by Ezra Blake
Chapter 6
Chris ambles in the general direction of the lake. Violets and fat pink roses snake up the lattice on the side of the house, and birds flutter between the long, elegant Italian cypress trees. It’s all beautiful and well-tended, full of alcoves for fountains and nude statuary.
He crouches on the bank, careful not to get mud on Ivan's dress pants. A stone circle surrounds the ashen remnants of a campfire, beside which sits a single log, mostly dry. These rocks have been here a long time, and the log is sunken halfway into the beach. He’s a few yards away from the outcropping where he took shelter last night. If he looked hard enough, he’s sure he could find the divot where his prosthetic got stuck. Not his first bad move made in desperation. Probably not his last. His mind drifts back to Christophé and his stuttering, aphasic prayer.
He’s crouching there in the old mud, scowling at the log, when the apparition appears.
She drifts down the bank, loose top billowing behind her. Her jeans have grass stains on the knees. Frizzy brown hair explodes from her straw sun hat.
“Oi!” Her voice echoes through the trees. “This is private property!”
Chris squints at her. She looks solid, but she can’t be. The nearest house is a mile away.
“You aren’t supposed be here.” She becomes more substantial as she draws nearer, and by the time she plants her feet on either side of the dead fire pit and brandishes her trowel in his face, she’ substantial enough to pose a threat. “If the professor catches you here, you’re going to be in some serious shit.”
She’s tan and curvy like María from freshman chemistry, the only woman he’s ever kissed. Older than María, definitely. A few years older than him. Still, the vaguest resemblance is enough to make his tongue cringe back into his throat. If he’s afraid of her, she might be real.
“You deaf?” She asks.
Chris shakes his head. “I’m—uh.”
“Spit it out.”
“I live here.”
She crosses her arms. “You live here.”
“I’m Ivan’s…tenant. Sorry. Sorry, I’ll—”
Before he finds his footing in the mud, she extends a hand to stop him. It catches him in the chest. Just a brush of her palm against his shirt starts him spinning inside, around and around until he can’t tell which way is up. She’s talking but he’s not listening. Focus. Focus.
“…haven’t seen you before.” She says.
“I’ve been. I was…” He glances around as though he’ll find a teleprompter hidden in the trees. His gaze lands on the divot. Even better. “Recovering!” He all but shouts. “I lost my leg!”
Good answer; too much enthusiasm. Dial it back. He yanks his pant leg up to the knee and monitors her reaction, scrambling to construct his own from pieces of normal people he’s met.
“Hm.” She relaxes her grip on the trowel. “Serious stuff, that.”
Chris glances toward the path, littered with flower petals. The sun is so bright that its glare makes an audible ringing sound as it beats into his skull.
“Name’s Joy, by the way. Gardener.”
He nods jerkily. “Okay,” he says, and Ivan should have fucking warned him. “That’s—okay. Thanks. I have to go.”
She steps into his path, one hand on her hip. Smiling. This is funny to her. “Stay a while,” she says. “Please. You look like you don’t get out much.”
“I don’t—”
“You don’t even have to talk.” She wiggles her bushy eyebrows. “Just listen.”
And Chris is cornered. No avenue of conversation will get him out of this—he could run, though. He considers it.
“Follow me.” She gestures over her shoulder with the trowel, which could be used as a weapon now that he really thinks about it, and starts down the path. She leads him to the shed, where she swaps for a pair of dull hedge clippers. They talk as she trims the cypress trees. She talks.
She says things like, “You don’t get many Americans out here, not full time anyway. Me, I love meeting new people. Everyone you meet has something to teach you, if you’re willing to listen.” And Chris stands to the side like a woodcarving of himself, too self-aware to even nod.
She says things like, “Good job the professor’s renting—he’s a strange bird, that one. Reckon he could do with the company.” Chris grunts, but it might be too quiet to hear.
She says, “Knew a bloke like that in Japan, father of my host family. Strong, silent type. Turns out his two sons killed themselves, and he’s barely said a word since. Tragic. Just tragic. You can’t assume anything about people. Everyone’s got a story like that if you press them.”
Eventually, Chris shakes out his wooden joints and sits on the steps. Joy isn’t going to stop talking long enough for him to leave, and he isn’t going to work up the nerve to cut her off, either, so he might as well settle in.
She prattles on about her travels: eight months in India, six in Japan, a year in China, three in South America. She flits from one location to the next with little context, and he’s left to piece together the where and when and how. She provides the who. Every country is framed by faces, every face by a story. What story will she spin about him?
Words fill his throat like steam from a pressure cooker, but it must be an hour before he finally speaks. She’s trimmed all the trees and is fertilizing roses when he catches her split-second pause for breath and asks, “Why didn’t Ivan tell you about me?”
“Protecting you,” she says, without missing a beat. “Probably knew it’d pan out like this. I have a way of getting through to people, and it seems like you want to be left alone.”
“It’s not that,” he says. “I’m not a hermit or anything.”
She sits back on her heels and wipes her gloved hands together, showering her jeans with dirt. “Great,” she says. “So I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then. I set up camp ‘round the fire pit. Catch me around eight—and bring coffee, yeah?”
Chris blinks at her for a few seconds. It isn’t really a question.
She chuckles. “Should be no problem if you’re not a hermit.”
“Okay, yeah.”
He stands. Adjusts his stump in its cup.
“Tomorrow’s good.”
She nods and turns back to her flower bed, and that’s his cue to dash up the path toward the villa, pausing only to wipe his sweaty palms on his slacks. He slams the door behind him and locks it for good measure. Blissful silence.
Chris spends the rest of the afternoon grinding away at Italian poetry which he’ll never quite grasp, drinking cup after cup of black coffee from the pot he’s plugged into the outlet in the library. If he can focus, if he can keep his mind sharp, he won’t succumb to the pressing languor that fills this house like carbon monoxide. He copies down confusing stanzas and translates one word at a time. He even corrects his meter. He thinks of nothing but L’Amadigi until dusk, when a soft touch trails across his newly-shaved scalp.
“Jesus! Don’t scare me like that.” He spins around to find Ivan leering over his shoulder, looking very pleased with himself.
“My apologies,” he says. That’s what he says when he’s not sorry. “I’m glad to see you working hard. Are you done with the book?”
“Almost.” Chris swings his legs over the side of the armchair, looking up at him. He’s wearing that horrible jacket with the elbow patches again. “Just so we’re on the same page, I’ll never be able to speak Italian. You’ll be lucky if I can write it by the time I’m sixty.”
“That sounds like an excuse to spend the rest of your life mute.” Ivan shoots him a wry smile and offers his hand. “Come here.”
Chris downs the rest of his coffee—he overshot awake by a mile—and allows Ivan to pull him to his feet and into a deep kiss. He comes away bemused. “What, you have a good day at work or something?”
“I’d like to take a trip into town tonight. There’s a new restaurant near Piazzo Massimo which I’ve been dying to try. It was awarded a Michelin
star.”
“Am I going to have to wear that opera suit again?” He asks, surreptitiously checking his pulse. Ventricular tachycardia. Must be. He’s mentally preparing himself to go into cardiac arrest during dinner.
“It’s ruined,” Ivan says. “Remember?”
Chris furrows his brow.
“We should hurry and try on the others.” Ivan is already dragging him out of the room. There’s an infernal spring in his step. Chris has never seen him like this.
“What’s the rush? It’s only six.”
“Our reservation is at eight, and it’s an hour’s drive to the city.”
“You’ve already booked it?”
Ivan pauses to give him a cool stare. “You don’t get into a Michelin starred restaurant without a reservation, darling. We must also allow time for an emergency visit to the tailor.”
They find a suit that fits. Ivan spends a good twenty minutes fussing over his tie and gelling his hair into position, though Chris can’t tell the difference. The explanation comes later, in the car, Ivan cruising along the sparsely populated highway with one hand on the wheel. This is the first time he’s been in a car in months—their last trip to the opera was an inconvenient combination of taxi and train travel, presumably so Ivan’s Lexus wouldn’t be at the scene of the crime.
Ivan says, “I’d like to help you rejoin society.”
Inside him, a brush fire starts burning. He keeps his lips sealed and traps the smoke inside.
“To do what we do, one must adopt a certain degree of affectation. You must learn to imitate decorum, at the very least. I wouldn’t ask if it weren’t important.”
“Oh,” he says, tucking his hands beneath his thighs.
Ivan chuckles. “Don’t be nervous,” he says. “You’ve learned from the best.”
They arrive half an hour early. Rather than sit in the waiting area until their table is ready, Ivan takes them to the neighboring Giardino Della Gherardesca. It’s beautiful at night, lit by hidden spotlights in the bushes. They fall naturally in step as they stroll along the path. His heartbeat steadies, but that doesn’t mean the caffeine is out of his system. He can already picture himself lying stiff and conscious as the sun rises, listening to Ivan breathe.
Ivan leads them to a collection of giant stone heads lying in the grass, broken up into slabs of distorted surface anatomy. “These must be part of a rotating exhibit. I haven’t seen them before.” He nudges Christopher’s arm. “What do you think?”
He glances to the heads and then back to Ivan. “What do I think?”
“The statues. Do you like them?”
“Sure,” he says.
“What do you like about them?”
“I don’t know. They’re…daring?”
Ivan’s lips twitch. “Interesting. I’ve never been a fan of contemporary art myself.”
“Oh.” He frowns. “Yeah, I don’t even know why I said that. They’re really ugly. I’m just making conversation.”
“You don’t have to pretend to appreciate art for my sake, darling. I prefer your genuine opinion to what you think I want to hear.”
He stops to scan the grounds, reassuring himself that they’re completely alone. “Why?”
“Because it’s time you formed some. I want your opinion on everything—art, food, literature, sex.”
“Okay. My opinion is that this suit is too hot. I just want to go inside and drink a Jack and Coke.”
Ivan gives him a gentle, forgiving smile. It makes Chris want to kill something.
They wait another twenty minutes, sipping their overpriced drinks and people-watching. They don’t talk much—he’s always reluctant to open his mouth when Ivan has an agenda—but when the hostess finally asks for Skinner, he turns to Chris and says, “After you.”
They sit. Their table has a garden view. Chris skims the wine list, which is so extensive that he has to squint to read the tiny, cramped font. “This is a little outside my comfort zone,” he says.
“A ship is safe in the harbor.”
“Yeah, I know. Doesn’t mean it’s easy.” He sips his water, thumbing half-heartedly through the menu before replacing it on the table. “Can you just order for me?”
“You won’t learn what you like if you don’t make your own decisions.”
“I can like what you like,” Chris says. “You can make me.”
“If you’re going to manipulate me, darling, try to be subtle.”
Under the table, Chris balls the napkin up in his fist.
Ivan orders their wine and Christopher’s appetizer but insists that he choose the main course himself. Chris orders stuffed shells. Ivan orders stuffed pigeon, since he’s always captivated by novelty. They talk. Conversation with Ivan is a constant game of chess where all the pieces are invisible, and tonight, he doesn’t even try to keep up. When the wine arrives, he starts drinking and doesn’t stop until Ivan has eaten his entire pigeon.
Chapter 7
He looks like Bigfoot caught on camera, peeling Jake’s sweaty burger wrapper off the wall. “I thought you were gone,” he says. What a banal fucking observation. Even Ash is boring.
“Yeah, I’m back.” Jake hangs his hoodie on the door hook and follows the newly-clean trail to the living room. He should ask Ash how he’s doing, but the answer won’t be good. It’s easier to crush up another Adderall on the cutting board. He’s blasting through eight or ten a day at this point, plus a bump here and there of various research chemicals, but every day is a little slower. Every day, he notices less.
“You still hung up on the Jesus thing?” He calls from the kitchen.
“Are you asking if I’m still Catholic?”
“No, I mean.” He smashes the pill under his buckled ID card. “Are you still mad that I was shitting on it last night?”
“Yes.” Back to the wrapper.
Jake flips on the TV, flips it off, packs a bowl, sets it down. Maybe he should text someone. Anybody on the guest list would drop what they’re doing and haul ass over here if Jake texted them the right combination of letters in the right order.
He buys his friends, but they still lie to him.
Even his new toy keeps secrets. He can’t stand to be alone with us.
Jake grits his teeth. He can be alone, and besides, what would he actually do if Scott came over? Or Rose, or Lucas, or Mocha the fucking dog? What would change if he had company?
Another bump, just to clear his head. Another cigarette to calm the relentless jaw-clenching, hand-wringing, do-something-now energy pounding through his veins. Talk to him, little messiah! Tell him how pretty he is!
“Why are you hunched over like that?” Jake asks.
“I’m not,” Ash says, but he moves with care, the way mothers protect their pregnant bellies.
His toy is lying about this. I wonder what else it lies about?
He tells them to shut the fuck up, and Ash turns to look at him, and Jake says, “I’m not talking to you.” He reaches for the first piece of glass he can find, a pipe shaped like an eyeball, and stuffs it full of weed. “This is stupid. I was high as fuck when I messaged you. It’s a stupid fucking idea and it’s not gonna work.”
“What’s stupid, you mean—?” The rest of his sentence is drowned out by maniacal laughter.
“Shut the fuck up!” Jake bellows. Then there’s a hole in the wall, his knuckles are split, and Ash drops the garbage bag. Trash spills out around his feet.
It’s lying about everything. Maybe it’s a spy.
They turn down the volume to give Jake room to think. Even the central heat falls silent, and suddenly it’s as clear as good crystal—he smoked some in college. Just once.
“I know what you’re hiding,” he says. “Take your clothes off.”
“Jake, I don’t think—”
He grabs the gun from his waistband, cocks it, aims. He has no idea whether or not it’s loaded. “Take them off.”
Ash stares for a moment. He turns to the wall and unbuttons his jeans
. Jake scans his skinny legs, but nothing’s there. He waves the gun. “Shirt too.”
When Ash turns around, his face is dead white. “I know I should have told you,” he whispers. “I shouldn’t of did it. You got in bed with me, and I couldn’t stop thinking—Jake, I’m sorry. Please don’t make me leave.”
“Take your shirt off.”
“Please,” he repeats.
Jake leaps over the table, slams him against the wall, and jams the gun against his temple before he can flinch. “Who the fuck sent you?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Who are you working for? CIA? FBI?”
Ash’s pulse pounds in his throat. He slips his shaking fingers beneath Jake’s fingers and lifts his shirt over his head. “I ain’t wearing no wire,” he says.
The right side of his torso is marred by a lattice of healing cuts, thin and jagged, stretching from his collarbone all the way to his hip.
We told you it was lying.
Jake stands. He leaves his terrified delusion at the foot of the stairs. He can’t be in this room. For the first time in weeks—months, maybe—Jake needs to be alone.
Father Reiner has soft hands and a quiet, kindly voice. He touches Ash only once in the course of their long acquaintance: gently, on the shoulder. He says, “Staff tell me you were caught abusing yourself last night.”
If they spared him the details, he doesn’t understand why his euphemism is so funny. Ash casts his eyes downward and presses his lips into a pucker.
“My son,” he says, and this is when he touches Ash’s shoulder. “Every person in Holy Trinity is here to help you, but you must allow yourself to be helped. When you ignore God’s plan for you, you choose to suffer.”
So he’s put on observation for a week. A female staff member observes him every half-hour to make sure he’s sleeping instead of “abusing” himself, and the worst part is they don’t care about the cutting. They want to keep his hand off his dick. Ash wants that too. He tries as hard as he can and it’s never enough.