The Soho Press Book of '80s Short Fiction

by Dale Peck

  “This is the way it’s gonna be, Tonto. Someday it’s all gonna be this great.”

  He laughed at his own stories and he clapped at his own jokes. And he never, never, despite how many times I asked, told me which stories he’d made up, which ones were true.

  And sometimes, when he’s holding court from his hospital bed, and he’s in the middle of telling us some outrageous story, making all of us laugh, and we’re all laughing, I forget. When he’s telling it like there’s no tomorrow—no—like there is—I just forget how he is in his body.

  He gets over something, then gets something else. Then he gets better then he gets worse. Then he begins to look OK and says he’s ready to go home. Then he gets worse. Then he gets something else.

  On the days they think he’s up to it, they let me take him out. A couple times both of us walk, but other times he rides. They call it his constitutional. We call it his faggot break.

  I bring him a cup of Rex’s coffee and throw the cigarettes across the table to him. He counts them, purses his lips and says, “You are a good Girl Scout.” Then he leans toward me, gestures like a little old lady for me to put my ear up close to him.

  “She’s just trying to make you jealous,” he whispers.

  “What?”

  “Doc-tor A-llen,” he mouths silently.

  He nods across Rex’s to a table in the no-smoking section. Dr. Allen is having a cup of coffee with a woman.

  “She knows we come here, she hopes you’ll see her with another woman and be forced to take action.”

  “Jim . . .”

  I’m sure Dr. Allen has seen us, Jim and me and the cigarettes, but I’m hoping she’s taking a break from being doctor long enough to not feel obliged to come over and give Jim some healthy advice.

  “She likes you very much, you know.”

  “Jim, I’ve probably had five minutes of conversation with the woman,” I whisper, “all about you.”

  “Doesn’t matter. It’s chemistry. Animal maaag-netism.”

  He wants me to laugh.

  “Come on, Jim. Give it a rest . . .”

  He turns around to look at Dr. Allen. Then he looks back at me. He takes a long drag on his cigarette. He tries to sound buoyant. “Hey, I’m just trying to get you a buddy, Tonto. Who you gonna ride with when the Ranger’s gone?”

  One time Jim told me, this is what he said, he said, “A lie is what you tell when you’re a chicken shit. But a story is what you tell for good.”

  “Even if it isn’t true?”

  “It’s true. If you tell a story for good, it’s true.”

  I had had them twice and they were always great. They truly, truly may have been the best sour cream enchiladas on the planet. But that time, after two bites, Jim threw down his fork.

  “These suck.”

  “Jim, they’re fine.”

  “They suck.”

  He pushed the plate away. “I can’t eat this shit.”

  I handed him the hot sauce and the guacamole. “Add a little of these”

  “I said I cannot eat this crap.” He lifted his hands like he was trying to push something away. I started to clear the table.

  “Leave it. Leave it.”

  I put the plate down. I looked away from him. Then at him. “Let’s go out for Chinese.”

  He didn’t say anything, just nodded.

  I ordered everything: egg rolls, hot and sour soup, moo goo gai pan, garlic pork, veg, rice, a few beers. He asked me to tell him a story and I did. A lewd, insulting, degrading tale about a guy at the temp agency, a swishy little closet case we both despised. I told about him being caught, bare­-assed, his pecker in his paw, in the 35th floor supply room by one of the directors. Jim adored the story. He laughed really loud. He laughed until he cried. He didn’t ask if it was true.

  We ate everything. All the plum sauce. All the little crackers. Every speck of rice. But we didn’t open our fortune cookies.

  On the way home, Jim put his arm around me and said, “You’re learning, Tonto.”

  The enchiladas were a recipe of Scotty’s.

  The door is half closed. I take one step in. There’s a sweeping sound in the room, a smell. The curtain has been drawn around the bed. I see a silhouette moving.

  “Jim?”

  “Go away.” His voice is little. “I made a mess.”

  An aide in a white coat peeks around the curtain. He’s holding a mop. He’s wearing plastic gloves, a white mask over his mouth and nose. I leave.

  I go up to the Rose. Rosie sees me coming through the door. She’s poured a schooner for me by the time I reach the bar.

  “Jesus, woman.” She leans over the bar to look at me as I’m climbing onto the barstool.

  “Shrunken body, shrunken head . . . gonna be nothing left of you soon, girl.”

  I reach for the beer. She stops my hand.

  “We don’t serve alcohol alone. You have to order something to eat with it.”

  “Gimme a break, Rosie. I have one dollar and—” I fish into my jeans, “55 . . . 56 . . . 57 cents.”

  “Sorry pal. It’s policy.”

  “Since when.”

  “Since now. It’s a special policy for you.”

  “Rosie, please.”

  “Don’t mess with the bartender.”

  I drop my face into my hands. “Please Rosie.”

  She lifts my chin and looks at me. “If you promise to clean your plate, we’ll put it on your tab.”

  “You don’t run tabs.”

  She points to her chest. “I’m the boss.”

  As I’m finishing my beer she slaps a plate in front of me—a huge bacon-cheeseburger with all the trimmings. A mound of fries. A pint glass of milk.

  She writes out the bill and pockets it. “We’ll talk.”

  “Thanks.”

  I take a bite. She puts her elbows on the bar.

  “How’s Jim?”

  “The same.” My mouth is full.

  She cocks her head.

  I swallow. “Worse.”

  “Jeez . . .” She touches my arm. “Eat, honey. Eat something.”

  I eat. Sesame seed bun. Bacon. Mustard. Lettuce. Pickles. Tomatoes. Cheese. Meat. Grease on my fingers. I chew and swallow. It is so easy.

  Jim on the drip-feed. Jim not keeping anything down. Or shitting it out in no time. His throat and asshole sore from everything that comes up, that runs through him. His oozy mouth. His bloody gums.

  A hand on my back. “Hi.”

  I turn and almost choke. “You’re Jim’s—”

  I nod. “Yeah, right.” I swallow. “You’re Doctor Allen. Hi.”

  I wipe my mouth and hands on the napkin.

  She’s saying to the woman she’s with, “This is Jim’s sister,” as if her friend’s already heard of Jim. Or of, me. Dr. Allen extends her hand to me. “Please, my name’s Patricia.”

  I shake her hand.

  “And this is my sister Amanda. It’s her first time here—I mean—here in Seattle.” She does this nervous little laugh. “She’s visiting from Buffalo.”

  It’s the woman she was having coffee with at Rex’s.

  “Oh Buffalo,” I say, “How nice.”

  “I’ve come to see if poor Pat’s life is really as boring as she tells me it is. Doesn’t have to be does it?” the sister says with a grin.

  I don’t know what to answer. I do this little laugh.

  They both look around the bar. Not wide, serious check-out sweeps of their heads, but shy quick glances. They certainly aren’t old hands at this. And I think I see two different varieties of nerves here. I try to read which is the tolerant, supportive sister, and which is the one who wanted to come to this particular bar in the first place.

  “Mind if we join you?”

  “Uh
, no. Sure. Great.”

  I gesture to the empty barstool next to me, then I stand up and gesture to my own. “But I was just going, actually . . . here, have my stool.” I down half the glass of milk. “Gotta be at work early in the morning,” I lie.

  They look at each other and at me. I feel like one of them’s about to laugh, but I don’t know which. Dr. Allen sits on my stool. Jim’s right. She is pretty cute.

  I gulp down the rest of the milk, slap my hands on the bar and shout into the kitchen, “I owe you Rosie!”

  I say to the sister, “Nice to meet you. Have a nice time in Seattle.” And to the Doctor, “Nice to bump into you. See you ’round.”

  Then I’m standing outside on the sidewalk, shaking.

  Because maybe, if I had stayed there in the bar with them, and had them buy me a beer or two, or coaxed a couple more out of Rosie, maybe I would have asked, “So which of you is the supportive sister, and which of you is the dyke?” Or maybe I would have asked, “So how ’bout it ladies. Into which of your lovely beds might I more easily insinuate myself?”

  Or maybe I would have asked—no—no—but maybe I would have asked, “So, Dr. Allen, you are pretty cute, how ’bout it. How long ’til Jim goes?”

  I bring him magazines and newspapers. The Times, the Blade, the Body Politic. They all run articles. Apparent answers, possible solutions, almost cures. Experiments and wonder drugs. A new technique. But more and more the stories are of failures. False starts. The end of hope.

  Bob’s been coughing the last few times he’s been here. He’s still at it today.

  Bob coughs. I look at Dale. He looks away.

  One evening in the middle of “Marcus Welby,” Jim announces, “I’m bored outta my tits, girls. I wanna have a party.”

  Mike, who’s been drooping in front of the TV set, sits up.

  “I say I am ready for a paaaaar-tay!”

  Mike says, “Jimmy boy, you’re on.”

  We OK it with Dr. Allen. Mike raids the stationery store on Broadway for paper hats and confetti and party favors and cards. We call everyone and it’s on for the evening after next. They limit the number of people allowed in a room at a time so Mike and I take turns hanging out by the elevator to do crowd control. Jim shrieks, he calls me “Tonto the Bouncer” and flexes his arm in a skinny little she-man biceps. It’s great to see everybody, and everyone brings Jim these silly presents: an inflatable plastic duck, a shake-up scene of the Space Needle, a couple of incredibly ugly fuzzy animals, a bouquet of balloons. Somebody brings him a child’s watercolor set; it’s the only gift he doesn’t gush about.

  When I start to clean the wrapping paper, he says, “Oh leave it a while.” He likes the shiny colors and the rustling sound the paper makes when he shifts in bed.

  When anybody leaves, he blows a kiss and says, “Bye-bye cowpoke,” “Happy Trails.”

  He knows what he’s doing.

  I see it when I’m coming down the hall, a laminated sign on the door of his room. I tiptoe the last few yards because I don’t want him to hear me stop to read it, acting as if I believe what it says. It’s a warning, like something you’d see on a pack of cigarettes or a bottle of pesticide. It warns about the contents. It tells you not to touch. I push myself into his room before I can give myself a chance to reconsider.

  I push myself towards his bed, towards his forehead to give him his regular kiss hello.

  “Don’t touch me.”

  When he pushes me away, I’m relieved.

  “Do you realize they’re wearing plastic gloves around me all the time now? Face masks? They’ve put my wallet and clothes into plastic bags. As if me and my stuff is gonna jump on ’em and bleed all over ’em, as if my sweat—”

  “Jim, that’s bullshit. This isn’t the Middle Ages, it’s 1984. And they’re medical people, they should know they don’t need to do that. Haven’t they read—”

  “Why don’t you go tell ’em, Tonto? Why don’t you just march right over to ’em with all your little newspaper articles and you just tell ’em the truth.”

  “I will, Jim, I’ll—”

  “Oh for fuck’s sake, Tonto, they are medical people. They know what they’re doing.” He covers his eyes with a hand and says wearily, “And I know what my body is doing.”

  He holds his skinny white hand over his eyes. I can see the bones of his forearm, the bruises on his pale, filmy skin. He looks like an old man. The sheet rises and falls unevenly with his breath.

  I ought to hold him but I don’t want to.

  “Jim?” I say, “Jim?” I don’t know if he’s listening.

  Inside the belt-line of my jeans, down the middle of my back and on my stomach, I feel myself begin to sweat. I start to babble. A rambling, unconnected pseudo-summary of articles I haven’t brought him, a doctor-ed precis of inoperative statements, edited news-speak, jargon, evasions, unmeant promises, lies.

  But I’m only half thinking of what I say, and I’m not thinking of Jim at all.

  I’m thinking of me. And of how my stomach clutched when he said that about the sweat. I’m thinking that I want to get out of his room immediately and wash my hands and face and take a shower and boil my clothes and get so far away from him that I won’t have to breathe the air he’s breathed. Then further, to where he can’t see how I, like everyone I like to think I’m so different from, can desert him at the drop of a hat, before the drop of a hat, because my good-girl Right-On-Sister sympathies extend only as far as my assurance of my immunity from what is killing him. But once the thought occurs to me that I might be in danger I’ll be the first bitch on the block to saddle up and leave him in the dust.

  I don’t know what I say to him; I know I don’t touch him.

  After a while he offers me a seat to watch TV, but I don’t sit. I tell him I’ve got to go. I tell him I have a date. He knows I’m lying.

  I look around for Dr. Allen. She tells me she thinks this recent hospital policy is ludicrous. “It just increases every­body’s hysteria. There’s no evidence of contagion through casual contact. If these people . . .” But I don’t listen to the rest of what she says. My mind is still repeating no evidence of contagion through casual contact. I’m so relieved I’m taken out of danger. I realize I’m happier than if she’d told me Jim was going to live.

  I don’t listen until I hear her asking me something. I don’t hear the words, just the tone in her voice.

  “Huh?”

  She looks at me hard. Then shakes her head and turns away. She knows what I was thinking, where the line of my loyalty runs out.

  The next day before I visit him, I ask Dr. Allen, “Are you sure, if I only touch him . . .”

  It’s the only time she doesn’t look cute. She practically spits. “You won’t risk anything by hugging your brother.”

  Her eyes make a hole in my back as I walk to his room.

  I hug him very carefully, how I believe I can stay safe. He holds me longer than he usually does. He doesn’t say anything, when I pull away, about the fact that I don’t kiss his forehead, which shines with sweat.

  “Come here,” he says in his lecher voice, “Daddy’s got some candy for you.”

  He hands me a hundred dollar bill.

  “What’s this?”

  “What I still owe you for the TV.”

  “What?”

  “The hundred bucks I borrowed for the color TV.”

  Jim wanted to buy it for Scotty when all Scotty could do was watch TV. Jim wasn’t going to get paid until the end of the month so I lent it to him. He wanted to pay me back immediately but he kept having all these bills.

  “Dale withdrew it from the bank for me.”

  “I don’t want it.”

  He glares at me. “The Ranger is a man of honor, Tonto.”

  “OK, OK, but I don’t want it now.”

  He keeps
glaring. “So you want it later? You gonna ride into Wells Fargo bank and tell them part of my estate is yours?”

  “Dale can—” I close my eyes.

  “I owe you, Tonto. Take Dr. Allen out for the time of her life.”

  “Jim . . .”

  “Goddammit, it’s all I can do.”

  He grabs me by the belt loop of my jeans and tries to pull me toward him but he’s too weak. I step toward the bed. He stuffs the bill into my pocket.

  “Now go away please. I’m tired.”

  Was this a conversation? Was it a story?

  I wish Scotty knew how I felt about him.

  He knew.

  I never told him. I wish I’d said the words.

  He knew.

  How do you know?

  He told me.

  Did he? What did he say?

  Scotty told me, he said, Jim loves me.

  Did he really?

  Yes.

  Did he say anything else?

  Yes. He said, I love Jim.

  He said he loved me?

  More than anything.

  Is that true?

  Yes, Jim, it’s true.

  This is how I learn to tell a story.

  We stay away for longer than we ought. I tell him it’s time to go back, but he whines like a boy who doesn’t want recess to end. He chatters. For the first time since I’ve known him, he starts retelling stories he has told to me before, stories that lose a lot in the retelling. But finally he runs out of things to say and lets me wheel him out of Rex’s.