Boy

by James Stryker

  ✩✩✩

  In the cab en route to the airport, a new emotion tunneled under his skin. It lined up beside the guilt, needling him in a similar fashion.

  Doubt.

  Not that he’d done the wrong thing. But doubt regarding the course he was taking. What was he was seeking to accomplish by finding Tom DuBelle? He was hurt by Jay’s lack of trust, but unlike what he was sure Jackie and Beau suspected, he couldn’t replace his father.

  Until you fought with me and drove me away, how you made me feel was real, even if nothing else was. And you may not have loved me as much as Beau or Jake, but I did feel loved. I can’t forget that.

  Tom couldn’t be a substitute for him.

  So why are you doing this? What is he going to be able to do for you? Jake thought I’d want to know more about Dad. Is that it? Luke stepped onto the airport curb and shut the cab door. Do I have questions?

  When he’d gone through the yearbook at breakfast Tom had been enthusiastic to provide information, and especially animated in pointing out the orchestra picture. Luke knew so much about his mother and grandparents. They loved to rehash stories of their youth—lessons learned, experiences had. He was so bored with talk of gray days that had no relevance to him.

  But Tom had revealed more in ten seconds than Jay had in twenty-six years regarding what were some of the most influential years in a person’s life. He knew more of Tom growing up than he did about his father. And he’d only seen the man twice.

  At the ticket counter, Luke paused. If you can tell me about him, I want to know that.

  The airline representative extended her hand for his driver’s license.

  When did you become a man? When did you know? Why did you make the change?

  “Sir, I need to see your identification.”

  And what happened afterward? What did you do?

  He handed his license to the woman and scrutinized her face as she checked his information. She had smooth, creamy skin, and her black hair curled around her cheeks. If she hadn’t been wearing makeup, she’d still be a woman. When he pictured Jay’s face, he saw only a man. For twenty-six years, that’d been all he’d ever seen.

  How did you do it? Did you look like this before? Did you have dozens of surgeries to change your appearance?

  Luke read the woman’s nametag.

  You must’ve had a different name if you were born a girl. Why did you choose the name you did? Is it a masculine version of your original name? What was it? Jane? Janet?

  He accepted the boarding pass with his driver’s license and inspected his own name.

  I like my name. If I chose a girl’s name, I don’t know what I’d call myself. Maybe I’d use my middle name. Is that why it’s neutral? Beau’s middle name is androgynous too.

  Having always been a tomboy, Beau had favored her middle name. Her roughness didn’t fit a name like “Lucy.”

  But you couldn’t have predicted that. He tried to imagine his father going through school attached to a feminine name. It must’ve raked across his skin to hear it. Just in case I didn’t feel like “Luke,” as many people do, I could go by my middle name. I could be “Andrea” instead.

  He’d never known where his first name came from, but guessed it derived from his sister’s. Jay adored his 1961 recording of Lucia di Lammermoor, so “Luke” was a byproduct for Lucy’s twin brother. But he’d assumed his middle name was an homage to Jay’s favorite tenor. Or was it more than that? Had the possibility of his children needing to call upon a different name been accounted for? He wasn’t sure how a person changed their name if it wasn’t as a result of marriage. How difficult was it?

  And after you changed your name and had God knows how many surgeries, you met Mom. Did you tell her right away? Did she care? Did you have problems getting married?

  He slung his messenger bag onto the conveyor belt to be brought through the scanner.

  And how did I get here? Mom said that Tom gave me and Beau to her. Did you let your friend sleep with your wife? Even if they artificially inseminated her, how could you be okay with that? How did you convince Mom to be okay? Is that why there aren’t any pictures of her pregnant with us? She was embarrassed?

  Luke checked the large blue board of departures and walked toward the terminal.

  Perhaps Tom can answer why you didn’t trust me. Maybe he can say why you excluded me, and I wasn’t good enough to know your secrets.

  He sunk into a plastic chair outside the departure gate. It was awful to admit, but Jake had been right. He did have questions, and that’s why he was going to Tom.

  Luke removed his phone and tried to call Tom for the third time. But once again, his call met a generic voicemail.

  While an eight-hour flight provided ample opportunity to dig through the Internet, on his arrival to Salt Lake City Luke was left with the business card as his only lead.

  At the late Attorney Harlan’s office he’d been able to secure the last known address of the man’s partner, without any confirmation that this person was Tom.

  But it’s something, he thought until the cab had pulled in front of an expensive contemporary high-rise. It looked like an office building, not a residential condominium. Bitch most likely scratched down a random address to get rid of me.

  Still, he took the elevator to the building’s tenth floor. But as he stood in front of the door, Luke hesitated.

  He’d traveled over two thousand miles on an angry, desperate spur of the moment whim. In all likelihood, behind that door lived an unknown man who didn’t know Tom or how to find him. Luke would be humiliated and at a dead end.

  Why am I here? This is just stupid. Face it—all you’ll ever know is that your father was a transgender man who didn’t trust you with the truth. None of your questions will ever be answered because no one else trusts you either. You’re alone, like always. Just walk away and save a scrap of your dignity.

  But as Luke turned to leave, he stopped as he heard a familiar sound. And while piano music from within wasn’t a guarantee that Tom was behind the door, it gave him the courage to ring the bell.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Salt Lake City, Utah

  February 2038: Tom

  As great as he’d felt the day before, Tom DuBelle was once again miserable. He’d stopped taking the cancer drugs that masked his sickness, made him want to eat again, and gave back his confidence. He had to.

  I don’t want to be tempted to hang in until they aren’t effective. I’m tired of hanging. I’m tired of everything.

  The morning he’d had breakfast with Luke had been the last time he’d taken them. And he’d decided to only keep on the Oxy until he got home. Sitting on a plane for eight hours would’ve been intolerable otherwise.

  There’s no purpose to suffering unnecessarily. I’m not a fucking martyr. I don’t deserve any of this pain, Goddamn it.

  He hadn’t wanted to kill himself in Pennsylvania, though it might’ve been easier. He wanted to be at home, with his piano and photographs, where he could pretend nothing had happened.

  The Oxy only has to get me home. Then I’m done with it and the other pain meds. I’ll drive myself to do it.

  As exhausted of life as Tom was, stopping the pain medication altogether intimidated him. His doctors had been ramping up his dosage as it became incapable of taking the edge off the pain. They’d probably been ready to move him to Oxy anyway. It was the first time in months he hadn’t even felt the pressure in his abdomen that made every position uncomfortable.

  He’d been careful to overlap the drugs during his trip. There’d only been a couple of times when he’d missed doses of the weaker pain meds, and it’d been agony.

  Paying close attention to overlapping pain medication when your insides are being eaten is a priority. There’s another nugget of wisdom for the next generation.

  The pain and nausea would be horrible, but he’d wanted no excuse not to do it.

  It will be so fucking terrible that I won’t be able to
think of anything else. Of Jay, of those fucking kids, of no one finding my body for a week after I’ve congealed onto the floor. Tom stepped inside his high-rise condo. He’d turned on the lights and regarded his floor, scuffing the hardwood with his shoe.

  My poor floor. God, I hope they can get putrefaction out of you. I should set up a tarp. They can fold in my sludge like a hobo’s knapsack and spare you.

  He took a steady breath as he closed the door.

  Be thoughtful of your hardwood floors and lay out a tarp if you plan on killing yourself. That’s good. Really good. Spare the floor.

  But Tom didn’t have a tarp, and he didn’t feel like going out to buy one. He wouldn’t even unpack. He ran his hand along the black-lacquered frame of his piano in greeting and trudged down the hall to his bedroom. Against his better judgment, he took the Oxy from his carry-on for one last hit. He also dug out his cell phone, but only to power it off. The only person he’d enjoyed talking to was dead.

  I’m pissed at you for being a dick, but I’d still talk to you if you were alive. I could never not talk to you. You’d make it up to me. And if you were here, you’d go get me a tarp. Fucking asshole.

  Tom collapsed on his bed in a deep sleep.

  This is the last time I will wake up, Tom thought when he opened his eyes the next afternoon. On checking his watch, he found he’d been asleep for fourteen hours. And this was the third dose of the cancer drugs he’d missed. He should’ve taken his pain medication four hours ago.

  He already felt it. Lying in bed without moving, there was the uneasy fluttering of his stomach and that twisting pain in his back, like wringing a dishrag. The yellow warning to take the meds.

  Fuck you. Fuck everyone.

  Tom forced himself up.

  He was going to pretend none of it had happened. He’d never received the phone call. The last time he’d traveled to Pennsylvania had been a year ago to see Luke’s final performance. He’d never met Luke. Ever. They were a set of people two thousand miles away that he liked to watch sometimes. Jay wasn’t dead. Someday he’d tell his children the truth, and Tom might meet them.

  It’s four days ago.

  Or better yet, fuck semireality. It was his last day, wasn’t it? He should be able to do anything he wanted. Have anything he wanted.

  There is no two thousand miles. No Luke. No children. There’s just you and I. As if you never left, and I’m waiting for you to get home from work.

  Tom put on his favorite sweater and blue jeans. He sat in the cold sunshine on his balcony, surveying the Salt Lake City landscape while he made himself eat a granola bar. He pretended the granola bar was a steak and didn’t taste like mouthfuls of nickels. He took his pain meds and arranged them on his coffee table with a couple water bottles.

  And after he’d done all that, Tom pulled out his piano bench. He clasped his hands together as if he was about to pray, but he only cracked his wrists quickly. Moving the fall back from the keyboard, he placed his fingers on the keys. He let them rest a few moments as he daydreamed.

  He’d play until he became too nauseated or was in too much pain. And then he’d stop. He’d take the pills. And he would really stop. It was a waiting game.

  I’m at Symphony Hall. They’ve announced me, and I’ve walked onto the stage. I’m letting the drama build before I hit that first key to play Opus clavicembalisticum. The lights go down over the seats, and I’m the only person in existence, except for you. You’re there in the audience. You’re listening, and you’re waiting for me.

  Tom closed his eyes and began to play.

  Hours later, as the feeling behind his stomach turned to a slow gnawing, Tom’s doorbell rang. He continued to play his piano. It could be delirium setting in. He didn’t think the pain was bad enough to cause hallucinations, but it could be. Maybe it was a side effect—withdrawals from the other meds.

  A minute later, the doorbell rang again.

  Fucking-A. He pictured Girl Scouts at his door. Or a vacuum salesman. Or Mormons. There were swarms of them everywhere, like adult flyer men on the Las Vegas strip. They always tried to convert him at the most inconvenient times. You can pray over my body in an hour or so.

  There was a knock.

  He had a feeling of déjà vu. Suddenly people were so anxious to talk to him. In another place and time, he might’ve been amused.

  A second knock, followed by another press of the doorbell.

  Persistent fuckers. Fine. Because your noise is destroying this movement. I’ll listen to you prostitute yourselves for five minutes, which is quite generous of me, seeing as I don’t have that many minutes remaining.

  Tom placed his palms on the keyslip to push back his bench. It felt as if his organs were being shredded across a grater, but he bit the inside of his cheek and stood.

  Three minutes. Assholes.

  He walked stiffly to the door. Now that he was in motion, the nausea made itself known. He couldn’t return to the piano, since he didn’t want to chance being sick over it. This loss pained him as much as losing Jay.

  I’ll never see you or play my piano again. Two very good reasons to kill myself. His arm felt nearly too heavy to move to the doorknob. After dealing with the Mormons.

  He turned the lock, pulled open the door, and nearly vomited on his threshold.

  Luke stood outside his door.

  “Tom.” The boy’s smile vanished. “You look sick. Are you all—”

  Tom closed the door in his face and threw the deadbolt. He leaned against the door, his heart racing as his castles in the sky evaporated. Or possibly he really was hallucinating. It wasn’t Luke on the other side of the door. It was Jay. A mirage created by heartache and pain. He could be dead already. Maybe he’d taken the pills and didn’t remember.

  He felt the knocking on the back of his head. Ghosts didn’t knock.

  “Tom, I need to talk to you.”

  It wasn’t Jay’s voice.

  “Tom, please open the door.”

  How did he find me? Why did he find me?

  “Why are you here?” Tom wanted to yell, but as his voice rose, the spike in his abdomen forced him to finish in a scathing tone. “I told you to leave me alone.”

  “I need to talk to you. They told me only a little, but they refused to tell me everything. I need to know.”

  “What do you need to know?”

  “Please open the door.”

  Tom took a deep breath before he turned and drew the lock. He opened the door only a few inches.

  “I was going to give the Mormons three minutes. I’ll give them to you instead. What the fuck do you want?”

  Luke appeared hurt by his reaction, and for a second Tom felt sorry. But he was in so much pain.

  “I want to know why he did what he did,” the boy said.

  “That’s a ridiculous question. If you woke up tomorrow in a woman’s body, wouldn’t you do something about it?”

  “Not that. Why did he hide who he was from me?”

  Tom didn’t immediately respond. He could see how upset Luke had been and was becoming again. The boy was disheveled, and there was a cut on his cheek. Tom tried to respond with a softer inflection.

  “He didn’t hide who he was. You knew him.”

  “I didn’t know him at all. Why didn’t he trust me? I want to know everything.”

  Tears streamed down Luke’s face. Tom almost opened the door. Almost.

  But I can’t. If I let him in, I won’t be able to go through with my plan. And I want it to be over. The left side of his face flinched. I don’t want to think about you. You or Jay.

  “If he’d wanted you both to know everything, he would’ve told you. I respect that, even if you don’t. Now leave me alone.” Tom didn’t slam the door this time. He just shut it.

  As he stumbled away, Luke knocked again.

  “But she does know!” Luke pounded the door with the flat of his hand. “He told Beau and not me! He told everyone but me! And she kept me in the dark too! They all l
ied to me!”

  Tom had told Luke that Jay kept him informed, and he doubted anything could be disclosed that he wasn’t already aware of. While Jay had flung bits and pieces to different people, Tom had honestly believed that he was the only one who knew it all.

  You told her. When? In what context? Was it before I was at their graduation? Was it before I was at her wedding? Did you point me out to her? Does she know you’ve been telling me about her baby? That you promised me a sonogram picture?

  “Please, Tom. Don’t shut me out like everyone else.”

  Luke’s voice sounded fainter. When Tom reopened the door, he was on his knees in the hall. Tom hesitated.

  He looks so much like you, Jay. I could never refuse you.

  “Wait here.”

  Tom closed the door and ground his teeth to move through the pain, to his bedroom. He removed the OxyContin from his carry-on, shook two pills out, and swallowed them dry before replacing the bottle. On his way back to the door, he stopped at the coffee table, took his other prescription bottles, and stuffed them under the couch cushion. Last, he walked to his piano and gathered the pictures on its top. He opened the lid itself and set the frames on the treble strings.

  I’m sorry, baby. I don’t know where else I can put them right now.

  He returned to his door and opened it a fourth time, half expecting it to have been a dream. But Luke was still there. Standing now, his face red and a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. Tom held the door back.

  “Come in.”

  “Thank you.” Luke stepped inside.

  Tom braced himself on the closed door briefly to regain his strength. He shut his eyes and took breaths through his nose, trying to quell the sickness.

  God, I hope the pills disintegrate before I throw them up. It’s too late to take the nausea meds.

  “You have a beautiful home. The view is spectacular.”

  Luke stood before the floor-to-ceiling windows that comprised the two walls of Tom’s living room. The windows were one of the reasons Tom had selected the condo. He could sit at his piano and feel he was playing to the entire city.