She left the island the morning after Jerome Cochran was killed. She didn’t accompany his body to the hospital, she didn’t attend his funeral. Without saying a word to anyone, she went first to her sister’s apartment to shower herself clean, then packed her bag and walked to the ferry dock, sitting there through the night until the ticket office opened at daybreak. Arriving at Our Lady of Grace, she told the portress at the front gate, “His blood went in my mouth.” Such imagery wasn’t unheard of here. More than a few times, people suffering from hysteria had come to the convent with harrowing visions of stigmata and bleeding crucifixes; while put up for a few nights, counseled and comforted, these people generally weren’t on the Mother Superior’s most-welcome list. But quickly it was determined that Anna wasn’t hallucinating. Dazed by the gunshot and the warm spray in her eyes, she’d fallen to her knees on the Winstons’ back lawn and spat into her palm. Jerome’s blood had gone in her mouth.
Through the fall and winter Anna was one of the lay persons on extended retreat at the convent. She lived in a guesthouse and worked side by side with the nuns in the fields and workshops. Often such a retreat proved a prelude to entrance as a postulant sister. Anna couldn’t think that far ahead, however. She was conscious of days proceeding one by one. The promise of spring was little more than a promise of passage, of getting there from here. To become a nun herself, to become Sister Bernadette after all, was a possibility she couldn’t have acknowledged in her present state, a fantasy she couldn’t remember playacting, a dream she’d lost upon waking.
Thirty
The stunning news of Jerome Cochran’s shooting was followed by island-wide rumors that Cochran’s son might die too. The prospect kept Willoughby Claire a while longer on Penscot, to see the drama through.
Several mainland newspapers sent reporters to Penscot to cover the shooting’s aftermath. Willoughby, holed up in his rented room, read the details avidly. Jerome’s funeral was attended by several hundred islanders. Of family, only Jerome’s brother went. Robby was awaiting trial for manslaughter; the papers said his bail had been posted by “a family friend, Matt Priam.” Brendan was recuperating at a mainland hospital. Lois Cochran was with him. The retarded boy, Marcus Locke, had been remanded to a mental hospital, the object of his infatuation, Araby Munro, shipped off to boarding school. Del Locke had been suspended from the Penscot police force pending an inquiry into his use of deadly force.
When reports came of Brendan’s successful surgery and good chance of recovery, Willoughby made plans to depart. But a newspaper wrap-up informed him for the first time that the retarded boy’s pistol had been a 9-millimeter Colt Commander, which the boy claimed to have found in a town dumpster. Willoughby wound up delaying his departure indefinitely. He knew that weapon well.
He hadn’t seen Matthew since the night of the incident, when Matthew’s raw woeful manner had quite freaked him out; indeed, his impatience to leave Penscot had been as much to leave Matthew, get clear of his clinginess, as it was to flee the mixed memory of his few days here. But realizing his part, however haphazard, in Jerome’s death, Willoughby felt inexorably drawn, like a crook to a crime scene, to the survivors circle of Brendan, Matthew, Lois, and Robby. Matthew was his only way into that circle, hence it would be through Matthew that Willoughby made his approach.
Matthew had proved an unlikely hero of this early aftermath. Even before he’d learned of Jerome’s shooting, the threat of cancer (real to him if to no one else) had forced him into a kind of preparatory dead state in order to make it from hour to hour. Jerome’s death was a blow upon numbness, bruising and bleeding beneath Matthew’s skin with little sensation of pain.
He made Jerome’s funeral arrangements, funding them out of pocket. He dumped down the toilet two ounces of cocaine he’d found in Jerome’s bureau drawer, then paid off the dealer from whom Jerome had acquired the stuff on credit. He put up his house as collateral for Robby’s bond, and after the arraignment hearing joined Lois at the hospital in time for Brendan’s follow-up surgery on his facial wounds. In the waiting area during the procedure. Lois poured out her remorse over enviously wishing ill on Jerome and Anna’s friendship. “Now everything feels like my fault,” she said.
“Oh, shut up! This is not about you. It’s not even about Jerome, who was a dope and a scoundrel.” Matthew pointed in the direction of the operating room. “Brendan is all that matters. He’s the only one of us worth anything. So can your guilt and I’ll can mine. It’s the least we can do.”
“What guilt do you have?”
“Let me count the ways . . . ”
Willoughby appeared at Matthew’s door a few days later. Their brief relationship had been one of mutual weak moments — a syndrome hard to break, and, as it happened, not one they cared to break now. Reviving unresolved issues between them returned them to an earlier, comparatively easier tune, when the blow of Jerome’s death had yet to fall.
It was a relief for Matthew, by Willoughby’s presence, to be reminded of his upcoming medical tests, tests that would permit him to behave purely selfishly, to be strong or frail in the face of his prognosis and have someone admire or comfort him for it. Willoughby was ripe for the task in either event. Jerome’s death had left him feeling emptier than ever. Longing to be of some good to someone, he would undertake a new mission. Devotion.
They went by ferry and then rental car up the coast to the hospital. In the oncology wing, Matthew surrendered to the nurse’s custody like a human sacrifice happy to go. He was, Willoughby had to say, very brave.
In the interim between lab tests and doctor consultations, Matthew and Willoughby went for coffee in the hospital cafeteria. The question avoided all day (where are we going?) yielded to one no less daunting: Why are we here? “My life may end with you,” Matthew offered by way of an answer.
“Your test results’ll be negative. I’m sure they will be.”
“You misunderstand me. I’m content. Illness has brought us together.”
“You could do better.”
“Not a chance. You’re a good person.”
“There are plenty who feel otherwise.”
“They’re wrong. You’re wrong. I’m right.”
A smile came to Willoughby’s face and tears came to his eyes. Tears! In a restaurant! While sipping coffee with a tight-wired homo with delusions of terminal illness. He wiped his eyes sheepishly. “It appears I’m starved for praise.”
“I’m pleased you think enough of me to take my praise to heart. I imagine you take things to heart rarely.”
“Try never,” Willoughby said. Then damn if he didn’t start crying again! He tilted his head to knock back unruly tears. “This is awful.”
“I’d say I hit a nerve.”
“I’ve just never met anyone like you.”
“Explain.”
“I don’t know. You’re sort of campy and solid, both. And consistent in how you judge things — yourself most of all. I respect that.”
“I wouldn’t mind something else from you, something less.” Matthew gazed meaningfully across the cafeteria table. His laden tone contrasted with their bright public circumstance to give an effect of conspiracy, of illicitness. “Respect me now?”
“I thought we went over this.”
“I lied. I’ve used the low trick of my own infirmity to lure you to this moment.” Matthew took a breath. “I want you, Willoughby. Sexually. I’m sorry for that.”
Willoughby glanced around in panic. It subsided along with his blush. He chose his words carefully. “I don’t imagine there’s need to be sorry.” His composure steadied as Matthew’s wavered in shock, in dread, that Willoughby might actually yield to him.
“No good can come of it,” Matthew reasoned at length. “Love me, and you’ll lose me. Hate me, and I lose you. I want to bring you only good things, and it isn’t possible. My dilemma is airtight.”
“I g
uess you just have to chance it.”
A trembly pause. “I don’t understand what you’re saying. I don’t want to be wrong here. I beg you to be clear.”
“I can’t be,” Willoughby said, “any clearer.”
Matthew reached across the table and touched Willoughby’s arm like a doctor with delicate news. Willoughby was locked in a pose of averted eyes, prepared for whatever. Jerome’s brains were blown out, the newspapers had said. His son would need extensive plastic surgery to restore his face. The witnesses present, the retarded youth and his brother — So Many Victims, one paper had editorialized. “ . . . a tragic sequence of events whose genuine villain is the one whose name we most likely never will learn, the person who discarded the pistol with inexcusable disregard for its dangers . . . ”
Matthew said quietly, “You’d be anything for anyone right now, wouldn’t you?” The words drew Willoughby out of his reverie. “Please tell me why.”
“Why what?”
“I see.” Matthew smiled in decorous retreat. “Perhaps someday you’ll trust me enough to tell me. I’d like that. I would like you to ask something, to desire something, that only I can give you. And then I’d like to give it.” Matthew’s lifelong custom, his failing and his virtue, was to love from afar, reproachfully, as he’d loved Jerome Cochran for years. Willoughby seated passively before him presented new recourse for Matthew, new power. He wanted to seize it, but didn’t, squeezing Willoughby’s hand tenderly, then releasing it with fond reluctance. The story of his life, you could say.
Matthew had labored hard managing the chaotic aftermath of Jerome’s life and death. It was a way of bridging, after the fact, the estrangement that had arisen between him and Jerome the day they shot the whales, an estrangement typical of their rocky friendship but which had proved a conclusive parting. He’d loved Jerome — but get intimate with him? No chance. Whereas Willoughby was here for the taking. Passing up the opportunity made Matthew feel proud, attractive, vital; it was a belated small step toward a new way of living, and the grin he unfurled as he sipped the last of his decaf signified its inauguration. For the first time in a long time, he felt blessed in his own skin. He rose to go meet his oncologist calmly certain all would be well.
As for Willoughby, how he could undertake making love with Matthew (for that indeed was the card he’d been prepared to play on the long odds of easing his conscience with a dubious act of sexual altruism) was a question whose answer was as simple and complex as anything sexual is: He could because he could. Sexuality is a peephole to the soul. Like the soul, it is cast at conception and molded through life. It means something. It doesn’t mean everything.
As they headed out of the cafeteria together, Matthew grasped Willoughby’s hand. They strode through the hospital that way — in the elevator, the hallway, the oncologist’s waiting room. Matthew didn’t even release it when the doctor came out to greet them. “My companion, Willoughby Claire,” he said. Willoughby gave a smile of affable mortification. The doctor shook his free hand. Willoughby next gave a jaunty wink to clarify that strolling hand-in-hand with another guy wasn’t his usual gig. To his horror the doctor winked back, showing his support for the rights of consenting adults. Then he graciously asked Matthew and Willoughby to step into his office together.
Thirty-One
[EXT]
Dear Brendan,
I am sorry for what happened to you. As the person who shot your father, I am sure you are not pleased to hear from me. I can only do what I think is right and please do not take offense at that. I wish I could say that my brother tried to hurt you because he was mentally retarded and he did not understand. But I think he did understand. I think this mostly because he will not admit it. Maybe he is too frightened to admit it, being away from home like he is. His fright changes nothing, I realize.
In addition to my apology, I am writing to tell you that I have applied for reinstatement to the Penscot Police. If I am reinstated, it is likely that we will see each other on the street or somewhere in passing. I am not now asking for your permission to resume my life, nor will I then. I feel terrible but not wrong for believing that your father intended to harm my brother. Consequently I feel terrible but not wrong about what happened. I hope you understand. Please get well soon.
Sincerely,
Delbert Locke
[/EXT]
“Uppity bastard,” Lois said. She’d delivered the letter to Brendan in the hospital.
“He lost his brother,” Brendan said. He was scheduled for more cosmetic surgery tomorrow, to touch up the scars on his face. Brendan thought he looked okay, but Lois, who was his guardian now, and the Winstons, who were paying for it, had persuaded him to go ahead. He explained to Lois, “A brother’s closer than a father, to lose.”
“How do you know?”
How did he know? His own sibling, whom Brendan had never met, had died with Brendan’s mother, drowned inside her as she herself had drowned inside the ocean. Lately at night in private mystical moments, he’d begun to think of that lost sibling as Jerome, who’d been, after all, much more like a brother than a dad, somebody to look out for, fight with, and intermittently realize you love. “I don’t know,” Brendan said. “I just do.” Then he asked Lois as he asked every day, “Anything from Araby?”
The answer once more was no. “She’s just scared. It had to be tough, seeing that.”
“Maybe,” he said, resting his head on the pillow. “And maybe she’s just a cunt.”
“Bren!”
He went silent. Eyes shut, with his hair shaved off and his face pale and puffy, a long jagged scar down one cheek, he looked like a young soldier in a ward far from home, shocking the nurses, or trying to, with the black humor and frontline gutter talk of someone still totally terrified.
There was intense interest in Brendan’s recovery throughout the Penscot community. When at last he returned from the mainland, a crowd of well-wishers met him at the ferry dock. It didn’t seem right to cheer. As he moved to his aunt’s station wagon, his Uncle Robby at the wheel, a collective sigh welled up around him and he colored in embarrassment. A banner proclaiming “Welcome Home!” was strung over South Main Street. Brendan frowned and said how dumb it was, but he knew he’d survived the sort of trauma most people only dream about.
Robby drove to Matthew’s house, where Matthew waited with determined buoyancy, his friend Willoughby looking nervously solicitous, ready to carry in bags, make tea, or do whatever anyone asked. Brendan hesitated a moment before leaving the car and making the walk to his new home.
He’d lost a lot of weight after the incident, gradually regaining it over the winter. The concurrence of his rejuvenation with Matthew’s decline wasn’t something Brendan noticed, though it was all too glaring to Matthew. Still, Matthew would cajole the boy into weighing contests on his bathroom scale, “to force me to diet and you to eat.” Brendan was depressed and without appetite. The contest made a game of recovery, a game won by gaining more weight in a week than Matthew lost. Willoughby kept the tally. The game petered out when Brendan’s weight stabilized while Matthew’s continued to drop.
Brendan misinterpreted, and thus resented, Matthew’s strident cheer through these days — resented it for his father’s sake. They’d been best friends, Jerome and Matthew. They’d supposedly been close. Brendan would have preferred a decent interval before Matthew found a new best friend in Willoughby. In fact the men’s swift attachment made Matthew seem hypocritical, what with all his past talk about temperance and decency and staying true to the things you cherish.
Cooling to Matthew, Brendan’s favor tilted toward Willoughby. Willoughby helped him catch up on missed homework, shot baskets at the gym with him (the doctors had forbade Brendan’s playing on the school team); best of all, he continued to fill in for Brendan the crucial period in his father’s life that Jerome had never discussed: Vietnam. To hear Willoughby tell it, J
erome was the hero of the war. Officers deferred to him, soldiers respected him. Willoughby made Brendan proud to be Jerome’s son.
Matthew would sit by listening, sometimes wincing or frowning at things Willoughby said; it made the boy boil inside. When one day in winter Matthew sat Brendan down and told him he’d been diagnosed with cancer last September, Brendan got even by laughing.
Matthew blanched. “How is that funny?”
“It’s one more thing that sucks.”
Matthew didn’t rebut Brendan’s snotty tone; they all walked on eggshells around him. He explained that his recent trips off island had been for radiation treatment. “And you’ve seen all the pills I take,” he said. “My tumor hasn’t shrunk, unfortunately.”
“Nor has it grown,” Willoughby interjected.
Matthew smiled to Brendan. “Do you see why I like him?”
Brendan saw, and it irked him. He wanted Willoughby to be his friend, his staunchest supporter, as Willoughby had been to Jerome (and Jerome to him, judging from what Willoughby said) when they’d served together in the war.
He grew increasingly cynical and uncooperative in the daily routine of the household. No one criticized him for it. From the start he’d received a lot of emotional leeway, and by now took it for granted. Finally his Aunt Lois decided a shake-up was in order. As someone who dealt with her problems by bulling straight through them, her first suggestion was that Brendan visit Jerome’s grave. In the hospital during the funeral, the boy had never asked about the ceremony, never been to the site. “Some other time,” he said. Lois next thought of the Winstons.
John and Carolyn Winston had come to know Brendan when he’d courted Araby last fall. It was fondness as much as their sense of responsibility that encouraged their interest, sentimental and monetary, in the boy’s recovery. They’d driven to town to visit him several times. Of Brendan’s facial scar Mr. Winston said enviously, “You look like a duelist. The chicks will cream.”
Life Between Wars Page 22
