Sticky Kisses

by Greg Johnson

  “I’ll be right back,” Abby said, turning. “It’s just one phone call—it’ll only take a minute.”

  Thom stood next to the bed, feeling unmoored and vaguely depressed. He felt so out of touch with Abby, after all this time, and didn’t know what she might be whispering to Lucille in the other room. He had a brief, ignoble fantasy of creeping out into the hall and straining to overhear what he could. There wouldn’t be much, he decided. Lucille would be peppering her daughter with questions and allowing time for only the briefest replies. He remembered when they were kids, their ears pressed to the closed door of their parents’ bedroom, their eyes fixed on one another in mingled excitement and dread as they heard Lucille haranguing their father about some misdeed or other: his late arrival home from the office the night before, for no good reason; his absence from a family gathering, causing Lucille such “humiliation”—a word she used often—that she had no idea how she’d ever face her relatives again. Sometimes Thom and Abby clamped their palms over their mouths if a fit of giggling threatened, but just as often they listened pale and wide-eyed, particularly on those rare occasions when their father tried to fight back. He didn’t get a word in, usually, and Thom had imagined him sitting on the side of their bed, rubbing a hand across his face or through his hair while Lucille ranted, waiting it out the way you waited out a thunderstorm or the sudden headache after downing a greedy mouthful of ice cream.

  On rare occasions her complaints or accusations did nettle him into speech. “For God’s sake, Loo, get off my goddamn back, would you?” Hearing that, Thom had felt a queer sense of elation.

  For all their eavesdropping Thom and Abby had never heard anything really upsetting. His parents probably hadn’t argued more frequently or viciously than other long-married couples. And always behind closed doors. Never in front of the children. Yet these overheard quarrels had haunted him, particularly when he thought guiltily that family tensions must have increased after he’d left for college. Abby had continued living with their parents, but Thom, after finishing school in Macon, had moved back to Atlanta but not back to the teenage boy’s room his mother had preserved carefully for his return. Instead, he’d rented an apartment, claiming with youthful bravado that he had his own life to lead. Another eight years passed before, at age twenty-nine, he’d told his parents quietly that he was gay.

  Lucille’s alternately furious and tearful protests over “that life”—as she scornfully termed it, not daring to utter the current platitude “lifestyle,” much less speak its name in plain English—had only confirmed his decision to keep his distance, even though he and his family lived in the same city. He’d argued to Abby that she deserved her own life, too, but in her mid-twenties she’d begun exhibiting signs of the weary resignation that today showed so plainly in her face and voice, even in the slow, deliberate way she gestured and walked, as if weighted with invisible burdens.

  While they were still at the airport, the thought had slipped into his mind, swift as a knife through water: She’s not going back. I’m going to keep her here, somehow. In the 1950s, a young Catholic woman might willingly stay home and care for a widowed parent, a pious mother or strong-willed, possessive father, taking on spinsterhood the way other healthy young women took the veil—and in the same quiet and almost thoughtless gesture of self-immolation. But he hated to think of Abby, the bright-voiced witty older sister he’d known as a boy, obediently making this phone call to Lucille. Was Abby still prey, after all these years, to their mother’s querulous complaints and caprices? It occurred to him now that their conversation itself was so predictable he need not bother to eavesdrop. He knew his sister in that bone-deep way siblings always know one another. He could imagine easily what she and Lucille were saying.

  Frustrated, he stalked back to the bed and unfolded a handful of Abby’s clothes from her garment bag. Followed by Mitzi and Chloe who, watching him, had grown suddenly grave and quiet—they knew him so well—he took the outfits into the small walk-in closet and with exaggerated care arranged them along the metal rod. Her clothes were attractive enough, but plain and functional: a gray pleated skirt with a burgundy silk blouse, a large and bedraggled-looking bow at its throat; several polyester-and-cotton blouses in neutral colors; a sweater decorated modestly with tiny seed-pearls; a navy skirt with a vaguely nautical-looking jacket, striped navy and white; and a black wool dress and matching cardigan with two roomy pockets that reminded him of the big shapeless sweaters the nuns had worn at St. Jude’s. Thom stood inside the closet, pointlessly adjusting the hangers, smoothing out imaginary wrinkles in his sister’s clothes, wondering at the hot salty tears that had filled his eyes. Pawing them away, he looked down and saw Mitzi and Chloe in the doorway, parked on their haunches and watching him dolefully. Despite himself, he laughed.

  “I know what you’re thinking, you two,” he said. “What’s Daddy doing in the closet?”

  The dogs cocked their heads, as if eager for the answer. But at that moment the doorbell rang, and they raced off in an ecstatic frenzy of barking.

  When Thom opened the door, there Carter stood in his shy, vaguely apprehensive slouch, as if he regretted having rung the bell at all. Thom had told him countless times that if he saw the Accord in the lot, he could simply come in—“Mi casa, su casa,” Thom liked to say—but Carter was a stringent observer of the Southern proprieties. A tall, gaunt man with a shadowy handsomeness many of Thorn’s friends found appealing, Carter was the only son of a bluff, well-connected bank president who’d attended the Citadel and served in Vietnam as a Green Beret, and his even more socially impeccable wife, a former Miss South Carolina from a blue-blooded Charleston family. Carter’s mother now spent her time doing volunteer work for a local historic preservation society, and attending luncheons and teas with her expensively coiffed and similarly face-lifted friends. Both of Carter’s grandmothers had been lifelong members of the DAR, and it was their photographs as fetching young belles that graced his fireplace mantel, not those of his lovers or friends. Today, Thom thought, he looked tired: his glinting brown eyes embedded deep in their sockets, cast into shadow beneath his bony, prominent forehead and straight dark brows.

  “Hey,” Thom said, swinging the door open. As Carter shuffled in, he bent to acknowledge the yipping dogs, feebly patting each of their heads. Long familiar with Carter, they quieted at once. After they’d trotted off through the dining nook, Carter threw a few quick glances around the room.

  “She’s in the kitchen,” Thom said. “On the phone. Are you feeling OK? You look a little tired.”

  “No, I’m fine,” Carter said. He’d folded his arms across his sunken chest, hands clamped beneath his armpits. He wore a navy sweater over his button-down shirt and jeans, but he seemed to be shivering. “It’s getting colder out, I think.”

  Last week, Thom and a few other friends had taken Carter to dinner at the Prince George to celebrate his thirty-eighth birthday, and he’d complained several times that the restaurant was too cold, although everyone else was comfortable. Thom found it difficult to judge, since he saw Carter almost every day, but he guessed that his friend, who’d always been slim, had lost twenty pounds in the last year.

  “Come on back,” Thom said. “I’ll make us some coffee and introduce you to Abby. I stopped at Starbucks and picked up some of those chocolate scones you like—you can eat one, can’t you?”

  Halfway across the room, Thom sensed that Carter wasn’t following. He turned back and saw that his friend lingered near the doorway, studying the Dali print hanging in the tiny foyer.

  “Hey, why don’t you come all the way in?” Thom laughed.

  Carter looked over, startled. “What? Oh, listen, I just got a call from Pace about that benefit, or whatever it is. Do you think he’d mind if Connie came along?”

  “Didn’t you ask him?”

  “About Connie? Well…no.”

  They’d known Constantine Lefcourt—all his friends called him “Connie”—for years, but although
Thom and Carter both adored him, some of their friends found him obnoxious. Too flamboyant, too opinionated. Too inclined to call attention to himself. Pace, who called him “Queenie” behind his back, particularly disliked him, since Connie had borrowed some money from Pace a couple of years back—either $250 or $750, depending on whose story you believed—and had never repaid him. Connie’s mother had died when he was a kid, leaving him almost as well off as Pace himself. Connie was coming into his trust fund just this year, and Thom couldn’t understand why he wouldn’t repay the loan.

  “Of course he won’t,” Thom said, though he knew that Pace probably would mind, a little.

  “Connie sort of invited himself, after I told him we were going,” Carter said. “He said he’s planning to donate $250, so maybe Pace won’t hate him any more.”

  “Pace doesn’t hate him,” Thom said. “But Connie ought to make it $750, if he really wants to mend fences. Anyway, you know how Pace’s parties are. There’ll be so many people….”

  Carter smiled at him, wanly. “That Connie might get lost in the crowd? You think so?”

  Now Carter did shamble into the living room; he sat on the edge of Thorn’s couch, hands still clamped beneath his arms.

  “There isn’t a crowd big enough for Connie to get lost in,” Thom said. He gestured back toward the kitchen. “Hey, don’t you want to meet my sister?”

  “What? Of course, I—”

  Carter’s gaze had drifted past Thorn’s shoulder. Behind him, Thom heard the frantic, familiar clattering of Mitzi and Chloe’s toenails as they raced out from the kitchen and across the dining room hardwoods. Abby followed them into the living room; her face wore a guarded smile.

  “Here I am,” she said. “Ready or not.”

  A Southern gentleman to the marrow, Carter struggled to his feet. He took several steps forward, one hand extended. “Nice to meet you, Abby. I’ve been hearing about you for years.”

  Thom waited while they exchanged small talk, Carter flashing his wide, white smile—his best feature. It occurred to Thom how seldom he’d seen it recently. Abby responded politely to Carter’s queries about her teaching, her flight to Atlanta, her plans for Christmas and New Year’s. On the way home from the airport, Thom had wondered anxiously if Abby would warm to his friends or whether she might resist meeting them, staying focused on her mission to bring him “home.” Since phoning her, he’d resolved to introduce her to everyone and to hide nothing, or almost nothing. Throughout his twenties, he’d shielded his family from anything that might distress them, or so he’d rationalized his cowardice in neglecting, year after year, to talk about his life. Abby had known, of course, but even they hadn’t really talked. During those years there were two Thom Sadlers—one for his parents’ house and a second for everywhere else. Though sharing the same name and body, these Thorns had become two distinct people and wore two quite different faces.

  Yes, he thought, remembering that era with a shudder of distaste. Two faces.

  Those days were over, he’d promised himself. Within minutes of his phone conversation with Abby last week, he’d vowed that since he’d told her about his infection he might as well be honest about everything else. Nowadays there was only one Thom Sadler. Otherwise their reunion had no real point.

  It had begun well, he thought. His sister seemed genuinely to like Carter Wilson Dawes III and to show no signs of the tactics their mother would deploy if thrown into this same situation. On the few occasions Thom had visited his parents with Roy or with one of his friends, his mother had studiously avoided eye contact; she’d either chatted with them in the chilly, high-pitched tone she used with door-to-door solicitors or had resorted to her impression of a Southern matron, affecting a shrill, semi-hysterical politeness that frightened everyone present. But Abby chatted pleasantly with Carter, asking about his work, his background, and Thom remembered she was a teacher, after all, who interacted with people every day. Her manner suggested no alarm at Carter’s pale, emaciated appearance, though he’d sat back down after shaking Abby’s hand, resuming his old-mannish slouch, hands tucked beneath his arms.

  “I’m not really sure,” Abby said now, glancing at Thom. “Am I?”

  He hadn’t been paying attention. “Sorry. Are you what?”

  Carter laughed abruptly, but the laugh turned into a hacking cough: this had been happening quite a bit, since Carter’s recent hospitalization with Pneumocystis. He bent over, coughing strenuously for several long seconds, while Thom and Abby watched with the same pained, helpless expressions.

  “Some water?” Thom asked, as he always did, and Carter shook his head, as he always did. He stayed bent almost double, his face reddened with strain. When the coughing subsided he stood up, shakily. He tried to smile.

  “I—I asked whether Abby was coming to the party,” he said, taking deep breaths. “The one at Pace’s house.”

  “Oh, sure,” Thom said quickly. “If she wants to come. Are you all right, Carter?”

  “Good, maybe we can all go together,” Carter said, studying his scuffed moccasins. He was taking slow, deep breaths. “Connie and Warren, too.” Carter glanced sideways at Abby. “Connie is excited about meeting you. Very excited, in fact.”

  “Connie?” she said, looking from Carter back to Thom. “Who is she?”

  This time, it was Thom who laughed. “A friend of ours—a male friend,” he said, thinking that Connie exceeded his descriptive powers. “Warren is his roommate.”

  “I see.” Abby looked confused, as though she didn’t see, but she smiled at Carter. “Do you have a roommate?”

  He glanced at her, startled. “No, I did have a partner but…but he’s deceased. Two years ago.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry,” Abby said.

  “That’s all right. Thanks for asking. Well, Thom, it’s time for my afternoon meds. I’ll have one of those scones tomorrow, OK?” Carter smiled morosely, edging away from the sofa. “I’m a slave to doctor’s orders,” he told Abby.

  Thom and Abby escorted him to the door. As they watched him hurry down the sidewalk, arms folded and head bent against the damp wind, Thom slipped his arm around Abby’s waist and gave a brief squeeze.

  “Thanks for being nice to Carter,” he said. “He’s having a tough time.”

  “Is he—is he going to make it?”

  Thom closed the door and gestured her back to the sofa; when they sat, Mitzi jumped into Thorn’s lap, nosed into the space between him and Abby and shut her eyes. Off in another room, he could hear the squeak of a toy and the muffled stampede of Chloe’s paws along the carpet as she lunged and played.

  “Honey,” Thom said, taking her hand, “I don’t know. His new drugs haven’t worked too well, but he could certainly rebound. He’s done it before. A few months ago, he was in the hospital with some intestinal thing, plus a high fever, and they called his family into town. Said he had a day or two at most. But he battled back.”

  Abby was staring down at their linked hands. She seemed so girlish and vulnerable, he thought, her hair mussed on one side—from the phone receiver, he supposed—and her fingers so limp and cool. And so tiny. How long since he’d held a woman’s hand? he wondered. He couldn’t recall.

  “Did Mom upset you?” he murmured.

  “Mom?” She looked up, and her confusion appeared childlike, too. Her eyes were damp, a milder blue than he remembered.

  “On the phone,” he said.

  “Oh, that wasn’t Mom,” she said quickly. “I wasn’t calling Mom.”

  A catch in her voice, as though she were about to say more but thought better of it. He decided not to pry.

  “You want to rest for a while?” he asked. “You could use a nap, it looks like. Then later, we’ll go someplace nice and quiet for dinner. We’ll catch up on a few things.”

  She nodded, glancing around the room as if lost.

  “OK then,” he said, smiling. “Alley-oop!” And he pulled her up from the couch, his arm circling her waist as they went back to t
he guest room. Mitzi trotted beside them, but as they approached the door she lunged ahead and leapt onto the bed. Chloe was already there, curled inside one half of Abby’s opened suitcase and methodically ripping her newest toy, a latex fire hydrant, into tiny pieces.

  “Chloe,” Thom scolded her, gently. He clapped his hands. “Out of there.”

  She jumped out of the suitcase and snuggled next to Mitzi, who had nestled into one of the pillows. The dogs stared at Thom and Abby as if awaiting an explanation.

  “This is your Aunt Abby’s room now,” Thom told them. He folded the suitcase and placed it against the wall, then hung the empty garment bag in the closet. He turned back the bedclothes on one side, allowing Mitzi and Chloe to stay curled on their pillow. Second only to eating, they loved napping; they had sensed what was about to happen.

  “Now, if you don’t want the girls to sleep with you,” Thom said, “just chase them out and shut the door. But I can promise the second you lie down, they’ll shut their eyes and sleep as long as you do. They won’t bother you.”

  He folded the bedspread and placed it on top of the dresser. The blinds were already drawn, so there was nothing left to do.

  “OK, then,” he said. “I guess I’ll—”

  But before he had quite turned to her, she hurried forward into his arms.

  “Oh, Thom,” she said, pressing her cool cheek against his throat. “It’s so—so awful.”

  At first he’d been too startled to react; his arms hung uselessly at his sides. But then he wrapped them around her trembling shoulders.

  “What’s so awful, honey?” he murmured.

  “Your being sick, and your friend,” she said. “And—and all of it.”

  “I know, but really I’m OK,” he whispered urgently. “The new drugs I mentioned—protease inhibitors, have you heard of them?—they work well, for most people. I mean, Carter was diagnosed long before me, so you shouldn’t assume—I mean—”

  At such times, he wasn’t too good with words; his salesman’s glibness abandoned him. Gently, he urged Abby down onto the bed. While she wiped at her eyes with one edge of the pillowcase, he removed her scuffed low-heeled black shoes—her teacher’s shoes, he supposed—and eased her legs under the sheet. He paused, watching her. She had one palm over her eyes as if in embarrassment, or some new extreme of exhaustion. He decided to follow his instinct and not think about it. He quickly removed his own shoes.