by Greg Johnson
He drove. He kept the windows cracked open and enjoyed the fresh warm air swirling through the car. He had no thoughts about anything for a while but then, as he approached the perimeter, he became aware that his heart was beating lightly, quickly. His limbs, his chest, his mood itself felt light and airy. He took slow, deep breaths, resisting as he exhaled the urge to release a bright rippling laugh. Why should he feel so happy all of a sudden? What had happened? His hands flexed on the wheel, his fingers spreading, then gripping tight and spreading open again, as if they would like to be wings and fly.
Hill by dreamy hill, he approached the city. As he passed the West Paces exit, he crested one of the steeper grades, still going the speed limit and in no hurry, no hurry at all, and then the skyline of Atlanta rose through the dusk before him. The vault of sky beyond had darkened to a bruised violet, a plush background for the bejeweled cones and spires wavering in Thorn’s vision like a mirage. The magical city beckoned to him, glimmering. Shining. He would keep driving, he thought, until the city embraced him, absorbed him, and there was nothing left. He felt something in his throat, a stinging in his eyes. What is wrong? he wondered. Nothing was wrong, or maybe everything. He had no way of knowing, but he supposed that was all right. He was sixteen. He would find out soon enough.
When you’re in love, Thom thought, smiling, everything looks beautiful. Even Cobb County.
He’d gotten a call at eight this morning, a referral from Metro Brokers; a longtime agent there, an acquaintance of Thorn’s, had died a couple of months ago. He’d stopped all his medications and in the weeks before he died apportioned out his clients—“bequeathed them,” as he’d put it—among his agent friends. Thorn’s appointment this morning was with a young couple from South Carolina who wanted new construction north of the city in the mid $200s, so Thom planned to show them some of the subdivisions a few miles beyond the perimeter. For the most part he avoided Cobb County, which was Newt Gingrich’s home district and, more infamously for Atlanta’s gay population, ground zero for Southern “religious” homophobia. In the early 1990s the county commissioners, prompted by a play presented in a Marietta theatre that had dared to mention gay people, had passed a resolution condemning the “homosexual lifestyle.” The usual ‘90s-era controversy had followed: groups protesting the resolution, groups supporting the resolution, heated discussions on radio and TV talk shows, boycotts of Marietta businesses by gay groups, fiery sermons from conservative pulpits. The county had lost some convention business, and the ‘96 Olympics had rerouted the torch ceremony to avoid the Marietta square, but otherwise the turmoil had little effect on anybody. No gay people became ungay; no bigots became Christlike. Marching in the streets wasn’t Thorn’s style, but he’d done his bit by steering clients away from Cobb into other suburbs where housing was relatively cheap: Gwinnett County, or Alpharetta. Thom knew that per capita there were just as many homophobes in those areas as in Marietta, but still these maneuvers made him feel better. Only when the infamous resolution had been quietly rescinded last year had he resumed occasional ventures north of the Chattahoochee River on 1-75, into the heart of Gingrich country.
Yet Thom was in love, and even the bare trees gleamed on either side of the expressway, the evergreens bending gracefully in the February wind, as though welcoming him. It was one of those frigid but brightly sunny winter days that had forced Thom to dig his sunglasses out of the glove box. He had WABE on the radio—a Chopin prelude, he guessed, not that it really mattered—and he had his boyfriend to think about. In the days since their talk the previous weekend, Thom had berated himself for expecting too much: of course, learning that Thom was HIV-positive had been a blow for Chip. Thom had to keep reminding himself of that his boyfriend was only twenty-five. Their sexless Valentine’s Day visit at first had assumed tragic proportions to Thom but now seemed a small milestone in their relationship (for certainly, people involved over long periods of time did not have sex every night: why was he still prey to the kind of gay romanticism he was quick to deride in others?) and he was pleased, overall, with the way the weekend had gone. The next morning Chip had kissed him sweetly on the cheek and given him a long, lingering hug, again murmuring “I love you” so that Thom, startled, again merely echoed the words. Then a touching thing had happened: Chip had stepped back, his sober gray eyes glistening with tears. Somehow Thom had never imagined such a moment: his level-headed, calm-voiced young boyfriend, a graduate student in biology with a methodical temperament and an eerie self-possession for one so young, abruptly overcome with emotion.
“Hey,” Thom had said, touching his cheek. “Don’t worry, I’m going to be fine. We’re going to be fine.”
Flushing, Chip had given an embarrassed smile, slung his backpack over one shoulder, and taken off. That was three days ago. Each night Thom had phoned him, and they had resumed easily their old camaraderie, carefully avoiding the topic of Thorn’s health. Chip had gotten excited about a new project his graduate adviser had proposed, asking Chip to help him read submissions to a prestigious journal for which the professor was a consulting editor, and he had chattered happily about that into Thorn’s indulgent ear. Each night, going to sleep, Thom felt his body weightless and insubstantial except for the red-hot core of tumbling, teeming emotion that was his heart. Yes, Thom Sadler was in love—it was official—and Cobb County this stark sunlit winter morning might have been paradise itself.
As he exited on Windy Hill Road, his pager buzzed at his side; he unlatched the big mosquito, as he not-fondly thought of it, and stared at the message: CALL OFFICE. He was only a mile from the subdivision where he’d agreed to meet his clients at ten o’clock. There was a new secretary at his office who paged him with annoyingly vague messages that might or might not be important. Had the clients canceled at the last minute? Was it a call about one of his listings he could easily return later? Was his condo on fire? Whatever the case, the secretary would merely enter CALL OFFICE, as if preferring to surprise him. He knew he was on the verge of breaking down and getting a cell phone but for now there was nothing to do but pull into this BP station and dig thirty-five cents out of his pocket.
“Jolene?” he said. “I’m out in Marietta, on my way to meet the McPhersons. What’s this message about?”
“What? Oh, hold on, Thom…” Chattering in the background. Laughter. Shuffling of papers. Thom shivered in the frigid wind of paradise. “OK, here it is. Sorry. Um, you got a call from somebody named Chip Raines. Said you had his number. Said it was urgent and call right away.”
“OK, thanks.” He hung up.
Urgent? Call right away? The words took the wind out of him, they were so unlike Chip. Instantly, Thom pictured an accident, a death in Chip’s family, some horror he couldn’t imagine…. His fingers were shaking as he started the ignition, trying to think where his nearest branch office was. He couldn’t call Chip from that phone niche outside of a BP station in Cobb County.
Thom drove, blindly. Somehow he had turned onto Cobb Parkway; he knew there was a branch office along here, but he might be headed the wrong way. Traffic was heavy, moving with a ponderous slowness. After a mile Thom forced himself to pull over, into a used car lot. He sat there, breathing heavily, forcing himself to think. After a few seconds his head did clear, and he understood the office was the other way, north of Windy Hill Road. He merged back into the parkway traffic, forcing himself to keep control. He drove.
A few minutes later, he blustered into the Marietta office and asked a startled-looking receptionist if there was a conference room not being used. She pointed vaguely. He rushed inside, shut the door, and grabbed the phone.
Chip answered on the first ring. “Thom? I’ve been sitting here waiting, I’m about to leave for my lab class….”
“What is it, honey?” Thom said. “The secretary said it was urgent. Or maybe she misunderstood, she isn’t very—”
“No, I did say that. I guess I shouldn’t have. I’m sorry.”
There was a pause.
“Well?” Thom said. “Honey? What’s wrong?”
Chip exhaled, a small whooshing sound. Exasperation? Helplessness? “You know, your calling me ‘honey’ doesn’t make this any easier.”
“What? What do you mean?” Thom gripped the receiver as though it might fly out of his hand.
“Listen, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and here it is. I just can’t be in a relationship like this. I can’t spend the whole time worrying about when you’ll get sick, and how bad it will be. I’m just not the sickroom type. I don’t want to be a widow in my twenties.”
He’d reeled out the words quickly, as though reading from a card. Thom supposed he’d been practicing them; that’s why they sounded harsher than Chip intended.
Thom said, “My God, we need to talk about this. Of all people, you should know this isn’t a death sentence anymore. I’m perfectly fine. I’ve got friends who were diagnosed ten years ago, and they’re doing great. I have no symptoms, I… But you know all this. What’s really going on here?”
He talked as though running blindly in a dark cave, not knowing if any moment he might hit a jagged wall. Why the hell couldn’t Chip have come to Atlanta, at least, so they could talk face to face?
“I told you what’s going on,” Chip said coldly. “I can’t handle it. I’ve thought out all the permutations, Thom. I’ve weighed everything out, and it just isn’t going to work. I’m sorry.”
Instinctively, Thorn’s free hand had extended, palm up, a gesture he used when trying to reason with someone. A salesman’s gesture.
“But listen, honey, we’ve got to—”
He stopped. Chip had hung up.
Thom felt something along one side, a tingling sensation, and his first thought was that he was having a stroke. He was thirty-four and having a stroke. Then he understood the pager had buzzed.
He plucked the thing off his belt and stared dully at the message: CALL OFFICE. He was going to fire that stupid bitch. He picked up the phone and dialed.
“It’s Thom. Another message?”
“Oh yes, Thom, hold on a sec… Oh, here it is. A Mr. Lefcourt called. He says please call him right away.”
Thom hung up. He dialed Connie’s number.
“Thom? You’re such a doll to call back so fast. I’m an emotional wreck here! Do you have a minute?”
“Sure,” Thom said. “What is it?”
“You sound a bit short, Thom honey. Are you busy? You want to call back later?”
“No, sorry—I’ve just been dumped, that’s all. So how is your morning going?”
Thom had heard a thickness in Connie’s voice, as though he’d been crying.
“Dumped? By that—that boy over in Athens? Oh, sweetie, I’m so sorry….”
“Thanks, but I’m not ready to talk about it. It just happened five minutes ago. What’s going on with you?”
Thom heard a snuffling, wheezing sound. He’d seen Connie cry only two or three times in the decade they’d known each other; but when Connie cried, he cried. Thom felt the dull pounding of his heart, a sore lump in his chest.
“What’s wrong?” he said, gently.
“I shouldn’t have bothered you with this. I just didn’t know who else…it’s just that my father called this morning, and I’m so upset….”
“Is it your stepmom? Did she pass away?”
“No, no, she’s still in a coma. Nothing has changed. But Daddy is taking solace in the company of Mr. Daniels.” Connie paused, gulped, then blew his nose. “Sorry about that, I’ve got a little mountain of used-up Kleenex here. Anyway, he called at eight-thirty this morning, drunk as shit, and started screaming at me.”
“You’ve got to ignore him when he calls up drunk. I’ve told you that. Hang up if you have to.”
“How can I do that? I mean, his wife is dying. I never thought he really loved her, or even liked her—maybe I was wrong. But this morning he starts screaming all sorts of horrible things at me, Thom! That I’m his only child, and how could I turn out to be a worthless fag; how I have shamed him and the family so much, he should have strangled me when I was eight years old and he first realized I was just a big sissy—stuff like that.”
Thom stifled an angry laugh. How could Connie take his father’s drunken ravings seriously? Why did he care? The two had never been close. Thom supposed Connie’s father must be reliving the death of Connie’s mother, his first great love, but at the moment Connie couldn’t see that.
“That’s just the liquor talking,” Thom said. The comment sounded lame but he couldn’t think of anything else.
Connie sniffed, then gave a timid laugh. “He said if Wilma weren’t so sick, he’d fly out here tonight and slit my throat!”
“Jesus, Connie…”
“But I shouldn’t have bothered you. You’re not having such a great day yourself.” Again Connie paused, sniffed, blew. “But you know, I never did trust that boy, somehow. He always seemed like a chilly customer to me, and I didn’t understand how someone like you—”
“Let’s not get into that, do you mind?”
“OK, I’m sorry.”
“And it’s fine that you called me. That’s what I’m here for.”
“You’re so sweet. I do feel better already. Of course, my Xanax is kicking in, too.”
Thom laughed. “That’s good,” he said.
“You know my motto!” Connie said, buoyed by his instinct to amuse. “What love cannot provide, your local pharmacy can!”
“I may come over and raid your supplies tonight,” Thom said. “Listen, I’m late for a showing, but I’ll call you this afternoon, OK?”
“Sure, stop by for a cocktail if you want. We’ll drown our sorrows together.”
“All right. Bye.”
Thom stopped at the receptionist’s desk on his way out, introducing himself and apologizing for his brusque entry into the office. “Having one of those mornings,” he said, with a rueful smile.
“Oh, that’s no problem!” she said. “We all have them!”
Outside, as he started his car, he felt that roiling heat in his chest that only an hour ago had felt like love. Now what was it? Rage? Sorrow? Hell is hell. Burning is burning. Poor Connie, to have his father speak to him like that. What an asshole. Thom had never understood why people became alcoholics. Genetic, the experts claimed. A disease. What bullshit. There were no more vices in America, only diseases. And victims of diseases. Was love a disease too? I don’t feel like a victim, he thought. I just feel pissed.
He pulled out of the parking lot; the clock on his dashboard read 10:10, but he resisted the urge to slam on the accelerator. Chances were the clients would be late anyway. Waiting to merge onto the parkway, he took deep breaths and again oriented himself; the subdivision he wanted was on the other side of the interstate, so he’d cross on Windy Hill. He could be there in five to seven minutes, even in this traffic. He tried to ignore the heaving of his chest and the urgent need to cry. Come on, Thom, do this later. You’ve got to show this stupid listing. He turned up the radio but instead of music the announcer was muttering about something; he switched it off. He drove.
On the other side of 1-75, less than a mile from his destination, a new-looking black Chevy Suburban changed lanes abruptly, cutting him off; Thom had been preparing to speed up, to make a light that was just changing to yellow. Cursing, Thom hit the brakes. The Suburban had stopped at the light, so Thom would have a minute or two to stare daggers into the back of the driver’s head. But the headrest was too high, and Thom couldn’t see the driver, so he passed the time imagining a jowly Republican fat cat, a cross between Jerry Falwell and Jesse Helms. That’s when Thom noticed the row of bumper stickers along the Suburban’s fender. ABORTION=MURDER. I LOVE NEWT. Thom gave an angry laugh. Typical Cobb County. He was enjoying his feeling of superiority to the man until he read the third bumper sticker, on the far right side of the fender. Thom blinked his eyes, incredulous. His heart convulsed. He took a breath, glanced away, and then looked
back, as if the words had been an ugly trick of his vision. But no. There they were, perfectly legible red letters against a background of flag-striped white and blue.
THE MIRACLE OF AIDS: TURNING FRUITS INTO VEGETABLES.
Something had happened to Thorn’s body. It had turned cold, then hot. His chest seemed to constrict, and for a moment his vision blotched, then cleared again. He reread the bumper sticker, the letters so overbright and sharp they burned into his vision with a white-hot clarity. THE MIRACLE OF… He looked away. His chest ached. His skin tingled as though unable to contain his rage.
The light changed to green. The Suburban started forward with routine sluggishness, but Thom sat there. A few seconds passed. He was aware of honking sounds behind him. Then his foot of its own volition jammed the accelerator pedal to the floor, and he gripped the steering wheel in a white-knuckled vise. Thom aimed directly at the back of the Suburban, his car like a missile released from a slingshot. For a few seconds, he felt a G-force exhilaration, a sense of power sweeter and more violent than anything he’d felt in his life. And that was all.
Chapter 7
“I don’t want you to go.”
He stood next to the bed, naked, the evergreen-filtered light from his grandmother’s bay window gently dappling his body. This late in the afternoon his room had a shadowed, undulating aura, in which she and Philip lay submerged, glimpsing one another through pleasing, rippling waves of erotic perception. Even his skin had a deep-olive, shadowy cast as though darkened by fathoms of silent water.
Abby lay in bed with the sheet demurely pulled to the tops of her breasts, like someone in a movie. Unlike Philip, she did not feel quite comfortable in her nakedness, despite the ardent praise her lover bestowed on her, head to toe.
“It’s only four days, OK? Thom and his friends have been planning this for weeks. For months.”
