by Clive Barker
“That’s good to see.”
“What?”
“That smile. You’ve got reason to be happy, Mr. Rabjohns. I wasn’t betting on you coming out of this. You took your time.”
“I was . . . wandering,” Will replied.
“Anywhere you remember?”
“A lot of places.”
“If you want to talk to one of the therapists about it at some point, I’ll set it up.”
“I don’t trust therapists.”
“Any particular reason?”
“I dated one once. He was the most royally fucked up guy I ever met. Besides, aren’t they supposed to take the pain away?
Why the hell would I want that?” When Koppelman had gone, Will revisited the conversation, or rather the latter part of it. He hadn’t thought about Eliot Cameron, the therapist he’d dated, in a long time. It had been a short affair, conducted at Eliot’s insistence behind locked doors in a hotel room booked under an assumed name. At first the furtiveness had tickled Will’s sense of play, but the secrecy soon began to wear out its welcome, fueled as it was by Eliot’s shame at his orientation. They had argued often, sometimes violently, the fisticuffs invariably followed by a sensational bout of lovemaking. Then had come the publication of Will’s first book, Transgressions, a collection of photographs whose common theme was animal trespassers and their punishment. The book had appeared without attracting a single review and seemed destined for total obscurity until a commentator in the Washington Post took exception to it, using it as an object lesson in how gay artists were tainting public discourse.
It is tasteless enough, the man had written, that ecological tragedies be appropriated as political metaphor, but doubly so when one considers the nature of the pleading involved. Mr. Rabjohns should be ashamed of himself. He has attempted to turn these documents into an irrational and self-dramatizing metaphor for the homosexual’s place in America: and in doing so has demeaned his craft, his sexuality and—most unforgivably—the animals whose dying throes and rotting carcasses he has so obsessively documented.
The piece sparked controversy, and within forty-eight hours Will found himself in the middle of a fiercely contested debate involving ecologists, gay rights lobbyists, art critics, and politicians in need of the publicity. A strange phenomenon rapidly became evident: Everyone saw what they wanted to see when they looked at him. For some he was a mud-spattered wheel, raging around amongst prissy aesthetes. For others he was simply a bad boy with good cheekbones and a damn strange look in his eyes. For another faction still he was a sexual outsider, his photographs of less consequence than his function as a violator of taboos. Ironically, even though he’d never intended the agenda he’d been accused of promulgating, the controversy had done to him what the Post piece had claimed he was doing to his subjects: It had turned him into metaphor.
In desperate need of some simple affection, he’d sought out Eliot. But Eliot had decided the spotlight might spill a little light on him and had taken refuge in Vermont. When Will finally found his way through the maze the man had left to conceal his route, Eliot told him it would be better all around if Will left him alone for a while. After all, he’d explained in his inimitable fashion, it wasn’t as if they’d ever really been lovers, was it? Fuck-buddies maybe, but not lovers.
Six months later, while Will was on a shoot on the Ruwenzori massif, an invitation to Eliot’s wedding had found its torturous way into his hands. It was accompanied by a scrawled note from the groom-to-be saying that he perfectly understood Will wouldn’t be able to make it, but he didn’t want him to feel forgotten. Fueled by a heroic perversity, Will had packed up the shoot early and flown back to Boston for the wedding. He’d ended up having a drunken exchange with Eliot’s brother-in-law, another therapist, in which he’d loudly and comprehensively trashed the entire profession. They were the proctologists of the soul, he’d said; they took a wholly unhealthy interest in other people’s shit. There had been a cryptic telephone message from Eliot a week later, telling Will to keep his distance in future, and that had been the end of Will’s experience with therapists. No, not quite true. He’d had a short fling with the brother-in-law, but that was another adventure altogether. He had not spoken to Eliot since, though he’d heard from mutual friends that the marriage was still intact. No children, but several houses.
ii
“How long’s this going to take?” Will asked Koppelman next time he came around.
“What, to get you up and about?”
“Up, about, and out of here.”
“Depends on you. Depends how hard you work at it.”
“Are we talking days, weeks—?”
“At least six weeks,” Koppelman replied.
“I’ll halve it,” Will said. “Three weeks and I’m gone.”
“Tell your legs that.”
“I already did. We had a great conversation.”
“By the way, I got a call from Adrianna.”
“Shit. What did you tell her?”
“I had no choice but to tell her the truth. I did say you were still feeling woozy, and you hadn’t felt like calling up all your friends, but she wasn’t convinced. You’d better make your peace with her.”
“First you’re my doctor, now you’re my conscience?”
“I am indeed,” he replied gravely.
“I’ll call her today.”
She made him squirm.
“Here’s me going around in a fucking depression thinking about you lying there in a coma and you’re not! You’re awake, and you don’t have the fucking time to call me up and tell me?”
“I’m sorry.”
“No you’re not. You’ve never been sorry for anything in your life.”
“I was feeling like shit. I didn’t talk to anybody.” Silence.
“Peace?” Still silence. “Are you still there?”
“Still here.”
“Peace?”
“I heard you the first time: You are an egocentric fucking son of a fucking bitch, you know that?”
“Koppelman said you thought I was a genius.”
“I never said genius. I may have said talented, but I thought you were going to die so I was feeling generous.”
“You cried.”
“Not that generous.”
“Christ, you’re a hard woman.”
“All right, I cried. A little. But I will not make that mistake again, even if you feed yourself to a fucking pack of polar bears.”
“Which reminds me. What happened to Guthrie?”
“Dead and buried. There was an obituary in The Times, believe it or not.”
“For Guthrie?”
“He’d had quite a life. So . . . when are you coming back?”
“Koppelman’s pretty vague about that right now. It’s going to be a few weeks, he says.”
“But you’ll come straight home to San Francisco, won’t you?”
“I haven’t made up my mind.”
“There’s a lot of people care about you here. Patrick, for one.
He’s always asking after you. And there’s me, and Glenn—”
“You’re back with Glenn?”
“Don’t change the subject. But yes, I’m back with Glenn. I’ll open up your house, get it together for you so you can have a real homecoming.”
“Homecomings are for people who have homes,” Will said.
He’d never much liked the house on Sanchez Street; never much liked any house, in fact.
“So pretend,” Adrianna told him. “Give yourself some time to kick back.”
“I’ll think about it. How is Patrick, by the way?”
“I saw him last week. He’s put on some weight since I saw him.”
“Will you call him for me?”
“No.”
“Adrianna—”
“You call him. He’d like that. A lot. In fact that’s how you can make it up to me, by calling Patrick and telling him you’re okay.”
“That is the most fucked up
piece of logic.”
“It isn’t logic. It’s a guilt trip. I learned it from my mother. Have you got Patrick’s number?”
“Probably.”
“No excuses. Write it down. Have you got a pen?” He rummaged for one on the table beside his bed. She gave him the number and he dutifully jotted it down. “I’m going to speak to him tomorrow, Will,” Adrianna said. “And if you haven’t called him there’ll be trouble.”
“I’ll call him, I’ll call him. Jesus.”
“Rafael walked out on him, so don’t mention the little fuck’s name.”
“I thought you liked him.”
“Oh he knows how to turn on the charm,” Adrianna said, “but he was just another party-boy at heart.”
“He’s young. He’s allowed.”
“Whereas we—”
“Are old and wise and full of flatulence.” Adrianna giggled. “I’ve missed you,” she said.
“And quite right too.”
“Patrick’s got himself a guru, by the way: Bethlynn Reichle.
She’s teaching him to meditate. It’s quite nostalgic really. Now when I see Pat we sit cross-legged on the floor, smoke weed, and make peace signs at one another.”
“Whatever he’s telling you, Patrick was never a flower child.
The summer of love didn’t reach Minneapolis.”
“He comes from Minneapolis?”
“Just outside. His father’s a pig farmer.”
“What?” said Adrianna, in mock outrage. “He said his dad was a landscape artist—”
“Who died of a brain tumor? Yeah, he tells everybody that. It’s not true. His dad’s alive and kicking and living in pigshit in the middle of Minnesota. And making a mint from the bacon business, I might add.”
“Pat’s such a lying bastard. Wait till I tell him.” Will chuckled. “Don’t expect him to be contrite,” he said.
“He doesn’t do contrite. How are things going with Glenn?”
“We putter on,” she said unenthusiastically. “It’s better than a lot of folks have got. It’s just not inspired. I always wanted one grand romance in my life. One that was reciprocated, I mean. Now I think it’s too late.” She sighed. “God, listen to me!”
“You need a cocktail, that’s all.”
“Are you allowed to drink yet?”
“I’ll ask Bernie. I don’t know. Did he try and put the moves on you, by the way?”
“What, Koppelman? No. Why?”
“I just think he was smitten with you, that’s all. The way he talks about you.”
“Well why the hell didn’t he say something?”
“You probably intimidated him.”
“L’il ol’ me? Nah. I’m a pussy-cat, you know that. Not that I would have said yes if he’d offered. I mean, I’ve got some standards. They’re low, granted, but I’ve got ’em and I’m proud of ’em.”
“Have you considered becoming a comedienne?” Will said, much amused. “You’d probably have a decent career—”
“Does this mean you meant what you said in Balthazar?
About giving it all up?”
“I think it’s the other way round,” Will said.
“Photography’s done with me, Adie. And we’ve both seen enough bone yards for one lifetime.”
“So what happens now?”
“I finish the book I deliver the book Then I wait. You know howl like waiting. Watching.”
“For what, Will?”
“I don’t know. Something wild.”
II
i
The following day, inspired by the conversation with Adrianna, he pushed his physiotherapy harder than his body was ready for and ended up feeling worse than he’d felt since coming out of the coma. Koppelman prescribed pain killers, and they were powerful enough to induce a pleasant lightheadedness, in which state he made his promised call to Patrick. It was not Patrick who answered the phone, but Jack Fisher, a black guy who’d been in and out of Patrick’s circle for the last half decade. An ex-dancer, if Will’s memory served. Lean, long-limbed, and fiercely bright.
He sounded weary, but welcomed Will’s call.
“I know he wants to talk to you, but he’s asleep right now.”
“That’s okay, Jack. I’ll call another day. How’s he doing?”
“He’s getting over a bout of pneumonia,” Fisher replied.
“But he’s doing better. Getting about a bit, you know. I heard you had a bad time.”
“I’m mending,” Will said. Flying, more like. The painkillers had by now induced a more than mild euphoria. He closed his eyes, picturing the man at the other end of the line. “I’m going to be there in a couple of weeks. Maybe we can have a beer.”
“Sure,” Jack said, sounding a little perplexed at the invitation. “We can do that.”
“Are you looking after Patrick right now?”
“No, I’m just visiting. You know Patrick. He likes having people around. And I give a great foot massage. You know what? I hear Patrick calling. I’ll take the phone through to him. It was good talking to you, bro. Give me the nod when you’re back in town. Hey, Patrick? Guess what?” Will heard a muffled exchange. Then Jack was back on the line. “Here he is, bro.”
The phone was handed over, and Patrick said, “Will? Is this really you?”
“It’s really me.”
“Jesus. That’s so weird. I was sitting by the window, having a siesta, and I swear I was dreaming about you.”
“Were we having fun?”
“We weren’t doing much of anything. You were just here . . . in the room with me. And I liked that.”
“Well I’ll be there in the flesh soon enough. I was just telling Jack, I’m getting back on my feet.”
“I read all the articles about what happened. My mother kept clipping them for me and sending them down. Never trust a polar bear, eh?”
“She couldn’t help herself,” Will said. “So how are you doing?”
“Hanging in there. I lost a lot of weight, but I’m putting it back on again, bit by bit. It’s hard though, you know. Sometimes I get so tired and I think: This is just too much trouble.”
“Don’t even think about it.”
“That’s all I can do right now is think. Sleep and think. When are you here?”
“Soon.”
“Make it sooner. We’ll have a party, like the old days. See who’s still around—”
“We’re still around, Patrick,” Will replied, the sorrow that was barely buried in their exchange turning his painkiller high into something dreamily elegiac. They were in a world of endings, of early and unexpected goodbyes, not so unlike the time from which he’d woken. He felt tightness in his chest and suddenly feared tears. “I’d better be going,” he said, not wanting to upset Patrick. “I’ll check in again before I arrive.” Patrick wasn’t going to let him off so quickly. “You are up for a party?” he said.
“Sure—”
“Good. Then I’ll get planning. It’s good to have things to look forward to.”
“Always,” Will said, his throat so full he couldn’t put a longer reply together.
“Okay, I’ll let you go, buddy,” Patrick replied. “Thanks for calling. It must have been that siesta, right?”
“Must have.”
There was a silence then, and Will realized that Patrick had sensed the suppressed tears in his voice.
“It’s all right,” Patrick said softly. “The fact that we’re talking makes it all right. See you soon.” Then he was gone, leaving Will listening to the buzz of the empty line. He let the receiver slip from his ear, his body so suddenly and completely overcome by tears he had no control over his limbs. It felt good, in a cleansing way. He sat there for ten, maybe fifteen minutes, sobbing like a child, catching his breath, thinking it was done, only to have another wave of weeping follow. He wasn’t just crying for Patrick, or for that remark about seeing who was still around to invite to the party. He was crying for himself, for the boy he’d met again in
his coma, the Will who was still inside him somewhere, wandering.
The skies that boy had seen were there too, and the fells and the fox, filed away in his memory. What a conundrum that was: That in this age of extinctions, some of which he’d chosen to document, his memory should have penned a book of his days so perfect that all he had to do was dream and they were conjured as though they’d never slipped by, as though—did he dare believe this?—the passing of things, of days and beasts and men he’d loved, was just a cruel illusion and memory, a clue to its unmasking.
ii
The next day he was, if anything, harder on himself than he’d been the day before. The fox was right. There was work to do out in the world—people to see, mysteries to solve—and the sooner he had bullied his body into shape, the sooner he’d be on his way.
In a short time, his tenacity brought results. Day by day, session by session, his limbs strengthened and his stamina increased; he began to feel restored and rejuvenated. In spite of Koppelman’s gentle mockery, he sent out for a selection of homeopathic medicines to supplement his diet and was sure they were in no small part responsible for the speed of his recovery.
Koppelman had to admit he hadn’t seen anything quite like it.
Within ten days Will was making plans for his trip back to San Francisco. A call to Adrianna, asking her to open up the Sanchez Street house and air it out (which she’d in fact already done), a call to his editor in New York, telling her of his imminent change of location, and of course a second call to Patrick This time the prodigal Rafael answered, returned and apparently forgiven. No, Patrick wasn’t at home, he told Will, he was at the hospital, having his blood checked. He’d be back later, but Rafael didn’t know when. He’d just take a message and pass it along. Make sure it gets to him, Will said, to which Rafael curtly replied, “I’m not stupid,” and slammed the phone down.
“You’ve made a remarkable recovery, but you’re still going to need to be kind to yourself.” This was Koppelman’s farewell speech. “No trip to the Antarctic in the next few months. No standing up to your neck in swamp water.”
“What am I going to do for fun?” Will quipped.
“Contemplate how lucky you are,” Koppelman said. “Oh . . . by the way . . . my sister-in-law—”