! What am I gonna do?” while something metal hit the floor—and following a short silence the two appeared together, Janus holding the girl’s arm. He made a phone call and then came over to me. “Angel,” he spoke in a soft, almost soporific tone, “this is Walter Brimm. Walter’s a neighbor of mine. A cab’s coming, Walter. Make sure Angel gets in it. Tell the driver 153 East Ninth and nowhere else. Can you do that?”
I assured him I could, and when Janus reached for his wallet, I said, “Don’t worry. I got it.”
I sat beside the girl, both of us silent, watching Janus as he tended to the man with the bandaged hand. The partition was opened again and I could see Janus cut away the gauze and expose the wounds to the air; the fingers burned and blistered, covered in a soggy ooze of pus and salve and decomposing skin. Even from a distance, the sight was ghastly and I had to look away while Angel said, “Damn.” The cab came and I brought her outside as Janus instructed, pulling my own cap onto her head and wrapping her in my scarf. (The gesture was excessive, I realized, but I enjoyed it nonetheless.) I gave the driver twenty dollars for a six-block fare and told him to make sure Angel got up to her apartment. The idea of taking charge this way appealed to me and I returned inside the clinic with a sense of accomplishment.
Janus finished examining the man’s hand, washing and scraping and re-medicating what remained of the outer tissue. I slipped off my coat and was called back into the second room, where I passed behind the partition and was told to “Wash up. Hold this here.” One end of the gauze was set against the man’s wrist which I secured as Janus slowly rewrapped the bandage between each finger and around the burns. Up close, the wounds were nearly overwhelming and emitted an odor of sharp decay. I tried to control my queasiness by clenching my jaw in a frozen half smile, and averted my eyes as best I could, but then Janus wanted me to apply the tape. “Put it here. And here,” he said. The man was powerfully built, with huge shoulders, his round head shaved and set beneath a black cap, his skin smooth and brown, his eyes soft and welcoming. “Ugly thing, ain’t it?” he reacted to my discomfort, and smiled, “Gonna be all right, though. You just put the tape where the doc tells you and don’t worry about it.”
I did as told, and afterward helped the man on with his coat, zipping his injured hand inside against his chest. The other three men had abandoned their station by the coffee machine and the front room was empty. Janus poured himself a cup of coffee and sat in one of the plastic chairs. The sun passed through the window and over the tiles. A portable heater—its cables bright red—did its best to warm the air. “I noticed you’re limping,” Janus said.
“It’s nothing,” I explained about my stepping oddly from the curb, and insisted, “It’s just sore.”
“Better let me have a look.”
“No, really,” I pulled off my boot, lifted the cuff of my slacks, and pushed down my sock. “See? Not even swollen.”
Janus drank his coffee. To compensate for his bad eye, he wore a pair of square, brown-framed glasses when examining patients. The prescription helped ease the extra work of his right eye, though sitting there with me, he put the glasses in his shirt pocket and rubbed the back of his left hand across his brow. A car alarm went off on the street as three boys rocked the hood of a red Mustang then sprinted away. I put my boot back on, and leaving the buckles undone, said, “If I’m keeping you.”
“Not at all. The evening rush will start soon enough. The rest can wait,” he glanced out the window, his fractured hand falling into his lap, his head turned to me in profile. I waited for him to look back at me—he seemed briefly lost in thought and I didn’t wish to disturb him—and recalling how he appeared earlier as he treated his patients, how tranquil and content he seemed, I finally said, “Myrian tells me you’ve been here over fifteen years.”
“That’s right.”
“On your own?”
“More or less.”
“Fifteen years is a long time.”
“I’ve been lucky.”
“I mean that’s quite a commitment.”
“It’s day to day, like anything else.”
“You’re being modest. It can’t be easy.”
“I’m a glutton.”
“So I hear.”
Janus smiled. His receptiveness pleased me—as usual, I felt oddly comforted in his presence—and shifting around in my chair, I asked him in terms of the clinic, “Do you ever have any help?”
“I get nurses to volunteer sometimes, and the occasional medical student.”
“I don’t see how you manage. It must be overwhelming.”
“How are you feeling, Walter?” he changed the subject.
“I’m well enough.”
“Sleeping better?”
“Yes. And exercising. My stamina’s coming back.”
“Good.”
I pushed the heater away with my boot and glanced once more about the room. The light in the ceiling consisted of two long florescent bulbs which buzzed and blinked in unpredictable spasms. I felt the throbbing in my ankle but resisted reaching down to rub at the ache, and thinking again of the conversation Janus and I had a week ago when he came by my apartment, I recalled how in the middle of my struggle to explain my circumstance, he refused to indulge me and offered instead a more effective and firm compassion. (“How one arrives, Walter...”) The memory still pleased me. (How often in his work at the clinic Janus must deal with frail and fallen men like me who promise to mend their ways if he’d only cure them of their latest affliction; defeated souls who rescind their pledge the moment their strength returns, and how did he maintain his faith through all the endless amount of bullshit and dissention?) I envied what I saw, the calm he created for himself in the eye of the storm, my own queer state so far removed from his world that I couldn’t help but blurt out, “How do you keep from going crazy?”
Janus leaned toward me, his gaze fixed and reaching for the side of my chair, he tapped the surface of the plastic twice. “It’s only too much if you stop and think about it.”
“That’s the trick?”
He smiled. “Exactly.”
A new patient came into the clinic then, a heavyset man whose breathing was loud and rose out of his chest like puffs of wind pushed up from the hollow of a deep cave. I watched once more through the opened partition as Janus helped the man onto the examining table and listened to his heart and lungs. He initiated a breathing treatment of warmed air mixed with microcrystalline suspensions of albuterol and oleic acid blown through a tube into a plastic mask, and I noticed as before the ease with which Janus worked, the lyric of his movements, the trouble caused by the crushed bones in his left hand and right foot less pronounced, the grace of his motion even more remarkable when juxtaposed to my own fits and seizures these last several months. I stood there for several minutes, then buckled my boots and waved goodbye before the treatment was completed.
During his break for lunch at Great Mercantile Insurance, Martin made a habit of walking about the city with his camera, searching for sights which caught his eye. Today however, possessed of certain information, he decided to alter his routine and drove uptown. Myrian was on her hands and knees in the lower left corner, completing a final spate of grass growing between several large rocks when Martin came into the Pancake House. “Well, well. Small world,” he called, and without looking up, Myrian sighed, “Have you been following me again, Martin?”
“Of course not. I was just passing by on my lunch,” he walked within two feet of where she was kneeling, and staring at the spot of flesh exposed in the center of her lower back where her T-shirt parted from her pants, he cleared his throat and said, “That’s quite a wall. Dinosaurs, is it?”
“Yes, Martin.”
“You should have told me you were here. I could have come earlier and photographed you as you work.”
“No thanks,” she got up and moved
to the other end of the wall.
“I could help you put a portfolio together. Or fliers, to attract business.”
“Anyone who wants to see my murals can check them out on their own.”
“But for convenience,” he pressed on. “In case you ever decide to do something outside the city.”
“In that case, I’ll let you know.”
Martin followed her down the wall, his camera already out of its case and held at his side. “Forget the murals then,” he studied her bent over once more, imagined the curve of her hips fluted perfectly for the grip of his hands. “You must need shots of your other work. Your canvases and the paintings on the walls of your apartment. You can send the slides to galleries, to see if they want to show your stuff.”
“Why would a gallery be interested in the work on my apartment walls?”
“Your other stuff then.”
“We’ve had this conversation.”
“I know, but I haven’t given up. So?”
“No.”
“Alright,” he set his camera bag down on the floor. “Forget your paintings. Come pose for me. Let me take a few shots.”
“How many times are you going to ask?”
“Until you say yes.”
“And what do I always say?”
“Come on. You know you want to. I’ll buy you dinner.”
“No, Martin.”
“Pose for me.”
“Not a chance,” Myrian stood darkening the tail of a tyrannosaurus, the right side of her face turned in profile as Martin inched closer, his right hand holding his camera out, his finger accidently clicking off a series of shots until Myrian jumped at the sound of the shutter’s release, and cursed, “Goddamn you, Martin!” The manager—a middle-aged man in a shiny black bow tie, bright red vest, and thick-framed glasses—came hurrying over to see what was wrong. “No problem here,” Martin assured everyone.
“There damn well is a problem!”
“Perhaps if I got you a table, sir, somewhere in the rear,” the manager peered uncomfortably at Martin and pointed toward the far side of the restaurant.
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