Lost in the Beehive_A Novel

by Michele Young-Stone

  “I want to be in love someday.”

  “You will be.”

  He crossed his arms at his chest. “I don’t think life is going to let me have that.”

  “Don’t say that.” I leaned into him, my arm across his chest, the book pressed between us. A few hours later, I awoke to Sheff kicking and punching at nothing, shouting at no one. I tried waking him. “It’s okay. Calm down.”

  But I knew that it wasn’t okay. Something was very wrong.

  13

  TWO NIGHTS LATER, WE WERE having drinks at the Big Panda, waiting for a jazz trio to start playing, when a man in his midthirties, shaggy brown hair and green eyes, came to our table. He was younger than the others. I expected him to put a five-or ten-dollar bill on the table, but instead, he sat down.

  “What are you looking for?” Sheff asked.

  “I want to talk to you.” He smiled.

  Sheff smiled back, finishing his highball. “What is it you want to talk about?”

  From across the table, I half waved. I had no idea who this man was or what he wanted.

  “My name’s Brian Biden. I knew Chuck before he moved back to Maryland.”

  I looked at Sheff. “Who’s Chuck?”

  “Sal Mineo … ,” Sheff explained. “Chuck was his real name.”

  “Got it.”

  Then, Sheff looked up at Brian Biden. “I’ve got nothing to say to you.”

  “Just five minutes.” Brian straddled a chair.

  “I don’t want to talk to you.” Sheff brushed his hair back from his face. He was noticeably upset.

  “He doesn’t want to talk to you,” I said.

  “Look, Sheff,” Brian began, “I’m working on a grant for the University of California at Berkeley. I want to help. Chuck told me about Belmont. I’m not here to harass you.”

  Sheff said, “I don’t care what Chuck told you. He was a head case.”

  Brian shook his head, his voice lower. “I really think I can help.”

  “Just leave me the fuck alone.” Sheff reached for his drink, his hand shaking.

  Brian got up and pulled a card from his wallet, extending it to Sheff, who said, “No, thanks.” Brian handed it to me. He sighed before walking away.

  “Why’d you take his card?” Sheff asked.

  “Who was that? What happened with Sal Mineo?”

  Sheff opened his hand, waiting for me to give him Brian’s business card. I placed it on his palm. “Thanks.” He tore the card into little pieces, sprinkling the paper in the ashtray. “Fuck that guy.”

  “Who is he?”

  “He’s some kind of head doctor like Dr. Belmont, except he’s the opposite. I mean, he doesn’t think there’s anything wrong with being queer. Chuck swallowed some of his psychotherapy bullshit before he split town.”

  “What exactly happened with Sal Mineo? You never told me.”

  “Chuck.”

  “Right. What happened with Chuck?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Gloria.”

  “It seems like something we should talk about.”

  “Nope.”

  An older man approached our table, his five-dollar bill in hand.

  “I’m going back to the hotel,” I said.

  “Suit yourself.”

  If Sheff wouldn’t confide in me, then who would he confide in?

  On the sidewalk outside the Big Panda, Brian appeared from around the corner. “Can you please listen to me for a second?”

  I glanced back to see if Sheff had followed. He hadn’t.

  Brian said, “Listen, Chuck told me what they did to Sheff at Belmont.” Bats crisscrossed the streetlight. “I think I can help him.”

  “What did they do to him?”

  “They messed with his head.”

  “They messed with mine too.”

  “Okay,” Brian said, folding his arms at his chest. “I’ll be more specific. From what I understand, Dr. Belmont rewired Sheff’s brain.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Ask Sheff. Just ask him, and see what he says. He needs help.” He handed me another card. “I can get him help. Have him call me.”

  I slipped the card in my bag and walked home alone.

  When Sheff stumbled in at three, he was plastered. He mumbled something about “stupid Brian Biden” before passing out with one boot on, one off. I brushed the hair back from his forehead and kissed his hairline. Then, I went to sleep. I knew that we were going to pretend that everything was all right. That’s just what we did.

  By the end of December, Sheff was taking tranquilizers on a daily basis to keep himself calm. He couldn’t seem to drink enough to pass out, and when he did sleep, he sweated so profusely that we had to buy extra sheets and blankets from the Salvation Army. Then, he started getting up in the middle of the night and going down the hall to the bathroom to vomit. His face was sallow. Raccoon eyes. I went to the Mutoscope show with Genevieve and spent one night in her dorm, but I worried about Sheff. It was getting harder to pretend that everything was okay.

  One morning as we were changing the sheets, I couldn’t keep quiet any longer. It was early January. Sheff and I had been living together since late August. As I popped the bedsheet, a cold gust of wind swept up the street, rattling the broken French door. I said, “Tell me the truth. What’s going on with you? You’re not eating, you’re not sleeping. You’re not dating any Hollywood look-alikes. And what really happened with Sal Mineo? Why was that Brian guy bugging you?”

  “Chuck.” Sheff pulled at the bedsheet in my hands. “I’m fine.”

  “Right, Chuck.” We held the sheet, the mattress between us.

  Sheff took a deep breath. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Please talk to me.” Then I realized I already knew the truth. I’d simply refused to face it. I crawled onto the mattress, the sheet still in my hands, and looked up at him. “You did it. That’s how you got out. You did that therapy.”

  Sheff let go of the sheet. His eyes were bloodshot. He ran one hand through his hair, gripping the ends. “You’re worse than fucking Chuck or Biden,” he said.

  “Did you tell him? Did you tell Chuck? Did you tell Brian Biden?” I heard Sheff’s stomach rumbling. He couldn’t keep anything down. Our room smelled of stale liquor, sweat, and smoke. I opened one of the French doors. The cold wind whipped through the room. The flower pot was still out there, clanking against the railing.

  Sheff said, “I don’t want to keep things from you. After you got here, I felt better. I thought I would keep getting better.”

  “What happened?”

  “I did it. I did the PERVERSION therapy.” His hands were in fists. “You were gone, and I just wanted to get out of there.”

  I closed the French door and leaned against it. Was this somehow my fault? I reached for him.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  He was trembling. “So, basically they did this thing where they put me in a cinder block room, a drain in the middle of the floor, and they showed films of men masturbating and having sex with each other, but first, they give me an injection that made me physically sick so that the whole time I was watching the pornography, I was violently ill. When I tried to look away, they strapped me to a chair. They strapped my fucking head to a chair and taped my eyelids open.” He paused. “I threw up and shit myself.” His hands shook as he knocked a cigarette from his pack with one already burning in the ashtray. “Later, they came in and hosed me off. And they kept doing this until I begged them to stop. The whole time, they’re telling me that the therapy is working because I’m totally sick, groveling and crying, and the films never stopped rolling. Even now, when I close my eyes or stop doing shit for one second, when it’s time to be still and sleep, it comes back to me. Fuck, Gloria! I can’t just be. I can’t be.” He sat on the bed, pulling his knees to his chest. “I knew that they wouldn’t let me out if I didn’t do the therapy, but I didn’t know how awful it would
be.”

  “I shouldn’t have left you in there.”

  “You couldn’t have gotten me out. No one could. No one except for Dr. Belmont or Pop. They got what they wanted. I can’t use my dick.”

  I reached out to hold him, and this time, he let me get close. I took him in my arms and squeezed. He whispered, “There was a bed beside the chair where I slept; it was stainless steel. It always sounded like a train in my head, a rumbling. It hurt and it never stopped. I had thought it was a good idea. I thought I could handle anything, and when I agreed to do the aversion therapy, my pop said that he was proud of me. He said that I was showing real promise. I just needed to get out of there, G.”

  I wanted to take his pain away, but I couldn’t. I was helpless. “I’m so sorry.” I pictured Dr. Belmont in his silver-rimmed spectacles. We needed to undo what he’d done. I held Sheff tight. “So, what about Brian Biden?” I still had his card. “Can he help you?”

  “He says that they can fix me. I told him, I’ve already been fixed. I’ve been fucking neutered.” Sheff half laughed, half cried.

  “You can’t keep living like this.”

  “The thing is,” he said, “I don’t think anyone can undo what was done to me.”

  “But if there’s a chance … You have a chance.”

  “That would be something,” he said, “if I could get better. If I could stop having nightmares. But it sounds like I’d have to go to Berkeley, and it probably wouldn’t help anyway.”

  “You have to try.”

  The next afternoon, we met Brian in Washington Square Park. We sat on a stone bench. I blew on my hands to keep them warm. Sheff wore his peacoat, the collar upturned. Brian wore a leather jacket. He said, “I’m really proud of you, Sheff, for telling Gloria the truth.” Brian turned to me. “He didn’t want you to think he was weak.”

  “Right, because they broke me or something. I’m all fucked up.” Sheff rolled his eyes and lit a cigarette.

  Brian took a deep breath, regarding Sheff with a mixture of pity and frustration. “You can pretend whatever you want. You can pretend it’s no big deal, that you weren’t tortured, but we both know the truth. Our current medical system is supporting the hypothesis that homosexuality is a medical illness and, thus, a condition that can be treated and reversed. And, as in your case, innocent men and women are being tortured. I’m on a grant team that is studying the long-and short-term effects of institutions like Belmont on the human psyche.”

  “Did something like this happen to you?” I asked Brian. “Is that why you’re doing this?”

  “No. My parents have always supported me. Of course, they’re a minority. Sadly.”

  “So, what’s in Berkeley?” I asked.

  “Sheff,” he said, “hopefully. And you’re welcome too.”

  I had already decided that I was going wherever Sheff was going. If I had to call Gwen Babineaux or Uncle Eddie and beg them for the money, I’d do it. I wasn’t leaving Sheff’s side.

  Sheff said, “I like New York. I don’t want to go to the West Coast.”

  “Our room has roaches and mice, darling.”

  “They’re nice-enough roaches.”

  “Oh, come on.”

  Sheff said, “What if it doesn’t work?”

  “Nothing ventured, nothing gained.”

  “I don’t like doctors. I’m doing pretty good here.”

  I shook my head. “No, you’re not.”

  Sheff got up and walked toward the pretzel vendor.

  Brian turned to me, “I think the doctors at UC Berkeley can help him. Of course, there are no guarantees.”

  “Let me talk to him.”

  Sheff was ordering three pretzels. I sidled up to him. “I thought you wanted to give this a try. I thought you wanted to get better.”

  “I don’t want to be a guinea pig anymore.”

  “This will be different.”

  “How?”

  “They want to let you be the hard-dicked Sheff you used to be.”

  Sheff laughed.

  “You’re scared,” I said. “It’s okay to be scared. We’re in this together. I’ll be with you.”

  Sheff looked at me. “Are you sure?”

  “Of course.”

  He took the pretzels from the vendor. “It’ll be cool to see the sun set over the ocean.”

  “And I don’t think they have mosquitoes on the West Coast.”

  “That’s reason enough to go. Are you sure you want to go? What about your parents? You miss them.”

  “I’ll talk to them. They’ll be cool … You’ll see.”

  “Then let’s do it.”

  We walked back to the bench. Sheff handed Brian a pretzel. “I’m in.”

  Brian smiled and began to explain the details. “I’ll get you the bus tickets. Once you get to Berkeley, our grant chair, Dr. Reginald Cosley, will set you up with a place to stay. He’ll have release forms for you to sign. The forms just say that you consent to counseling and therapy and that you’re willing to have your data recorded, anonymously, of course.”

  Sheff set his pretzel down, leaning back on the stone bench, slipping his smokes from his jeans pocket. He pulled the cellophane tab to open the pack and put a cigarette to his lips.

  Brian continued, “I’ll write everything down for you.”

  I squeezed Sheff’s thigh.

  Brian asked, “Are you two good with this?”

  We were going cross-country like Kerouac. “Yes.” We spoke at the same time.

  That night, we went out for pancakes. Outside our window, a neon pink sign buzzed Pancakes and Pies. Sheff quoted Holden Caulfield: “ ‘Only, I didn’t eat the doughnuts. I couldn’t swallow them too well. The thing is, if you get very depressed about something, it’s hard as hell to swallow.’ ” Then, he shoved a forkful of pancakes in his mouth. For once, it was easy to swallow.

  14

  WE WOKE TO THE CACOPHONOUS bang of the dumpster being emptied. I crawled out of bed, my breath visible. I needed to pick up my last paycheck from Bart’s Vinyl and send a postcard to my parents. I nudged Sheff. “I’m going.”

  He sat up. “It’s freezing.”

  “Good thing we’re going west, young man!”

  “Will you get me a bagel?”

  “You bet, but get up. Pack.”

  Sheff rolled over.

  “I’m serious.”

  The worst things in the world happen on an upswing with no forewarning. I was a block from the hotel when I saw the barricade. There were three police cars, a fire truck, and an ambulance parked in the middle of the street. I was holding the bag with Sheff’s bagel.

  Inside the hotel, Clark, the front desk clerk, ran up to me. “It’s Sheff,” he said. “He jumped. I’m so sorry.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Clark pointed me out to two gray-suited detectives. He said again, “I’m so sorry. His dad came to get him. Something happened.”

  “I have his bagel.” I headed for the stairs. He had to be up there in bed still asleep, waiting on me.

  The gray-suited detectives stopped me before I made the stairs. Sheff would say, What took you so long? Did you get sesame? I’m starving. The detectives steered me toward the green velveteen sofa, where I sat with the bagel on my lap. We weren’t going to be Kerouac. We weren’t going to see the sun set over the Pacific. He wasn’t going to be cured. He wasn’t going to be happy. I had bus tickets. I had Brian Biden’s card. I had the phone number for Dr. Cosley in Berkeley. I had things of no use to anyone.

  “Can you tell us your name?”

  I didn’t answer.

  They asked Clark, “What’s her name?”

  “Gloria.”

  “Gloria, you need to cooperate with us. We think your friend committed suicide.”

  “He wouldn’t do that.”

  “He was a runaway. His father came for him this morning. He’d apparently had some mental health problems.”

  “His father came for him?”
>
  “How old are you?”

  I was older than everyone then.

  “We need to telephone your parents. They’ll need to pick you up at the station.” But it wouldn’t be Sheff. He wouldn’t kill himself, wouldn’t be gone, couldn’t be gone.

  One of the detectives said, “I feel so bad for the kid’s father. He finally tracks him down, and the kid jumps off a roof.”

  I could see it. I could imagine how it played out.

  Pop Schoeffler paid the fifty-cent toll and drove through the Lincoln Tunnel, mindful that he was beneath the Hudson River. On the drive, he thought about the multitude of times his son had embarrassed him. He planned to tell his son, You won’t embarrass me again. You’re my only son. It’s time to start acting like it.

  As Pop took a right on Ninth Avenue, he felt confident that he would be returning to New Jersey with his son. He noticed a flock of blackbirds, hundreds of them perched on the roof of the Church of the Holy Apostles at 28th. He’d never seen so many birds. They lined the cross-shaped transepts for two city blocks. As Pop crossed 25th Street, the birds ascended, trailing his black Corvette.

  Pop took a left onto 23rd Street, the birds coasting. Pop parked in front of the Chelsea as the birds alighted on its roof, pecking and nudging for space. On the sidewalk, Sheff was buttoning his peacoat, sliding his hands in his pockets.

  A little girl wearing a sky blue cape and matching gloves ate an Oreo and kicked a pebble on the sidewalk at the corner of 23rd and Seventh Avenue. Her older brother swung from a rattling fire escape while their mother, oblivious, searched through her handbag for subway tokens.

  Pop, smiling at the sky-blue girl, slipped his hands into his pockets. Cigarette butts, white like chalk, crisscrossed the sidewalk. The mother was disheveled, the hem of her pink waitress uniform visible under her coat. She wore square-toed black heels.

  The sky-blue girl smiled back at Pop while her rough-and-tumble brother continued to swing from the fire escape. Pop was trailing Sheff, calling his name.

  Sheff began to trot.

  “I’ve come to take you home.”

  Sheff said, “Go away.”

  Pop pointed back toward the Chelsea. “My car’s just back there.”

  Across the street, a blue jay alighted on a stone gargoyle.

  “Where are you going?” Pop asked.