Assimilation

by James Stryker

  “Hand me your handkerchief, Papa. I’m getting teary-eyed.”

  “You’ve made a valiant effort in trying to be unlovable.” The left side of Brigman’s upper lip twitched as he combed his eyes over Oz’s face. “Do you realize how much work I put into that body?”

  “Yes, Pygmalion. You reminded me of that frequently.” He rolled his eyes to the ceiling. “How you couldn’t stop licking my face and jacking your junk because I was so perfect and—”

  “Ten years, and you’ve destroyed it.”

  “It’s been a riot.”

  “Well, unlike you, I’m capable of learning from my mistakes and we’ve come a long way in ten years. This time—”

  Oz sat straight up. “No! There’s no way I’ll allow you to touch me. If I’m going to die, it’ll be with dignity. Not recreated into some other type of monster by you!”

  “I don’t make monsters. And like I said, there’ve been many advances over the past decade.” Brigman nodded. “I’ve always known there was a possibility that we’d come to this juncture again, Osborne. So I’ve spent a lot of time thinking about what I’ll do differently.”

  “You won’t do anything. This time I have more than a fucking document to stop you.”

  He had Santino. He had Tinks. He had Andrew. His friends wouldn’t let—

  “Not right now you don’t.” The doctor smiled.

  Oz turned to the gray plastic rail and hit the nurse call button repeatedly.

  “Don’t bother. You’re not in Savannah General. I had them bring you down the hall to the Center. I was worried about you, and wanted you nearby in case something happened.” Brigman knelt to retrieve the documents Oz had swept off the bed. “You can never tell with internal injuries. One minute you’re fine, and the next—”

  Oz’s head thumped and his abdomen burned, but he pushed aside the agony and flung the blanket off the bed, quickly throwing his legs over the side to escape.

  “No, no,” his father said. Oz felt his shoulders seized, but the pain radiating through his core was curtailed by the sharp, forceful stab to his neck. “You need to rest. I insist. Just relax.”

  Oz tried to move forward; however, he found that he couldn’t. Suddenly there was nothing and he’d lost all control. Like when the HFT failed, or waking in CryoLife’s clutches. He couldn’t move. He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t blink.

  I can’t breathe.

  He fell onto the bed and met the doctor’s eyes.

  “These last minutes are your penance, Osborne. When succinylcholine is used in a lethal injection, they first administer a sedative so you’re not awake while you suffocate.”

  No coherent thoughts. Because there was no air. No relief from oxygen. He needed a breath, to gasp, to take in just a trace amount – but nothing. Every muscle was frozen.

  Oz felt Brigman’s hand on his hair, but he couldn’t concentrate. Fear. And fear. And fear.

  I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe!

  “I’m confident we’ll work out all your deficiencies this time.” The doctor smoothed his cheek. “I’ll see you again soon.”

  Language deteriorated. The feelings on his skin grew numb. Thoughts became dim. And the world spun away from him for a second time.

  Chapter 42

  Andrew recalled seeing Santino run up to the apartment as Robert’s car had pulled out of the parking lot three weeks before. His mind returned to this image like a skip in a DVD. He kept seeing it replay. He couldn’t bear to think of anything else. There was nothing and even the art had left him. He felt dead inside. Dead and dirty.

  He hadn’t known where Robert was taking him. He’d been too fearful to ask, and the scenery blurred together. They’d driven in silence for a long time and only stopped once. With the car idling, Robert had waited for something. Andrew wasn’t sure what. He’d been too scared to look at him. Robert had ceased to be someone he recognized. There was no telling what he could or was planning to do.

  He remembered the car parking and being pulled out of the passenger seat. Robert’s hold was hard, but nothing compared to the crushing grasp earlier. He’d been nudged up some steps and into a small brown room.

  He fled to a corner and huddled near the floor, trying to make himself as small as possible. His cheek felt fat and swollen. It hurt to do so, but he pressed his face to the wall.

  When he’d felt Robert’s shadow, he brought his arms to cover his head. His body shook. What would he do now? Hit him again? Kick him? Or worse? God, not “worse.” Anything but “worse.” Murder. But please God, not “worse.”

  Andrew felt Robert close to him, his hand on his leg, moving it forward.

  A familiar strap slid around his ankle and locked into place. He’d heard a sharp beep. Then Robert released him and stood.

  “We’re staying here for a while. If you try to leave, Natalie, I’ll find you. And there will be consequences.”

  Andrew still couldn’t tear his eyes from his knees. He heard Robert cross the room, call in to work and say that Natalie was sick, and he needed to be home. For a week. Maybe more, but he appreciated them being so understanding.

  These words had sounded like the old Robert, but the stinging of Andrew’s cheek and presence of the ankle monitor reminded him that he was being held captive by a volatile stranger.

  “You are sick,” Robert said after ending the call. “That’s why you’re here. So it’s not a lie.”

  Andrew didn’t respond.

  “You can come out of that corner. I’m not going to hurt you, as long as you behave. I didn’t want to hurt you before.” Robert sighed. “I know it’s not your fault. He’s been rubbing off on you. You wouldn’t have pushed me if it hadn’t been for him.”

  Him. Oz. Andrew swallowed. But he’d seen the blood stains on the ends of Robert’s shirt. “What did you do to him?”

  “I taught him a valuable lesson about trying to break apart a family. He actually had the nerve to deny everything.”

  “Deny everything?”

  “I told him straight, I said, ‘Stay away from my wife.’ And he denied ever having touched you. Ever having seen you in the past two years. Even when I told him I’d seen you together. He insisted you were dead.”

  Andrew felt a small smile on the inside. He knew what Oz had meant. Oz hadn’t touched Natalie. He hadn’t seen her in the past two years. And wherever Robert had seen them, in whatever context, they’d been Oz and Andrew. Natalie was dead. He hoped Oz had had enough sense to not push it, but he knew him too well for that.

  “What did you do to him?” he repeated.

  “I beat his head into a cement wall.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  Even though Oz had called after the attack, could his injuries have been fatal?

  Andrew’s throat felt thick; his chest burned worse than the cheek. Part of him didn’t want to hear. He wasn’t sure he could bear it. Beating his head into a cement wall? He imagined Robert throwing Oz against it. His skull fracturing as his neck whipped back and forth. Blood in his beautiful hair and spotting his white coat. Oz on the floor, beaten and motionless. Dying. The warm hands that had caressed his skin and hair growing cold. His eyes forever closed.

  “Natalie, look at me, so I know you’re listening.”

  He turned his face. Robert sat in a chair by a small round table, his legs open and shoes flat on the floor. His elbows rested on his knees, and his face was in his hands.

  Andrew thought of how he’d first seen Oz in the bar. His chair tipped back, his legs on the table and crossed at the ankles. His arms behind his head, and a cigarette dangling from his lips as he smiled. Laughter in his eyes, because if he wasn’t saying something amusing, he was thinking it. So cool, so lighthearted and relaxed. Robert had never looked this way. Even before today, when Andrew thought he knew him.

  Robert appeared stern and cross. There was no longer the manic frenzy in his eyes, but when he spoke, the low tone of his voice was more terrifying.

/>   “You’re going to be here a while. And when we leave, if that pharmacist gives you anything to hurt the baby, I won’t want to, but I’ll ensure he’s permanently taken care of.”

  Andrew’s thoughts caught on his last sentence. “The baby?”

  “You’re unwell, Natalie. Everyone agrees. I wish you’d come to me instead of trying to deal with it alone. Things may not have gotten out of hand.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “This gender crisis you’re going through … blaming yourself for Michael’s death. I’m going to fix you though. I’m going to make you feel like the woman you are.” Robert smiled. “You’ll feel so much better when we’re a family and you have a new Michael.”

  Andrew’s mind went blank, and he felt like he’d walked into a freezer.

  “You will not turn away from me again, Natalie. Ever. You have three options. You can cooperate. You can be difficult. Or …” He took a bottle of pills from his pocket and clapped it on the table. “You can go to sleep.”

  Now, three weeks later, Andrew couldn’t remember what decision he’d made. After Robert displayed the pill bottle, the Santino replay had started. And that’s all he saw. Whatever was going on around him or with him, he was locked in the car’s passenger seat, watching Santino run to the apartment door.

  Santino must have parked down the street. He’d run from the outer curb, his coat billowing behind him like a cape. He’d come right away. Too late, but he’d come. And the last time Andrew saw him, he’d skidded to a halt at the door, almost slipping on the mat.

  The clip reversed itself, and Santino was stepping onto the curb. To the doormat. Back to the curb. To the doormat. Andrew turned this loop around his head. He didn’t feel he was speaking. He didn’t feel he was eating, drinking, or moving, though he must’ve been. He didn’t feel like Robert was having sex with him, although he was. He didn’t see the pregnancy tests chucked in the garbage. Only Santino trying to save him. Over and over. Failing. Over and over again.

  Until one morning, Robert kissed his temple. And his breath carried the scent of stale refrigerators, instead of smoke and an evergreen forest.

  “Good girl. Very good.” Robert spoke to him like he was a dog. A bitch who’d done her duty. “We’ll go home tomorrow.”

  His shoe was on the curb, but Santino stopped running.

  Andrew looked at the ceiling as if seeing it for the first time. It was a cream colored ceiling that’d seen a lazy attempt at skip trowel texturing. The large knife edge gouges and patterns reminded him of something. Something. He felt like he’d woken and his mind was clearing. “Where am I?”

  “You’re in the same place you’ve been for the past three weeks.”

  “Where is here?” Events were slow in coming together. What had happened?

  “Pooler. You’re in Pooler, love.” Robert stroked his cheek, which no longer felt bruised.

  Andrew couldn’t remember when his swollen face had stopped hurting. But Robert’s fingertips were rough and cold. The touch rubbed Andrew like sandpaper.

  “But we’re going home tomorrow. You did it. We did it. And everything will be okay.”

  “Pooler?”

  “Uh huh.”

  Pooler. There was a tickle in his brain. Pooler. “I want to look out the window. Can I look out the window?”

  Robert laughed.

  “You could’ve been looking out the window. You could’ve been watching television, listening to the radio, reading a book. You’re the one who wanted to stay curled on the bed for hours.”

  Andrew sat up and felt awful inside. Awful everywhere. Awful and wrong. Loose. Filthy. Violated. He hadn’t thought it was possible to hate the body more than he had, but he wanted to drink acid. Stick a fucking funnel down his throat and pour drain cleaner into his stomach.

  He looked back at the ceiling. There it was. The half-assed mud technique hinted at the familiar.

  Franz Kline. Oyster Liver.

  Hulking smears and scrapes of black on a tan surface. The gummy underside of a pried up old tile. Layered, rough skid marks with the scent of burning rubber practically rising from the canvas. Damage. Damaging. Damaged. Worse than feeling like Beta nu or Blue Nude. He saw Oyster Liver in the ceiling, and he felt it inside himself.

  It couldn’t be true. But he knew it was. His worst nightmare. There was a nasty, sordid thing growing inside him. A tapeworm. A fucking tumor.

  He felt violently ill. He turned his head off the side of the bed and vomited on the floor.

  Robert petted his back as he coughed. His hand might’ve been a hot brand sinking into Andrew’s skin.

  “It’s okay, hon. Here, sit.”

  “No, the window.”

  He pulled away from Robert, still coughing. His gag reflex sputtered, trying to bring out more.

  Andrew stepped into the moist, sticky vomit. But he didn’t care. He stumbled to the window and tore open the curtains.

  And there it was. Off in the distance. Less than a mile away. Like a lighthouse.

  A long concrete building on a rise. The empty parking lot. The dirty blue pickup truck on the side of the building. The gun range.

  “It’s a beautiful day.” Robert wrapped his arm around Andrew and pulled him close. “I’m sorry I had to be more forceful with you than I usually am, but it’s what you needed to come around. And there was no time to waste.”

  Robert caught his eye and laughed. “I found all sorts of paperwork in your bag. Attorneys, doctors, name changes? God, you were sick. Andrew? Come now.”

  The use of his name struck a cord. Robert said it like a punch line. A joke. So different from how he’d first heard it. From how Oz said it. He remembered so vividly, and it had been weeks that felt like eons ago. Those caramel eyes holding his …

  “Andrew.”

  Oz’s hand curved around his face, his thumb stroking his cheek.

  “Andrew.”

  And that night in his basement only days before Robert had taken him. He’d watched Oz’s mind working as they knelt on the concrete floor.

  Pre-dawn with its solid shapes rising out of chaotic brushstrokes. Soap bubbles of blue and red blocks, a yellow square, red circle, and one partially formed orange rectangle. He imagined this freely formed mosaic and thought of how Oz had first described mathematical art to him:

  “The creation of beings, of worlds, of universes without limitations … Reality being born, and folding in on itself to be born again at my command.”

  His thought process might’ve turned in the same way when he stood before the empty wall with the black marker in his hand, or in front of his first dry erase board – with his first problem. With the Hodge conjecture a hundred thousand times before. Andrew could see him sifting through options, trying to decide how to respond.

  You think too much. You’re handsome when you’re thinking, but you do it too much, Andrew had thought. Just tell me. I’ve known you have for weeks. Say aloud that you love me.

  Oz hadn’t. But he’d kissed him. And while that feeling had been up there with the other high points since Oz had entered his life, it was unique in being incomparable. There wasn’t a painting or a perception that he could think of. The lightbulb within his head received too high of a surge and exploded. Nothing could be seen except for Oz.

  As Robert’s butchering of Andrew’s name couldn’t drive Oz’s voice from his head, his rough touches couldn’t replace those first kisses. Andrew felt their imprint and they erased the ugliness that was Robert’s hands on him.

  And he also remembered giving in and not thinking about it anymore himself. Not plotting his moves and only considering the impact of Oz’s usefulness. He’d pulled Oz close and it’d been electric, like holding a battery in his mouth.

  Andrew had curled his fingers around Oz’s sandy hair. I don’t care. I’ll go with you wherever you want me to. I’ll walk into any cage you hold open, just to be near you. I’d let you trap me.

  In a way, Andrew had been trapp
ed already, but he hadn’t been scared by it. He felt connected to this man, tied to him on the same current, on the same artery. And he’d never be able to back away of his own choice.

  That was the key phrase – “of his own choice.” He was literally trapped in a cage now. A cage within a cage. Locked inside the hotel room with his captor. Trapped in the body with its new occupant.

  But there was an island in the distance. He’d been marooned, but he was going to get back to Oz. If he was alive, which he had to be.

  “And you might’ve tried to go through with it. Getting this different identity. But now you know what you are.” Robert reached over and put a hand on his stomach. “You’re a wife and mother. That’s your place.”

  Andrew didn’t respond. It didn’t matter what Robert said. He could make it to the gun range before Robert located him, despite the ankle monitor. Red would help him get it off and then they’d destroy it. His location would disappear. He would disappear. And Red would hide him until Oz came.

  Oz would bring vials of poison to erase the Oyster Liver feeling and purge the revolting thing from him. And they’d run away. Anywhere. Somewhere Robert couldn’t find them. Oz had said that if Robert hurt him, he wouldn’t let him go back. And was there any way in which Robert could’ve injured him more? The only thing that kept him from wishing he was dead was the thought of being safe in Oz’s arms. As if none of this had happened.

  Andrew lowered his eyes to the bottom of the window.

  It was sealed. The entire way around. The only way out would be to break it. How else could he get free? There were no other windows in either the main room or bathroom. Without turning his head, he glanced to the door. Maybe it was a lock he could pick? But no, it was a card reading door. Still—

  Hinge pins. Twice Robert had broken into the bathroom at their apartment by removing the pins from the hinge. He’d used a hammer, but there had to be something in the room that would work to strike the pins up from the bottom. He scanned his surroundings. Maybe a pen, a fork? Were the hinges rusty? He couldn’t see from across the room.

  In order to try, he had to get Robert out. Blood pounded in his ears, but Andrew felt no further conflict about lying.