by Rob Kaufman
*
“You have testicular cancer,” Dr. Jacobs had said, holding the papers in his hand while flipping through the pile of reports on his desk. “But this type can be very curable. I’ve seen cases where…”
“But he’s only thirty-two,” Jonathan interrupted. Philip squeezed his knee and when Jonathan looked up, he caught the deep red encircling Philip’s eyelids: the first sign he was on the verge of tears.
“You know age has nothing to do with this, Jonny.” Philip’s voice trembled.
Jonathan knew his words didn’t make sense, but the reference to age had less to do with the cancer than it did with the unimaginable thought that Philip could leave him.
Although the cancer was diagnosed and treated five years ago, it still felt like a bad dream from last night — doctors in scrub suits, CT scans, dark hospital corridors, sizzling fluorescent overhead lights, and trite expressions of sympathy from nine-to-five hospital workers.
The train rides to Grand Central Station were bathed in silence: Philip unable to discuss the prognosis, numb from the fear of an imminent death; Jonathan terrified of a life without Philip, the one person he’d given himself to and received ten-fold of love in return.
They went through the motions, week in and week out, after awhile recognizing the taxi drivers who transported them from Grand Central to Sloan Kettering. On days when Philip felt too weak and nauseous from the radiation treatments to get on a train, they’d make last minute reservations at a nearby hotel on Madison. Before every treatment, Philip asked Jonathan to drive the Beemer into the city, but Jonathan refused. He’d done the research and would rather have Philip suffer for an hour on the train than force him to endure two or three hours of traffic on the I-95 corridor. Jonathan brought every one of their activities down to a science, making sure Philip didn’t face any more discomfort than absolutely necessary. Too weak to argue, Philip acquiesced and followed the schedule, knowing Jonathan had one goal in mind: to keep him alive.
Six months after treatment began, the cloud lifted. In an office with papers and folders now piled from floor to window, Dr. Jacobs declared Philip cancer-free.
“There are no signs of malignancy and all the blood tests are clean.” Dr. Jacobs glanced at each of them and paused. “I haven’t mentioned the sperm count, because I didn’t know if it was relevant in your situation.”
Jonathan clenched his teeth and took a deep breath, the noise from his mouth sounding like a blocked vacuum cleaner hose. He leaned forward and placed his hand on the edge of the doctor’s desk, preparing to announce their relationship was not a “situation,” but a lifelong commitment of love, just like a “normal” couple. Before he could explode, Philip touched his knee with a calming hand.
Dr. Jacobs studied the back of his hands for a moment, avoiding Jonathan’s eyes. “If you were planning to have children, that won’t be possible, I’m afraid. The radiation and other treatment drastically lowered your sperm count — your healthy sperm count, that is.” Philip pulled in a breath and Jonathan instinctively reacted by grabbing Philip’s hand. Looking at him would have been too painful for them both.
Before Philip’s diagnosis, they’d talked about having a family. Philip did constant research on insemination, surrogates, and child-rearing; absorbing the information like a daddy-sponge and relating all the facts to Jonathan every night in bed. Philip’s excitement quickly spread to Jonathan and they’d fantasize a child lying in bed between them. “We’re using your sperm,” Jonathan said one night. “The last thing we need is another Jonathan Beckett running around.” He gently traced his finger along the blond wave of hair that fell on Philip’s forehead. “But a little Phillip Stone would be perfect… just like you.”
That once-cherished scenario crashed down on them as Dr. Jacobs leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his chest. “Yes, Philip, you’re infertile, but you’re cancer-free. Be happy with the compromise: you might have lost a dream, but you didn’t lose your life.”
But what is life without dreams, you idiot? Jonathan kept his mouth shut.
Dr. Jacobs continued, “It’s been a privilege knowing you, Philip. I admire your strength.” He finally looked at Jonathan and forced a smile. “And you too, Jonathan. I wish you both well and plan on seeing you in three months for your follow-up.”
With that, he stood and reached for Philip’s hand, but Jonathan already held it and wouldn’t let go.
*
Since that day, neither of them mentioned having a family. And now was definitely not the time, Jonathan thought, as he looked at his watch: three minutes until their guest arrived. He decided to avoid the cancer conversation and get back to Angela.
“We have about three minutes until she gets here, Philip. Give me a quick rundown of what she’s like so I have an idea how to talk to her.”
Philip dipped a small tortilla chip in the guacamole and brought it to Jonathan’s lips. Jonathan devoured it, letting the silky guacamole fill his mouth with a perfect blend of spices and chili heat.
“Exquisite, as usual!” Jonathan licked the salt from his lips and reached for another chip.
“Hands off!” Philip folded the guacamole into a serving dish, wiped the rim of the platter with precision, and placed it on the island. He opened the oven door to check the empanadas again. “I hope she eats pork,” he whispered.
“From what you told me so far, it sounds like she’ll eat anything.” Jonathan eyed the guacamole. “Now hurry up, tell me more.”
Philip glanced at the clock on the stove. It was now 6:15. “I wonder if she had a problem getting a cab. She took the 5:07 and should have arrived at Westport at six. I should’ve picked her up… it is rush hour.”
“What?” asked Jonathan, “Why are you shaking your head?”
“Well, she’s either late or it’s like the old days when she would just change her mind and not show up.” Philip rinsed his hands and peered out the kitchen window.
“This isn’t a good sign.” Jonathan threw Philip the dishtowel sitting on the island so he could dry his hands.
“Angela was the best and worst friend I had in those days. She’d help me study for midterms and finals. She invited me over for meals so I wouldn’t eat frozen dinners every night. She got me hooked up at the sperm bank where she worked so I could make a few extra bucks. We had good times together and she helped me out a lot. But other times, she’d turn into someone else, like she wasn’t Angela anymore.”
Jonathan squirmed on the stool, uneasy with the tone of Philip’s voice.
“Are you telling me we have Sybil coming over for dinner? How many personalities does she have?”
“Don’t be an ass, Jonny. She had one personality… okay, two… alright, maybe three.” Philip exposed his white teeth, displaying the unnerving grin Jonathan had fallen in love with the day they met twelve years earlier. “Sometimes she’d get depressed and angry — like the goodness of her soul had left, just flown away, and nastiness took its place.” Philip moved the curtain away from the kitchen window, searching for signs of a taxi within the looming dusk. Except for the bulging hydrangea blooms and umbrella pines, the long, narrow driveway was empty. “I think it was the whole weight thing. When she sat alone and thought about it, she got angry. She didn’t have a lot of friends; just her coworkers at the sperm bank and one or two other nursing students. Sometimes I’d be sitting with her and say the most innocuous thing and she’d start screaming — or crying. Her face would contort and she’d look at me with disgust.”
“Like Regan from the Exorcist?” Jonathan asked, trying to lighten the mood.
“Not far from it. I almost expected to see her head twist three hundred and sixty degrees.” Philip threw the dishtowel onto the island countertop and scanned the kitchen as though trying to think of any detail he might have forgotten. For him, work in the kitchen was done. For Jonathan, it was just beginning. He still had a mess to clean up, and disorder lurked in every nook and cranny.
�
�And when I told her I was gay? Don’t even ask. She didn’t speak to me for weeks. The next time I saw her after that, she must’ve gained twenty pounds. A friend of hers called and said Angela really liked me, you know, in that kind of way. And when she found out it was never going to happen, she kinda flipped. After awhile she learned to deal with it and we still hung out, but things were never really the same. I always felt she thought something was going to happen with us. Between that and her multiple personalities, I really couldn’t deal with the situation any more. A few months before graduation, we gradually lost touch. And I haven’t seen her since.” Philip looked out the window again; headlights swept along the asphalt driveway, glints of stone sparkling from within the Belgium blocks. “Until tonight.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “She’s here.”
Jumping off the stool, Jonathan stood next to the island and straightened the small stack of magazines sitting by the counter’s edge. The whole conversation made his stomach feel glacial, frozen from the inside out, and he’d lost his appetite — for guacamole and for Angela.
“I don’t trust her, Philip.” Jonathan curled his fingers around a loop in Philip’s jeans. “Fifteen years you don’t hear a peep, and now, here she is out of the blue. I don’t like it.”
Philip turned and smiled; he was used to Jonathan’s distrust of people. “Don’t you worry your pretty little head about her,” said Philip, kissing Jonathan’s forehead. “She’s harmless.”
Jonathan pulled back. “You say that about everyone. I’m older than you and I’ve met more crazies. I don’t trust this one.”
“You’re older than me?” Philip laughed, covering his mouth with his hand. “Are you kidding me? You’re what, five years older than I am and suddenly you’re mister Man of the World? C’mon Jonny, give me some credit, will you please?” He straightened the collar on Jonathan’s green Polo shirt, rubbed his hand along Jonathan’s well-defined pecs and winked. “You have the biggest, most beautiful blue eyes…”
Jonathan held back a smile. “Don’t start the bullshit, Philip. I’m just telling you…”
“I know, Jonny, I know. Yeah, you’re right, it’s been fifteen years. But we’ve all changed. When she called, she really did sound like a different person. I’m hoping she’s now only the good Angela, and left the evil one back in Boston.”
Just like Philip, Jonathan thought, always searching for the good in people. Even in a psycho-killer. He took another deep breath and entwined his fingers within Philip’s.
“If she shows one sign of lunacy, I’ll drive a wooden stake through her heart and throw her out on the lawn.” He looked at the pots, pans, utensils and avocado peels strewn about the kitchen. “After I have her help me clean this mess.”
Philip pulled Jonathan’s wrist toward him and twisted him around, slapping his butt as he walked out of the kitchen and through the foyer toward the front door. The doorbell didn’t even ring before Jonathan heard the door open and a scream, as though from the devil herself, echoed past the foyer, through the kitchen, and straight into Jonathan’s head.
3
While Philip greeted his guest and her shrieks of excitement settled into murmurs and giggles, Jonathan braced himself against the sink with his back toward the faucet. He pressed both hands flat against the black granite, fingers wrapped around its rounded edges, and waited for the giant creature to fill the doorway and spew fire from her mouth. He glanced around the kitchen, feeling perspiration mist over the back of his neck, embarrassed by the chunks of avocado stuck to the chrome backsplash and the endless array of cooking utensils on every inch of counter space.
When Philip walked into the kitchen, arm in arm with Angela, Jonathan’s mouth dropped open and he suppressed a groan. The woman was stunning. According to Jonathan’s on-the-spot calculations, she weighed no more than 110 pounds and had the figure of a runway model — too short in stature to walk the platform, but gorgeous enough to have her unblemished face on the cover of Elle. Her black hair was swept back and pulled tight, twisted elegantly into a French braid that reached mid-spine. She wore a hint of eyeliner that accentuated her blue eyes, a sweep of rose blush slightly coloring both cheeks, and subtle pink lipstick that brought out the sensuous curve of her lips. Jonathan was far from a fashion guru, but her understated clothing had to be designer-made. She wore a beige blazer over a white silk and lace teddy. Both blazer and teddy flowed seamlessly over a black linen skirt with a hem just below her knees, accentuating thin, shapely calves. If there was one name Jonathan knew, it was Prada, and he had no doubt her black shiny pumps were screaming the name as she slowly approached him.
This couldn’t be Angela. This couldn’t be The Square.
Before Jonathan could back away, she ran to him, flung both arms around his neck and pulled him close. He kept both arms at his sides and searched Philip’s face for some kind of assistance, or at least reassurance this was Angela. Philip shrugged and tightened his lips, also apparently at a loss for words.
“So you’re the one who finally got Philip,” she said in his ear, loud enough to simulate conversation, yet soft enough remain a whisper. “Congratulations.” She gave him a gentle squeeze, wrapped her hands around his biceps and let his arms slide down through her hands. She grabbed his wrists and stepped back. “My, you are hot!” Her voice was now loud enough for Philip to hear. “You were right, Philip. Those lashes are to die for!”
Philip shrugged again, not much help to either of them.
“You look like you were expecting someone else.” She puffed out her cheeks, lifted her arms so they hung way out to her sides, and slowly clomped backwards, side to side toward Philip. “Someone who walks like this maybe?” She was doing a perfect imitation of the person Jonathan expected to trudge through the door.
He forced a laugh. Was it acceptable to laugh with someone who was ridiculing herself? He wasn’t sure of anything except his rising level of discomfort. He pasted a smile on his face, watching her move back to Philip’s side. She’s a little strange, he was thinking, when out of the blue her puffed out face displayed a glimpse of what she must have looked like all those years ago. For a fraction of a second the smile in her eyes changed into a sorrowful grimace; the corners of her mouth turned down, and her self-ridicule transformed into a challenge: no one can laugh at me now. It was as though she’d coughed up remnants of a person she despised and was asking Jonathan if he despised her, too.
Before he had a chance to react, the beautiful woman returned, her hand grabbing Philip’s shoulder, her lean body pushing against his side. “I can’t wait to catch up with both of you. But first, how ‘bout a Double G and T?”
Philip gave her a peck on the cheek and practically skipped into the wet bar area, a short hallway that led into the expansive living room. He lifted the glass-paned door of the cherry wood cabinet that held nearly every kind of liquor imaginable. Although neither of them drank often (one or two martinis and they’d usually find themselves slurring over one another), they kept a fully stocked cabinet for get-togethers and impromptu parties. “Grey Goose and Tonic.” Philip held up a three-quarter full bottle of the vodka and a tumbler he’d filled with ice. “Double G is Grey Goose and T is tonic,” he informed Jonathan as he returned to the kitchen.
Jonathan rolled his eyes. “Duh,” was all he could think of to say. He was still trying to feel out the situation. Who was this girl and why was she here? No doubt she had an attractive flair about her, an élan of sophistication combined with apparent zeal for her new, thinner life. His uneasiness in new social situations was a given — both he and Philip had accepted it years ago. Philip blamed it on some deep-seated insecurity; Jonathan blamed it on the simple fact that people were strange and couldn’t be trusted. He’d gradually learned to accept their current circle of friends. But when a new face entered his life, Jonathan would always step back and wait for the newbie to prove himself.
Tonight’s new face had been thrust upon him without sufficient warning — his internal une
asiness attested that fact. To make matters worse, this newbie arose unannounced from Philip’s past and was someone Jonathan had no clue existed before tonight. Feeling the sweat on his palms, he recognized the absurd direction in which his thoughts were heading and decided to stop them in their tracks.
“Give me a Double G and T, too.” He blurted, and then smiled at Philip’s surprised expression.
“You sure?” Philip headed toward the wet bar. “You know how you get sometimes…”
“What’s this?” said Angela, “Do we have a lightweight among us?”
“Two lightweights,” Philip said before Jonathan had the chance. “I’m not the partier I used to be, Angie.” He grabbed two tumblers from the cabinet. “And since I’ve been working so hard at preparing our meal, I’ll have one, too.” He set the glasses on the counter next to Angela’s. “And I mean only one.”
“Oh, Philip, I’m disappointed in you.” Angela rubbed her palm against his back and gently caressed between his broad shoulders. “But I have to admit, since I lost all that fat, I’m kind of a lightweight, too.”
Jonathan felt a sense of relief. Finally, someone mentioned the word fat.
Philip mixed their drinks like a scientist in a lab, carefully measuring each ounce of vodka with his eyes. After placing the lime wedge atop Angela’s Double G and T, he spun around and set it in her open hand.
“Speaking of fat, you must tell us what you did to lose all that weight. I mean, you look unbelievable. There’s no way I would have…”
Jonathan crept ever so slowly toward his drink. “Let’s discuss this on the deck,” he interrupted, feeling the need to douse his discomfort with liquor before heading into the fat zone. “I want to get some fresh air before the mosquitoes start their dive bombing exercises.”
