Boy

by James Stryker

  “I have the picture.”

  It was appealing. So tempting to—

  “Show it to me then.”

  The words left Tom’s mouth before he could finish mulling it over or construct a sly way to get what he wanted and maintain the indifference. He’d never see the child. Even if Jay had been alive and none of this drama had cropped up, Tom was still going to die ahead of its birth.

  Tom supposed that wanting to see the sonogram had to do with his approaching death, whether by his own hand now, or in six months. Though he hadn’t solicited them, Jay had sent shadowy pictures of the first child who hadn’t survived. Fatherhood had been Jay’s desire, not Tom’s. But as his life started to curve away from him, the weekly updates had become important. He’d eagerly anticipated that first sonogram. It would resemble a wad of gum, but he wanted to see it. Beyond rationale and convention.

  I know it’s selfish and narcissistic. I don’t feel I’m their father or that this would be my grandchild. But I had a part in it. There will be another life, a chain continuing. A part of me is going to live on. Somehow it makes dying before I’m fifty not as bad. My life isn’t as insignificant.

  “I want you to tell me everything first.”

  Do you really have the balls to dangle that in front of a sick, dying man, you little fuck? But his thought did provide an approach to obtain the picture and get rid of Luke. It’d be like succeeding at having breakfast on a closed patio. He’d play the ultimate trump card. The timing also couldn’t have been better. It was becoming too strenuous to hide the pain and nausea. He needed Luke to go soon.

  “Even if I thought your dad wanted you to know everything, which I’m not sure he would, I don’t have the energy for trips along memory lane,” Tom said. “I don’t want to be your Virgil. I don’t have fucking time for it.”

  “What do you mean you don’t have time?” The boy followed the setup perfectly. “You’re retired from whatever. You said you lived alone and did what you pleased. What else do you have to do?”

  “I’m dying, you fucking asshole. If I’m lucky, I have six months left, and I don’t want to spend my remaining time recalling what are, for me, painful memories. I want to be left alone.”

  It occurred to Tom that this was the first time he’d said it aloud, besides to the waitress at the restaurant. However, she’d been a stranger. Telling Luke was similar to how it would’ve been to tell Jay.

  But it’s not exactly the same. If Jay were in front of me, and I told him I had six months to live, he wouldn’t have stood there. He’d have enveloped me in his arms. And I feel so unstable right now that we would’ve sunk to the kitchen floor. He’d let me cling to him and cry into his shoulder. It’s not fair I have to go through so much pain and die when I’m still young. There are jackasses that’ll live into their nineties and still run marathons. I won’t make it to forty-nine. He would let me get it all out.

  There were many reasons why Tom wished he’d told Jay the truth. But currently, the most selfish one reigned supreme. He’d missed the opportunity to tell someone who would miss him. Who’d be pained at the prospect of him no longer being there and would mourn for him. Tom had cheated himself from the satisfaction of having someone be as upset as he was.

  It’s awful, and you should want to spare your loved ones the pain. But it would’ve been nice to feel someone agree that it’s fucked-up. Not because cancer itself is fucked-up. It is, but it’s fucked-up that it’s happening to me. That I’m the one who’s dying. Whatever the method.

  When someone was hurt in this way, their pain was like a refraction of light through a lens. When it came through the lens, and the beam was focused, the image changed and was no longer one of pain. It was truly one of love. To feel pain was to love. And Jay would’ve been devastated.

  I’d have pressed my face to the collar of your shirt and felt you shaking. And your grief, your sadness, would’ve made me feel better. In seeing your tears, I’d know I was loved.

  That’s why it wasn’t the same with Luke, no matter how tempted Tom was to pretend he was talking to Jay. There was sorrow in his eyes only because death was unfortunate and people were expected to feel bad about it. It wasn’t that Tom meant anything to him. Not that Tom wanted to mean anything to him.

  “You’re dying?”

  “Yes. So can we cut the shit? You know all you need to. Your father was a good man. He loved you. Let me see the picture.”

  “But I didn’t know him.”

  So much for the trump card.

  “Yes, you did. You knew the real him.”

  “I also want to know you.”

  “I’m no one to you. I don’t know how much clearer I can make that.”

  “But—”

  “No one!” Tom cut off his protest. He folded his arms across his chest, digging his fingers hard into his biceps to put his mind somewhere other than his stomach. “I don’t want to be known by you! I don’t want to know you!”

  Was it the shouting that was too much? That cranked the nausea to the max? He was going to be sick again. Not vomiting a granola bar sick. Violent, leaning-over-the-toilet-for-hours sick, as he’d been when he’d received the call four days ago. He didn’t have more time to waste on this mess. He had to escape.

  But Luke didn’t seem to be going anywhere. And despite the room starting to spin, Tom still wanted that Goddamn sonogram.

  “Fine. You can stay the night, since you seem intent on disturbing me.” He crossed the kitchen. “Take the spare room down the hall, but I want you gone tomorrow. Let a dying man rot in peace.”

  Tom turned abruptly and left. As he’d hoped, he made it into the bathroom connected to his bedroom. He closed the door and got his head over the toilet bowl just in time.

  It took a few minutes before he could form a coherent thought.

  I’d be dead by now. So fucking dead that flesh-eating flies would be boring through the walls to get to me. This is why you don’t have kids. Why you don’t help anyone have kids. They might find out and show up on your doorstep just as you’re ready to axe yourself.

  He leaned his cheek on the porcelain rim. It would be a long night.

  ✩✩✩

  Tom remembered crawling into bed at around one in the morning. It’d been a bad round, particularly since he hadn’t eaten much. But dry heaving never lasted forever, only for what seemed like forever.

  He thought maybe he’d passed out. Only whenever he’d blacked out previously, he hadn’t dreamed. And this time he’d had an odd dream that began as soon as he hit the pillow.

  Tom dreamed that he was thirsty. Horribly thirsty. Gargling-sand thirsty. In the dream, he’d been sleeping, and the thirst woke him. A painter painting himself painting.

  His dream-self hadn’t felt the pain or weakness that followed a vomiting episode, and he walked to his kitchen like a normal, healthy person. He trailed his fingertips against the wall as if he were a child running a stick along a picket fence.

  He hadn’t needed to turn on the light. He just took a glass from the cupboard and turned on the water. He filled and drained the glass six times. It felt wonderful. It tasted wonderful. Nothing had that alkaline, metallic taste in dreams.

  Cancer fucked everything up, even getting a drink in the middle of the night. Maybe that’s why he was having a basic dream. Life should be this simple again. He longed for the mundane.

  But nothing nice could last.

  Halfway through his seventh glass of water, Tom could no longer hold the glass. It shattered on the floor, and his body shook with such ferocity that he couldn’t stand. He collapsed on the tiles, shivering and vulnerable.

  And he was frightened, so very frightened. Although he’d been intent on taking his own life, he didn’t want to die on the kitchen floor, writhing like a dog that had gotten into antifreeze. He’d wanted to die hours ago, falling asleep on the couch in front of his piano. But no, if he could have any death…

  He struck his arm against the kitchen floor, unabl
e to stop the repetitive movement.

  “I want you to be here with me! You were supposed to be here with me!” Tom cried. “You were supposed to drop everything and come to me! And comfort me! And talk to me about when we were young and were going to live forever! I want you to stay by me, and hold my hand when I go! I don’t want to be alone! Why did you have to die and leave me? Why did you have to leave in the fucking first place? Why didn’t you stay with me? I don’t want to die like this! You motherfucker! I don’t want to die like this!”

  And God had heard. Miraculously the clouds parted. He opened his eyes and there he was, brightness surrounding him.

  “Tom?” Jay knelt, taking his hands.

  “I really am dead.”

  He was happy. The pain was over. The humiliation. The shit life that had been a waste anyway. And Jay was there. That above all. A heat radiated through him as if he were standing before a curtain of fire.

  “No, you’re alive. Here, let me help you.”

  He was disappointed to not be dead. He wanted to go wherever Jay would lead him. In this state, where all the constraints were severed, Jay couldn’t leave. If there was a paradise, and his suffering was rewarded with attaining everything he wished for, he wanted this now. He contemplated arguing with the angel, demanding to die. But this wasn’t a random harp-toting, robed figure. This was Jay. And Tom had never been able to do anything but follow him.

  The shaking stopped as Jay held his arm and helped him up. Strength seemed to flow from the spirit directly into him, and he only needed to lean lightly on his friend as they walked down the hall. He noticed that the farther from the kitchen they went, the more the glow around Jay dimmed, until he looked like a normal human being, instead of an angel.

  “You came back for me,” Tom said.

  “I heard you calling. I couldn’t leave you.”

  They were at the doorway to Tom’s bedroom, and Jay leaned away, sending him into a near panic. He was reassured when Jay returned, and Tom smiled since the radiance surrounding him was back too.

  “You’ll stay with me, Jay. Won’t you? This time you’ll stay?”

  The angel led him to his bed, where he allowed himself to be tucked in. But the lack of response alarmed him, and he caught Jay’s wrist.

  “Please, stay with me. You have to. There’s no reason why you can’t.”

  Concern streaked across Jay’s perfect, golden face. Who knew what responsibilities an angel had? He was asking too much again, keeping Jay from more important things. But he couldn’t bear it. Tom reached up and smoothed a piece of Jay’s hair from his forehead. He wanted to die so much.

  “I won’t be long. I’ll try. Just don’t leave me.”

  Jay pulled his wrist free, but he hadn’t left. Instead, he knelt beside the bed and took Tom’s hands.

  “I’ll stay.”

  And in the dream, the dream-Tom fell asleep, never having felt so complete.

  He had other random dreams within dreams that night, but only bits and pieces stuck with him. They were mostly episodes of being sick again. Vomiting into the toilet until his throat was raw. Not making it to the bathroom and being sick on the floor. A horrible nightmare where the pain in his abdomen came back. It advanced like a serpent, winding itself around his spinal cord and inching higher and higher. It reared its triangular head, and he saw the red eyes as it opened its mouth to sink its fangs into his brain stem. He dreamed that he woke screaming.

  But it wasn’t all bad. In every snippet, Jay was there, keeping his promise to stay with Tom until he died. When he dreamed he was vomiting in the bathroom, his friend sat beside him, rubbing his back. When he was sick on the floor, Jay helped him into bed and told him not to worry, not to be sorry, that he’d take care of the mess. And he wasn’t abandoned during the worst dream either. The angel didn’t kill the snake, but he held Tom’s hand when he went through the pain. Jay caressed his hair and assured him that he wasn’t alone, that he was safe.

  So in spite of the insanity and terror, when Tom left this patchwork of dreams behind, he felt disappointed as Jay’s presence slipped away. He kept his eyes closed and lay still, attempting to recapture the sense of his friend being near, touching his arm, and holding his hands. He moved his thumb and first finger together, trying to feel again the individual strands of his hair. He reviewed his dreams until they were overplayed, and he couldn’t hold on to Jay any longer.

  ✩✩✩

  Tom propped himself up on his elbows. He surveyed the room—it was the same as always, and no apparitions lurked in its corners. His windows were open. He didn’t remember opening them, but it was possible that he’d been proactive prior to falling into a bizarrely active sleep. The February air swept its freshness into the room and circulated out the sickness. He loved the cold.

  And how are we feeling today, Tom? Moderately well, having spent the past several hours dreaming that you’re dying, and you had Jay back?

  He did feel surprisingly improved. Shaky, since he needed to shovel something down his throat, even if it’d taste like magnets, but the pain and nausea were absent.

  And we mustn’t be ungrateful for small blessings. Tom smirked and swung his legs over the bedside. Whether it’s two degrees or two symptoms. Every little bit—

  But he couldn’t finish the idiom. He looked at the floor and realized he was about to step on Luke. The boy was asleep by his bed, his arm tucked under his head as an improvised pillow.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  February 2038: Luke

  “Old man? My God, you’re cruel, boy.”

  “You’re such a vulgar boy.”

  “Or you can be a good boy and stay sober.”

  “I’m leading. Leading. Can you stop acting like a little boy?”

  “You’re stupid. A fucking, stupid little boy. And that’s all you’ll ever be.”

  These statements played through Luke’s head as he sagged against the living room doorframe and watched Tom DuBelle play his piano.

  When he woke on the floor, he’d initially been so panicked that he hadn’t noticed the music. He’d bolted up, terrified and panting as if from a nightmare. But he’d gone to sleep from a nightmare and actually awoken from nothing. The nothing of total physical, mental, and emotional exhaustion.

  The bed had been empty. Tom’s absence sent his adrenaline pumping until Luke registered that the bed had been made and a thin blanket had been tucked around him.

  But where is he? What if Tom had spent all his energy stealthily making the bed and finding a blanket only to pass out in the hallway? The image of Tom lying dead somewhere brought Luke to his feet. But as he was getting ready to search the apartment for a body, he heard the piano music.

  It leaked slowly into the bedroom through the door gap.

  If you’re near to death, you don’t go to the trouble of shutting the door except for a crack. Luke pushed it open and followed the music.

  From the full, swelling tones that flowed from the front of the condo, the sound couldn’t be a recording. When he saw Tom at the grand, with all his picture frames back on the lid, all Luke could do for several minutes was breathe.

  Tom leaned over his piano, and in the warmth of the notes, Luke heard how his fingers caressed the keys. It could hardly be called “playing,” since it was more than just striking keys in a predetermined order. The action was living, and the piano was an extension of his voice. Tom moved with a gentle consistency, leaning in and out as if he was breathing air into a balloon. The emotional, hypnotic way he coaxed the instrument on made Luke feel as if he’d stumbled into Tom’s sacrosanct paradise. Yet he felt as compelled to interject as he did to back away. So he resigned himself to stand in the doorway and listen. And wonder.

  What Tom played was familiar—Cavalleria Rusticana’s “Intermezzo”. It was one of his father’s favorite pieces of music, one that Jay played over and over again.

  Are you thinking of him?

  He expected
Tom to turn as the last notes folded into each other, but instead, he played as if the music had never been meant to end. It transformed into another piece Luke knew.

  The “Flower Song” was something else Jay had listened to so constantly that Luke knew the gibberish by heart. He could hear the voice of his father’s favorite tenor overlaying the piano. You are thinking of him. Are you thinking about him in general? Or how you thought I was him? Do you remember that? Maybe you don’t know what I was doing on your bedroom floor this morning.

  His knees felt weak as he reflected on last night. Luke was exhausted. More so than he ever remembered feeling.

  He’d pulled all-nighters. It was fun to sleep over at a friend’s house and chug bottles of soda during Scrabble. Or when he was working, and he’d be awake with the rest of the cast, running lines until the words made no sense, and the sun broke over the horizon.

  Or staying up all night with Dad, watching Robert Cuccioli.

  And he’d taken care of sick people. It was undesirable, but when Beau had had the flu, he’d brought her soup and offered her tissues. He’d certainly cleaned up vomit. Granted, it was more often than not a dead person’s vomit, but vomit was vomit.

  There was that teenager who committed suicide on Madison Street. He let his grandpa’s old car run with the garage door down. I helped Dad get what was left of him in the bag. He was melting in my hands. Globs sliding from the bones like fucking scrambled eggs.

  That liquefying body had been the most disgusting thing he’d seen…he’d touched. He could handle vomit. Helping Jay had numbed Luke to many things.

  But none of the late nights, none of his time with the sick or grossly dead had prepped him for what’d happened twelve hours ago. Not even when his father had died in his arms. Potentially, that experience could’ve been the crossroads. But watching Jay die had been over too quickly for them both.

  Last night, Tom had suffered for hours. There’d been nothing Luke could do to stop or ease it. He’d just been a powerless witness to misery. And the ordeal wasn’t over. Tom appeared to be feeling better at present, yet he’d continue to suffer until he died. And Luke would remain helpless to do anything. It was only pain—without complications. There was no question of fairness or equality. No one to blame or misinterpretations to make. No pride. No conspiracies. Nothing and no one to fall back on. Nowhere to run away.