“Why?”
“I’ll tell you later.”
“When’s later?”
“Tonight.”
“Is she having an affair?”
Ian coughed. “No, Toby.”
“Is she having one with you?”
Ian laughed, then he shivered. “Bea’s not having an affair with anybody. Your mother—” Ian said, and stopped himself from saying something. I looked at him closely. He was staring at his hands.
“I’ve had the flu since Wednesday,” I informed him. “Since Wednesday. Nobody called me. Not you, not my mother—”
“You had your dad, Toby.”
“No, I didn’t.” I got quiet. “My father has absconded.”
“He’s what?”
“My dad has left.”
Ian bit his coffee cup and looked at me, troubled. He nibbled foam chips off the rim and dribbled them. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means exactly that: my dad has left home. The place is deserted. It’s me and the roaches. We’re the end of the line.”
“So Beatrice was right.”
It sounded funny: Beatrice.
“About what?”
“About what? About … Oh, never mind.”
“You know,” I said to Ian, and I took his hand in my hand, and flipped it like a pancake, and looked him in the eye. “If I didn’t really love you, ya know what I’d do?”
He shook his head.
“What?”
“Oh, Ian, never mind.”
“I wanted to see you, Toby Sligh!” he protested. “But your mother! She won’t let me out of her sight!”
“So when did you pay the convenience store lady?”
“When your mom was asleep.”
“And the laundry?”
“What laundry?”
I told him about the fresh pile of laundry someone had delivered to our porchswing in the night.
“It was you or my mother.”
“It wasn’t me, Toby.”
“Then it must’ve been Mom.”
“Well, maybe you should ask her.”
“Is she receiving visitors?”
“Not at the moment … though sometimes, ya know, she acts like someone’s coming. She gets really nervous if a car drives by. And she sleeps with a rifle tucked underneath her mattress.”
“And where do you sleep?”
“On a futon in the closet. She needs me, Tobias. I protect her from—”
“What?”
“From something.”
“What’s ‘something’?”
“From something, Tobias … And you can’t help her, and your father can’t help her, and I can’t help her. She can only help herself! But she needs me there with her. She needs me to protect her! She’s told me things, Toby, she’s never told another soul.”
I looked at him once. He turned his face away. His artificial eye was like a boarded-up house.
“Where is she now? Is she here?”
“Is she where?”
“Is she here? At St. Osyth’s? Is she dying, like Scarcross?”
Ian stood up and fished more quarters from his pocket. He got fresh cups of coffee and he drank from his and mine.
“Scarcross is dying?” he asked, sitting down.
“Of course Eli’s dying! That’s why he’s here!”
“You said you would tell me the things that he told you.” “I’ve wanted to, Ian, but I’ve sort of had this flu and—”
“Just how sick were you?” He was looking at me closely. “I mean, how sick, really?”
“Pretty sick,” I said to him.
“And what were you sick with?”
Ian looked a little worried.
“I have no idea.”
His eyes were in mine.
“Scarcross,” I continued, “is a mystery, Ian. His words go right through you. We even struck a deal.”
“What kinda deal?” Ian spilled a pool of coffee. He was suddenly defensive. “What kinda deal, Toby?”
“We swore we would only tell each other the truth. No matter what happened. ‘Lies are God’s weeds.’ ”
“The truth,” Ian said, “the truth is a bastard.”
“But Scarcross is dying because he tried to live a lie.”
“What lie?” Ian said, coughing nonchalantly. He was going to say something, then his voice split in two.
“What was that, Ian? You were gonna say something—”
“I was saying, I was gonna … but the words got in the way.” An old man in pajamas lumbered over to us. He sat down beside us. He heard every word we said.
“Tell me about my mother.”
“I’ll tell you tonight.”
“You promise me, Ian?”
“I’ll tell you everything… . Are we still getting fitted at Castiglione’s?”
“You tell me.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It’s like we’ve forgotten.”
“Like we’ve forgotten what?”
I was suddenly bleeding.
“Oh, Christ! Everything!”
One month before, in the back of Ian’s Benz, at the Thunderbird Drive-In, we had made a lovers’ promise: we lay naked underneath two Cub Scout blankets, and there was popcorn all around us, and the night was on our bodies. We swore we loved each other, and we wanted to prove it: we swore we’d do something to validate our love. That was when I asked him to take me to the prom: to take me there, and kiss me there, and dance with me before the whole student body. Ian said he would, but I knew he wouldn’t; he said it the way that somebody says something when they want to make somebody they don’t love less insecure. But ever since then I had clung to his promise as if it were something only time could nullify: I had clung to it the day Bubba’s sister Angelina asked me to the prom and I said yes; I had clung to it when I learned that Courtney Ciccone would be Ian’s escort after he had promised me; and I clung to it now after two days of fever when Ian’s voice and face had become a memory. Who was Ian Lamb? And why did I believe him? And how far would I let myself fall before he caught me?
“I haven’t forgotten;’ Ian whispered, with feeling. “I remember our promise—every word of it, Toby.”
“Will you keep it?”
He blinked. “I don’t want to be expelled.”
“How can they expel us! We’ll have finished our exams! We’re graduating first and second in the senior class! All they’ll do is laugh! Laugh at us and call us faggots! We’ll make the evening news and get on with our lives!”
“I dunno, Toby.” He shuddered. “I’m a coward.”
“Then close your eyes, Ian, and pretend we’re alone! In a room, just the two of us, you and me, dancing! I don’t give a goddamn what people say! I love you! I know it! I didn’t before! I’ve felt things for you I never felt for anybody. Isn’t that why we’re going through all this bullshit? Isn’t that why we always lie to everybody?”
“Stop crying, Toby. People are watching.”
People were watching; the snack bar was packed.
“You could kiss me right here, and then I’d believe you! In front of everybody!”
“Be quiet, Toby Sligh!”
“You could kiss me right now, in front of everygoddamnbody! If we were a guy and a girl, folks would smile! They would say, ‘They’re in love!’ Everyone would be happy! If you only had the courage, if you only had the—”
But before I could finish my sentence, Ian kissed me. His tongue probed my mouth like a scavenger of love.
We sat there, blushing. People were leaving. Someone was shouting. My soul was in the air.
“How do you feel, Toby Sligh?” Ian asked me.
My arm was being punched.
“Um, I feel good… .”
“You better get out of here!” the old man was screeching, and pummeling my shoulder, and making lots of noise.
“C’mon, Toby Sligh,” Ian said, and helped me up. “You feel okay to walk?”
I nodded and we left.
On the elevator up to the eleventh floor of St. Osyth’s I showed Ian the list of books Scarcross had given me and which, I then realized, I’d forgotten to get.
“The Tempest!” Ian said. “I was in The Tempest! ‘Full faggot five!’ ” Ian sang, and squeezed my hand.
The elevator opened and Sr. Cindy entered and looked at me and Ian, and coughed when I got off.
Hi, Sister,” I said.
Hello, Toby,” she answered.
She glanced once at Ian, then down at the floor.
“I’ll see you tonight at Castiglione’s!” Ian hollered at me as the elevator closed. “I’ll bring my dancing shoes and we can practice our waltzing! And you can spend the night! Would you like to spend the night … ?”
And I floated, I glided past several LPNs to room 1111, where Fr. Scarcross lay—with a tube in his neck, and another in his chest, and another in his wrist, and a rosary in his fist; and he said, with difficulty, through a spiderweb of spittle, through a voice that broke in pieces every time he tried to speak, “After all this time, Toby Sligh, did you remember? Did you keep your promise to me? Have you brought my precious books?”
0 Rose, thou art sick!
The invisible worm
That flies in the night,
In the howling storm,
Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy,
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.
He lay there like a mannequin contemplating air. Apart from the poem, Scarcross had said nothing. At one point I thought I heard him call me a liar. Lucinda came in wearing a surgical mask, so I couldn’t see the nifty gold spike in her tongue. “May I see you outside for a moment?” she whispered, and handed me the mask that I should’ve been wearing. I looked at the Jesuit: his eyes were moving, speed-reading volumes in the study of his mind. And all at once his dead eyes pivoted toward me, pupils expressive and abject in their blindness. I couldn’t meet his gaze; its flatness went right through me—as if he had finally recognized the world for what it was.
“Had the flu,” Lucinda said, pointing to her mask.
“Me too. Majorly.”
Our voices sounded blurry.
“It’s a bitch, idn’t it? Anyway, I’m good to go. Feelin’ strong as Lynda Carter. What’s going on with Ja?”
“Dunno.” I shrugged. A shrug is shoulders lying. “I went in, said hi, he recited some poem, and now he’s just lying there, absolutely silent.”
“Eli’s been wanting to see you so badly. He said you promised to bring him some books.”
We both stepped aside as a gurney glided by. On it lay Peter, I.V.’s in his body. I smiled at him. He jerked his head away. I’d failed him. I watched as they wheeled the gurney off.
“Peter’s been waiting to see you too, Toby. Did you promise him something?”
“I never promised him a thing!”
“Settle down! God!” She took some pills from her pocket. They were antibiotics. She offered me one.
“No. Got my own.”
“Amoxil?”
“Augmentin.”
“Oh, you’re in the big leagues!” She popped one underneath her mask. “All I want to know is what’s going on with Scarcross. Sr. Cynthia Rose is an emotional wreck. André died yesterday, and Scarcross is dying, and now even Peter is down for the count. The only stable one is Magda, who’s crazy. We’re out for two days and the world falls apart.”
“They’re sick because of me.”
“That isn’t true, Toby. They might’ve picked it up from you or me or anybody. Viruses are like love. You never know when you’re contagious. That’s why we wear masks… . Did you promise Ja books?”
“He wants to be read to.”
“Why didn’t you get them?”
“I was sick with the flu!”
“Then tell him that, Toby! Jesus Christ, kiddo, tell the poor guy fucking something! And get the books tonight and bring them in ASAP.”
“Doesn’t anybody visit?”
“Nobody, Toby.”
“Why?”
“Who knows? He’s a priest who has AIDS. Priests are like doctors. They’re supposed to be healers. They aren’t allowed to get sick, and to die—and all that.”
I had taken off my mask and was looking at Lucinda. She had taken hers off and was looking at me.
“Why does Scarcross need me?”
The corridor was quiet.
“Why does anybody need us?” Lucinda said, and walked away.
I explained to Fr. Scarcross exactly what had happened, but still he wouldn’t answer—not for several hours. He lay there, blind eyes staring deeply into nothing, dry mouth chewing, his tongue licking air. When the sun sank down and the night stained the curtains and they rolled Peter in and I awakened from a dream, I felt Scarcross’s hand flutter down across my wrist, and his fraying voice unraveled like a promise in the night.
“Look beneath my bed. Beneath the mattress—lift a little … Do you have it? What is it?”
“It’s a rose.”
“Well … yes. I thought it when I smelled it. I thought it when I felt it. Someone left it for me, a friend, while I was sleeping. Did you leave it for me, Toby?”
“No.”
“I didn’t think so. What color is it?”
“Pink.”
“Nice color for roses … Your voice, Toby Sligh—your voice is full of dreaming.” He pressed the flower in my hand. “ Toby talks in his sleep… .”
“I do?”
Scarcross smiled. “You do!”
“About what?”
“About waltzing! With someone! With someone you love! With someone you dreamed about the first day you were here …”
“I talked in my sleep the first day I was here?”
“You couldn’t stop talking! I spoke to you through it.”
“You did?”
Scarcross nodded.
“Did I mention any . . . names?”
“You were dancing with—”
“Who?”
“With a friend. With a loved one … You had another dream. Just now. Do you remember? You dreamt of a … friend. The friend was named—”
“Randall.”
“Do your pockets feel lighter?”
“Excuse me?”
He was laughing.
“Your pockets, Toby Sligh—do your pockets feel … light?”
“This happens to me sometimes,” Scarcross said, and he shivered. His fingers were probing his throat in painful circles. “I used to talk quickly, and now it’s all so slow… . Every word, like a needle and thread, in and out. Like a needle and thread through my throat, Toby Sligh.”
His gorge rose a little, and I wiped his mouth of bile.
“It’s the medicine I’m taking that’s making me ill.”
“Drink some water,” I told him.
“I’d like some more water. You tell me your dream and I’ll drink some water, Toby. You talk about Randall and I’ll listen here and lie.”
“You mean lie here and listen.”
He took the water from me.
“We mean what we say … and you’re buzzing like a fly!”
“That’s my mask,” I told him. “Lucinda made me wear one. I’m recovering from the flu.”
“Take it off,” Scarcross said.
I looked at him. “What?”
“Take it off, Toby Sligh. Don’t imagine you have anything inside you that could hurt me.”
I told him I didn’t; he knew that I didn’t; I should’ve worn one from the first day I arrived. But he started to cough and his hands began to twitch, and he said he wouldn’t speak to anybody in a mask. So I looked around for nurses, and I thought a bit about it, and I looked at his body—which was dwindling away. Then I took off the mask and I handed it to him and I thought, Is this murder? Or is it making dying easier?
“Your dream—tell it truly. You’ve spent your lie, Toby. Les enfants qui mentent ne vont pas au paradis.”
A storm … A tempest… a house with no roof… the rafters were bone … we lay huddled inside … on the floor,
in a heap, with our heads between our knees … and the rain was pouring down … and the rain was pouring down.”
I remember, I think, you were talking to me, and then I must have … I—I must have drifted off to sleep. I’m sorry. … Is it night yet?”
“It’s been night for quite a while.”
“I’m sorry, Tobias… . I’m sorry I was cruel.”
“Do you want me to go, sir?”
“Call me Elijah. Do you need to go, Toby?”
“I got a fitting for a tux.”
“Will you come back tomorrow?”
“If you’re well enough, Father.”
“If I’m well enough, Toby? I’ll be well enough for you! And your dream! I forgot it! I dream a lot, Toby! Even when I’m awake! And my books! Please don’t forget!”
“I won’t, sir, I promise.”
“Elijah!”
“Elijah!”
“You know what you are?”
We could hear the sirens singing. His voice was paper tearing. ‘You’re my angel and my friend.”
At the formal wear store I was greeted by a tailor who wore a tape measure like a belt around his waist.
“Tim Sligh?”
“Toby. Tim Sligh is my father.”
The tailor checked a list and looked a little bit confused. “Timothy, Toby, I … Well, it does not matter.”
Then he grabbed me by the elbow and steered me to a back room and ordered me in no uncertain terms to drop my pants.
“Has Ian Lamb been here?” I asked him, pathetically.
The back of his wrist was pressing up against my balls.
“No Lamb here,” the tailor said, and made a note, and patted my ass, and said, “Turn around, please.”
After my fitting, back in our driveway, house lights on behind drawn curtains casting an eerie filtered light across our yard, I saw that Dad’s laundry had been lifted from the porchswing and strewn like a massacre of Halloween ghosts across the front planter and a chinaberry tree my father had planted on the day I was born. Then a white Plymouth came roaring round a corner and burned a black patch of tire rubber on our lawn. I didn’t see the driver. I didn’t want to see him. I was crouched between two palm trees, their trunks protecting me.
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