Indestructible Object

by Mary McCoy

  “Yeah, well, good start,” she says, “but don’t get lazy on me.”

  “I should let you get back to your writing,” I say.

  “It’ll be good to have you at work again,” Claire says. She even sounds like she means it.

  When I return to our table, Max is laboring to finish every scrap on his plate, his face flushed with the effort.

  “You got the meat sweats?” I ask, spreading my napkin across my lap and digging into my pancakes.

  “Wouldn’t be a trip to Memphis without them,” he says.

  “Do you really have to go?” I ask. It still hasn’t quite hit me that his visit, which began so abruptly, is ending in the same way. “Can you stay a few more days, now that things are calmer? We could work on the podcast. Or not. We could do nothing. We could watch The Bachelorette. Really, I just don’t want you to go.”

  “Maggie and Sage already have the tickets, and we just patched things up. I feel like they probably want me to go back with them so we can talk.”

  “What about what you want?” I ask.

  Before he even opens his mouth, I can tell that going back to Chicago isn’t just Maggie and Sage’s idea, it’s what he wants too.

  “How about you?” he asks. “You’re not going to go back to kissing girls and lying about it the second my back is turned, are you?”

  “I won’t if you won’t,” I say, giving him a playful slap on the shoulder. I want this trip to end on a happy note between us. I’m afraid that if it doesn’t, he’ll think of my house as a place he was forced to come when he was a kid, where weird and upsetting things happened and everyone was a mess.

  And then, the older he gets, the further away it will be, and then it will just be a story he tells sometimes, on the rare occasions when Memphis comes up in conversation. Oh, Memphis, he’ll say. I spent a lot of time there when I was a kid. What a backward-ass place.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?” Max asks. “I was just kidding.”

  “What if this is the last time we’re ever in this city together?” I ask.

  Max looks down at his plate, mops up the last of the sausage gravy with his biscuit, and takes a deep breath, like he’s summoning his inner resources to finish it.

  “Then we will have to visit each other in other cities.”

  “I’m afraid of losing you,” I say.

  “I’m afraid of losing you, too,” Max says. “Your life always seems very crowded. I’m afraid you won’t have room for me in it.”

  “There is always room in my life for you, Max. Whatever shape you want that room to be.”

  “Can it be a hexagon?” he asks, stuffing the last bite of Southern breakfast into his mouth and grinning.

  Some people deploy jokes like they’re trying to trick you out of being sad, but when Max does it, he’s like a generous magician who shows you the silks up his sleeves, then dazzles you into feeling better anyway.

  “For you, I’d build a hexagon,” I say. “I’d build a pentagon. A pentagram. Max Lozada, there is a pentagram in my heart with your name on it.”

  “Lee Swan, that’s the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me,” he says with his mouth full.

  CHAPTER 39 Another You

  We say goodbye the way we always do. Harold picks us up in his gear-toting SUV so we can all take Sage, Maggie, and Max to the train station together. It’s early evening when we make the drive, and Max has sufficiently recovered from the meat sweats in time to have his beloved ham, pear, and Brie sandwich at the Arcade, and then that’s it. Walking them to the train platform seems too formal and final, so we’ve always said goodbye outside the Arcade, like our lives aren’t really so far apart, and we’re just going back to them for a little while, until we do this again.

  Both my parents are there, and I realize this is our last goodbye like this, which makes me sad until Max hugs me and whispers “Hail Satan” in my ear, and I draw a pentagram over my heart with the tip of my finger.

  Then Harold drives us home, just like always, except this time he’ll drop off my dad at his apartment and my mom at our house. As we make our way toward Midtown, they start to bicker over who gets the car which days next week, and I’m grateful to be distracted by a notification on my phone.

  Can we talk?

  That’s the text that Vincent sends me.

  I don’t even think about what to write back—it comes flowing out of my fingertips as easily as breathing.

  Always.

  As soon as my mom pulls into the driveway, I ask for the keys, tell her where I need to go. She doesn’t tell me what to do or how to feel or why it’s a bad idea. She hands me the keys and tells me to drive carefully.

  * * *

  “What a surprise, Lee,” Mr. Karega says when he answers the door. I don’t get the feeling he thinks it’s a very nice surprise, but I don’t let that stop me.

  “Hi, Mr. Karega, is Vincent home?” I ask.

  Then Vincent’s standing in the doorway too. He looks at his dad and says, “Can we have a minute, please?”

  Mr. Karega frowns and stands glued to the spot, like anything I have to say to Vincent, I can say in front of him. And who knows. I needed to say it all so badly, I probably would have apologized to Vincent and come out as a bisexual, polyamorous reformed cheater right there on the doorstep.

  But then, the most remarkable thing happens.

  “Dad, excuse us, please.”

  Then Vincent takes my hand and leads me inside the house, up the stairs, and into his bedroom, where he shuts the door behind us.

  I’ve never been here before, and I pause in front of the door, taking in the twin bed with the reading lamp clipped to the headboard; the tidy desktop recording setup—laptop, mixer, and microphone all positioned just so. There’s not so much as a dirty sock on the floor. I can’t tell whether everything’s packed or whether it’s always like this, and I’m shocked that after all this time, I don’t know the difference.

  When I look at the walls, though, I feel better. On the walls, that’s where I see Vincent. There’s art—a framed poster of the Kehinde Wiley presidential painting of Barack Obama, an Ernest Withers photograph. There’s a Memphis Grizzlies poster on the wall too, and I don’t know where it fits in, whether it’s one of the things he hasn’t packed because he’s leaving it behind, or because he can’t bear to spend a night in his room without it.

  Vincent motions for me to come in, to sit down at the desk. He pulls the laundry hamper up beside me and sits down. He hands me a pair of headphones, puts on another pair himself, and sets the microphone between us. And then he says, “Okay, let’s talk.”

  ARTISTS IN LOVE, EPISODE #86, POSTSCRIPT:

  “I Hope I Gave You a Good Love Story”

  Hosted by Vincent Karega and Lee Swan

  LEE SWAN:

  I can’t believe you even want to talk to me right now.

  VINCENT KAREGA:

  I want to talk to you all the time. Sometimes you’re the only person I want to talk to. Even when I’m angry with you.

  LEE:

  You have a lot of reasons to be angry with me.

  VINCENT:

  And you don’t have to be here right now, but here we are. After everything that’s happened, what do we have left to say to each other?

  LEE:

  I’m sorry. That’s one thing I have left to say to you. I’m sorry for everything, Vincent. Sorry that I lied, and that I didn’t tell you I was bi, and that I cheated, and for the way that it all came out.

  That’s part of it.

  VINCENT:

  What’s the other part?

  LEE:

  I know that Howard, and NPR, and everything that’s waiting for you in Washington, DC, is a great opportunity, Vincent. It’s going to change your whole life. And I’ve spent the past two years thinking that I knew you so well, but I didn’t even know you wanted to change your whole life. That seems like a pretty big thing not to know about someone you love.

  VINCENT:


  I could say the same thing about you.

  LEE:

  Why didn’t you tell me you wanted to get out of here so much?

  VINCENT:

  When it was just you and me recording stories in your attic, everything about that felt so right. And when I was there, I could make all these plans with you, tell you about the things I wanted to do with you, and in the moment, I meant them.

  LEE:

  What about when we weren’t in my attic?

  VINCENT:

  Everything got so much more complicated.

  Maybe my parents shouldn’t have come back to Memphis at all. They’re so afraid of everything, and I can’t even get mad about it because most of what they’re afraid of has to do with me.

  My whole life I’ve felt like I can’t slip up once. My parents act like being a brown boy in Memphis makes me a time bomb, and they’re just holding their breath, waiting for me to make one mistake that ruins my life.

  And the scary thing is, Lee, they’re not right to think that way. But they’re not wrong, either.

  It’s like they have this book of rules—not just the Bible, but another one too—and they believe that as long as I follow them, maybe everything will be okay. Homeschool, go to church, no parties, no going out, no dating, no sex.

  But the rules don’t change anything. They just make everything smaller until it feels like my whole world is a book of rules that don’t help and wouldn’t protect me even if I followed every single one of them.

  I needed to get out of here, away from that anxiety and control. Even if Howard University and NPR had never happened, I still needed to find a way out.

  I’ve known it for a long time, Lee, and I should have told you.

  LEE:

  I’m sorry, Vincent. I wish I’d done a better job understanding. I wish I’d asked more.

  VINCENT:

  I wish I had too. I mean, if I’d known from the beginning that you wanted to have other people in your life, I probably would have told you that you should explore it.

  LEE:

  Really?

  VINCENT:

  It’s not like I was exploring any of those things with you. It would have been a relief.

  Sex always seemed like one more thing that was lurking out in the world, waiting for me to make a mistake so it could ruin my life. It’s hard to want something when you feel that way about it.

  And I never talked to you about it because it was easier to pretend it was your problem. I’m sorry for that, Lee.

  LEE:

  So, if we’d been honest with each other about what we wanted from the beginning, we both would have gotten exactly what we wanted?

  VINCENT:

  It’s kind of funny when you put it like that.

  LEE:

  I’m not sure if I’m ready to laugh about it yet.

  VINCENT:

  Then why are you laughing? I wish there had been another you before there was you. Another you to make all these mistakes with so that by the time we met, we could be perfect for each other.

  LEE:

  I wish we could be like Man Ray’s Indestructible Object. I don’t want to try to recreate what we had. I want to build something new.

  VINCENT

  What does new look like to you?

  LEE:

  My life is in Memphis. And yours isn’t.

  VINCENT:

  But I still want you in it.

  LEE:

  Not the way we were, but I still want you in it too. I want to know who you really are when you’re out in the world, not just in my attic.

  VINCENT:

  I want to know you, too. The real you.

  LEE:

  I can’t wait to see what that looks like.

  VINCENT:

  I think it will be beautiful.

  LEE:

  I think the thing I said is the better last line, though.

  VINCENT:

  But I wanted to say the last line.

  LEE:

  Ha. Finally.

  VINCENT:

  Finally what?

  LEE:

  Eighty-six episodes I’ve been trying to get the last line, and you always act like it’s a coincidence that you get it every time.

  VINCENT:

  Do you really think I’m that petty?

  LEE:

  About last lines? Oh yes. Absolutely.

  VINCENT:

  Well, then, fine. You can have it.

  LEE:

  But I don’t have anything else left to say.

  VINCENT:

  Then I can’t help you. “It will be beautiful.” Last line. I stand by it. Will see it in the final mix.

  LEE:

  I can’t wait to see what that looks like.

  CHAPTER 40 What Art Is For

  I take my time driving back from Vincent’s house. The streets are dark and quiet; everyone’s turned off their porch lights and settled in for the night. I’m in no hurry to get back to my house because I know that Max won’t be there. Sage won’t be there. My dad won’t be there.

  If I’d known that Risa was there, though, I wouldn’t have made her wait.

  She’s there when I pull into the driveway, sitting on the porch swing. She’s rocking with the kind of purpose that makes it seem like this is what she came over to do, and that any other motives are secondary at this point. She’s rocking the way that I used to when I was a kid, the way that would make my parents tell me I was going to pull the whole swing out of the ceiling.

  When she sees me get out of the car, she puts her boot down hard and comes wobbling to a semi-dignified stop.

  “Your mom said I could wait for you,” she says before I can even say hello.

  “Can I get you something to drink?” I ask Risa. “I think we have iced tea.”

  “You do,” she says. “You mom is making me a glass right now.”

  “Oh,” I say, wondering what Risa and my mom chatted about long enough for her to take a drink order.

  “Is it okay that I’m here?” she asks. “I can’t tell if you’re glad to see me or not.”

  “I’m glad you’re here,” I say to Risa. “Just surprised. You did dump me in a train station parking lot yesterday.”

  Risa flinches, and for a second, I think she’s going to get up and leave, but then my mom calls out through the front door, “How do you take your iced tea, Risa? Sweet or unsweet?”

  And then I hear the creak of the screen door, and she sticks her head out and sees me, and says, “Oh, Lee, you’re back from Vincent’s. How did it go?”

  Now it’s my turn to flinch.

  But Risa stays where she is. She doesn’t look upset. She doesn’t look annoyed. She looks like she wants to know what I have to say next.

  “Sweet, please,” she says.

  “It was good,” I say. “We had a really good talk.”

  They both look at me expectantly, and I can tell they want me to say more. I’m not trying to be coy or difficult. It’s just that Risa’s on my front porch right now. She’s right here, and I don’t want to talk about Vincent anymore. I want to be here with her.

  My mom goes back inside, and Risa says, “Are you going to go with him, then?”

  “No,” I say. “I’m staying right here.”

  Risa pushes off with her foot and gets the swing going again. Over our heads, the chains creak against the rusty ceiling fixtures.

  “That’s what I’m doing too,” she says.

  My mom brings Risa a glass of sweet tea, and she brings me one too, even though I didn’t ask her to. Then she goes back inside and leaves us sitting side by side on the porch swing, scraping the sugar slurry at the bottom of the glass, lifting the cold spoons to our tongues.

  “When we were in my car yesterday, I told you that you weren’t who I expected to want,” Risa says.

  “It’s okay,” I say. “I understand how I might not be.”

  She sets her glass down on the steel luggage trunk my dad had once fished out of
a trash bin, and which had been our front porch coffee table ever since.

  “I’m not sure that matters, though,” she says. “I think it was an excuse.”

  “An excuse for what?”

  “An excuse to talk myself out of something I want because I’m too scared to want it.”

  I stop the swing and turn to Risa and take her hand. I think about all the things I’d once expected from my relationship with Vincent. Just because they hadn’t happened didn’t mean they should have, didn’t mean that I even wanted those same things anymore.

  “I don’t know what I’m doing either,” I say. “I never feel the way I’m supposed to feel. I never want the things I’m supposed to want.”

  Risa looks down at our hands. With one of her fingertips, she starts to trace up and down the back of my wrist.

  “I think that’s what art is for,” she says. “For when we don’t want the things we’re supposed to want, and the answers that were supposed to be right don’t work.”

  I’m stunned by her, because she is stunning and because she says things like this, things that make me see the world as I most want it to be. I want to tell her something profound in return, give her a bouquet of beautiful words right there on the front porch.

  What I say is, “I wish people on The Bachelorette talked like you. It would be such a better show,” and even though she laughs at me, I think she knows what I mean.

  When she’s stopped laughing, Risa takes a deep breath and says, “I was thinking about your beautiful dream. And mine. I think we both want a lot. And we could decide to be afraid and want less. Or we could decide to be brave and want more.”

  “So, what are we going to do?” I ask.

  She squeezes my hand, and I know that the feelings spilling out of her don’t have to be everything because they are big enough to include me.

  “We’ll be brave,” she says, and she kisses me.