As they pulled into the station, they said nothing. As if embarrassed by their previous intimacy. The boy gathered his things and, without a goodbye, strode unsteadily down the aisle and onto the dark train platform.
That was for the best. It really was.
Kent put on his blazer and limped out of the train.
Colder out. No moon anymore.
Even darker in the parking lot. He was in his car, pulling onto Waterman Street, when a shape lurched into his path.
Kent rolled down his window. “Need a ride?”
The boy said nothing. Just swayed, gazing in the direction of College Hill.
Then they were both in the car, the heater blowing cold air, the radio on. Kent too bombed to drive but doing so.
The boy fiddled with the radio.
“I think a nightcap is in order,” Kent said.
“I’m totally wasted already,” said the boy.
Kent made a left, away from campus. “Is that a yes?” he said.
It was one of those historic houses on Benefit Street. No front yard. Plaque that said EBENEZER SWAMPSCOTT, WHALER, 1764.
Where Eugene was from, nothing was that old. In fifth grade he’d gone on a field trip to Fort Dearborn, but he’d had to blur his vision to erase the skyscrapers and car factories so that he could imagine the days when Indian canoes, laden with pelts, plied the river.
Plied was like “plunge,” “fly,” and “try,” all at once.
The man had a hard time with the key, even though it was his house. To compensate, when he got the door open he went all English butler, bowing and scraping. “After you, My Lord.” The low-ceilinged room they entered was full of old-fashioned furniture and oil paintings. The only modern thing was the stereo, which the man headed straight for.
It felt different, being alone with him. More tense.
Maybe Eugene should leave.
“Have you ever heard Mabel Mercer?” the man said, putting on a record.
“Who?”
“If you’re going to be a poet, you have to know Mabel Mercer.” He lowered the needle, scratching issued through the speakers, and then a piano tinkled and this voice came out. Low. Deep. Not singing, exactly. More like talking with extreme precision. Hard to tell if it was a man or a woman.
The man stood straight now, index finger raised. “Listen to her phrasing,” he said.
Eugene listened. He was glad to have an assignment. Meanwhile, the man disappeared. He returned one song later to hand Eugene a drink. Something fizzy. Tasted like Sprite.
Didn’t mix with beer so well.
All of a sudden, Eugene’s mouth filled with saliva. He swallowed, but it refilled. Since opening his mouth didn’t seem like a good idea, he put down his glass and hurried out of the room. He found the guest bathroom and spit into the sink.
Was he going to hurl? He couldn’t tell. Mouth filling again.
Eugene closed the door. The lock was a hook-and-eye thingy—wouldn’t keep anybody out. He hooked it, nonetheless.
The kid wasn’t getting sick in there, was he? That would crimp things.
Kent Jeffries had come into the hall to listen.
Silence from the bathroom. No sound of retching.
Vodka tonic had probably been a bad idea.
Speaking of which, his glass was empty.
He returned to the kitchen. As he got a lime from the refrigerator, his eyes fell on the postcard from Jasper. A few years old now. A sepia-tone image of Jas in a fringed vest, his Wild Bill Hickok goatee graying, and the message “I’m back in NYC, and, for the nonce, this is what I’m doing.”
That had been Jas’s last stand. His Alamo. Had to lug that oxygen tank everywhere. Called it Trigger.
It pained Kent not to be able to take care of Jasper in his time of need. When Kent had hepatitis, he was in the hospital for a month, his eyes the color of blood oranges. Shivered all the time. Couldn’t get warm. So Jasper had crawled into his hospital bed and held him. All night long. Nurses didn’t like that. They kept saying, “Sir? Visitors aren’t allowed in the beds.”
Jasper hissed back, “Haven’t you ever been in love?”
1969. Stonewall still months away. Took guts.
I could have died. Didn’t realize it. Too young to realize. Jas knew how serious it was. He found Liz’s number in my address book and called to prepare her. Didn’t tell me until later.
So Liz had known. Jasper had said he was a “friend.” But that voice of his. She knew.
Never said a word about it. Nor Roger.
What was that line? In the poem the kid had read?
I will not entirely die!
No, not entirely. Just piece by piece.
Kent took his drink back to the living room. Tried to light a cigarette but fumbled it onto his lap. Picked it up. Stuck it in his mouth. Tried the lighter.
Once. Twice.
Why won’t this fucker—?
Oh, wrong end.
He lit the cigarette and took a long drag. Exhaled. Just as the record ended, he heard the bathroom door open.
It was clear from the beginning where the night would lead. So why hadn’t Eugene seen it? The thing was, he had seen, yet somehow remained blind. Which was like so many things in his life. Like why he wore the white fur coat. And the pink sunglasses. And had an earring. All these things had adhered to him, as though he’d played no part in acquiring them, but who else had acquired them if not him? He’d gone off to college to read the great works of literature and philosophy and to understand himself better, but in the few months he’d been there it was as though some other self had taken residence inside Eugene and was making decisions for him.
He was still bent over the sink. You were supposed to puke in the toilet, but sinks were easier. Just rinse afterward. If stuff got stuck around the drain, take out the plug.
Eugene had experience with situations like this. One time, up at Mr. Baxter’s cabin, he’d drunk white wine from a half-empty bottle in the fridge. Tasted sour. He got a killer headache and collapsed on the couch, his gorge rising. R.J. and Mr. Baxter outside somewhere, snowshoeing.
Should he use the toilet? The angle would be better. Before he could decide, though, his body spasmed.
Dry heaves. Hurt like a bitch.
Mr. Baxter’s cottage wasn’t winterized. They could heat only one bedroom, using a space heater. For that reason, the three of them slept in the same bed, R.J. and Mr. Baxter on each side and Eugene, who was the youngest, in the middle.
Another dry heave convulsed him. Then nothing. Was that it? Huh. Surprisingly, he felt somewhat better now. Turned on the tap and splashed water on his face.
And there it was in the mirror: that inscrutable factor. As much time as Eugene spent staring in mirrors, you’d think he’d know what he looked like. But he didn’t. It depended. From certain angles he was actually good-looking. But if he adjusted the panels of his parents’ three-way mirror to see his profile it was as if this other, commedia dell’arte face leaped out. Scaramouche, the clown.
Was that what he looked like?
It would explain a lot.
For instance, why the ballerina had stood him up. How could a creature like her, so small and perfect, go out with someone partially deformed like Eugene? If Disney made an animated film about them, the animators would render the ballerina as a pretty, long-lashed sea otter, sleekly twirling in the waves, whereas Eugene would be—he didn’t know—a South American tapir. How could two such divergent animals ever consort? (The otter lived in the sea, so even if the tapir pursued her he would only drown.) No, the tapir would just be there for comic relief. A sidekick. A subplot. He’d get one song, tops.
The first time Eugene had noticed the ballerina was at freshman orientation. She was standing apart from everyone else, pressing her back against the wall, wearing maroon Danskins and pink leg warmers. At the center of the room, Rob, the RA, was dispensing info on birth-control availability. While he spoke, the ballerina kept stretching and limbering
up, as though preparing to go onstage.
Other girls thought she put on airs. Well, maybe she did. But so did Eugene. That was a nice way to think about the stuff he did.
He’d attended a dance recital where the ballerina performed. The other dancers were larger and thicker than she was. Better for modern. The ballerina had looked so tiny in comparison—she was like a ballerina on top of a music box.
It was amazing that leotards were legal. The ballerina’s nipples were distinctly visible. This was OK, because she was engaged in Art. In the audience, paying close attention, Eugene noticed that the ballerina, for all her delicacy, was perspiring. Probably even smelling a little. She had superdefined muscles in her shoulders and thighs.
Three days later, he saw her crossing the green and got up the courage to tell her how great she’d been. “Thanks!” she said, smiling.
That was when he’d asked her to the movies.
He’d waited outside the theater until the coming attractions started.
But you know what? The ballerina’s not showing had done something to Eugene that he must have liked. It didn’t feel good, exactly, but it was familiar. It felt as if there were a drain inside him, as in a bathtub, and being stood up by the ballerina had pulled the rubber stopper out, so that Eugene’s blood drained away. It drained out from a spot right under his armpit and above his ribs—the place of ardor.
Maybe that was his word all along.
Ardor sort of hurt.
The next day, Eugene had put on his fur coat and his new sunglasses and taken the train to New York to spend the weekend at Stigwood’s. While there, he’d managed to get trashed enough to put the ballerina out of his mind. But now that he was back in Providence he was thinking about her again. Hoping he wouldn’t run into her on campus. Hoping he would.
He stared into the bathroom mirror. His earring glinted; the skin around it looked inflamed.
When he squeezed his lobe, pus ran out.
That was attractive.
He clamped a hand towel to his ear. Now that his nausea had subsided, he was just drunk.
He tossed the towel. Didn’t even bother to hang it up. Unhooked the hook and lurched out of the bathroom. Back in the living room, he saw his drink. The man sitting in the shadows, smoking, waiting.
Eugene picked up his drink and downed it. Four gulps. Throat-heat immediate. Dizziness.
He lay down on the floor. Right where he was.
There was no use.
No hope.
Something was impelling him. He didn’t understand what.
So he lay. And waited.
Kent was about to change the record when the boy came in. Didn’t say a word. Just snatched up his drink and dispatched it, before lying on the floor and closing his eyes.
As if following orders.
A voice in Kent’s head said, “Put a blanket over him. Let him sleep.” Whose voice? Not his. He was in a region beyond words by now. The place he set out to find whenever he was drinking. A land where he could be his true, appetitive self and everything was permitted. He rose unsteadily out of his chair. Crossed to the boy and knelt. With quick fingers, suddenly sure of himself, he undid the boy’s belt buckle.
Next his fly. The kid was wearing boxer shorts. Easy off.
And would you look at that! Kid was ready for him. Had wanted this all along.
Carpe diem, Horace, honey.
Kent swooped down. No thinking involved. No person, even. No actor. Only a headlong descent, as if on prey. But that wasn’t right, either. He felt too much tenderness for that. Was it tenderness? Well, he wanted it to be good. Wanted the boy to enjoy it and come back for more.
Kent Jeffries was surprised, therefore, when in the middle of his efforts the boy stood up. Got to his feet, coldly, and readjusted his clothes. Didn’t so much as look at Kent. Just grabbed his coat and his bag, and strode, with determination, out the front door.
The pain of ardor was duller as he walked uphill. It was cold out. He was sobering up fast. Everything made sense suddenly. He’d been lying on the floor, with his eyes shut, feeling what the man was doing to him while also not feeling it. Not feeling it because (1) he wasn’t in his body anymore, and (2) he was in his fourteen-year-old body, while Mr. Baxter was doing the same thing to him. They were alone at the cabin, just the two of them. R.J. had been demoted. Mr. Baxter had demoted him. And Eugene was so happy about that.
It was cold that night, too. Space heater going. Eugene had gone to sleep but, in the middle of the night, felt Mr. Baxter’s hand on him, which meant that he must have been awake. Next, Mr. Baxter’s head disappeared under the covers. Eugene had expected the usual thing, with his hand, but then he felt the wetness of a mouth. Since Mr. Baxter couldn’t see him, Eugene opened his eyes. He made the face he and his friends made whenever something really wild happened. The face he would have made if a girl were doing what Mr. Baxter was doing and he wanted to say, “You guys won’t believe what is happening to me right now!”
The memory of that moment filled Eugene’s mind, as the man toiled over him. This wasn’t at all what Eugene wanted. If he had arrived at the Ebenezer Swampscott house unsure of that, he was unsure no longer. The part of himself that Eugene didn’t control had led him here, but now it was as though he could say to that part of himself, “Get out of here! Who put you in charge!” He didn’t like his fur coat all that much. He didn’t want to mislead people with his earring. He still wanted to write poetry, but that was about it.
Down Benefit Street to Waterman, then up Waterman and through the parking lot, back to his dorm. He was so tired. He wanted to go to bed.
But when he reached his room a surprise greeted him. On his whiteboard was a note from the ballerina. It said, “I’m still up if you want to come by.”
When had she written that? What time was it now? Was she still awake?
Difficult to know what had happened. The boy had got scared, or felt guilty. Was it something I? Oh, well. Maybe he had a quiz in the morning.
Nothing to be done but freshen his drink. He banged into the kitchen to effectuate that, then brought his drink back to the living room, where he lit a cigarette, put the phone in his lap, and dialed the number to Jasper’s hospital room.
“Hello?”
“Jas!”
“It’s almost midnight. I told you not to call after nine.”
“I wanted to tell you about a change in my life. A resolution.”
“You’re drunk,” Jasper said.
“I’m not that drunk,” Kent said. “And, anyway, pot calling the kettle.”
“I’m completely sober,” Jasper said.
If Jasper had been thirty-eight when they met, that made him fifty-nine now. “Age isn’t kind to our kind,” he always said. But he didn’t mean this. Not death.
“Don’t you want to hear my resolution?”
“I’d like to get some sleep. It’s impossible in these places.”
“I met a boy on the train tonight. Coming back from the city. Brought him back here. He left a few minutes ago.”
“You can do whatever you like,” Jasper said wearily. “I’ve got other things to deal with now.”
“I didn’t touch him, Jas. It was purely platonic. I wanted to tell you that.”
“At midnight. You needed to tell me that at midnight.”
“Not only that. Also that I was thinking of flying down to see you. When this show’s over.”
“I’m not ready for my closeup,” Jasper said.
“I miss you, Jas.” What was this? Tears? He was crying. Oh, God.
Jasper wheezed on the other end. When he spoke, his voice was gentle. “Let’s do. Let’s think about your coming down. When I’m feeling better. I’ll have to get a lighting designer in here, so you won’t reel back in horror.”
“Jas?”
“No more. It’s late. Good night, darling.”
Kent hung up. Switched off the light. Sat unmoving. What was that sound? Something scratching to be let
in. Oh, the record. He needed to lift the needle.
When he got up, he didn’t go to the stereo, however. He went back to the kitchen. There was the vodka bottle. There was Jas’s postcard. For the nonce.
That was all there was. The nonce. And then, Curtain.
Play ice, Kent Jeffries told himself, pouring. Become ice.
The ballerina opened the door.
“My roommate’s away,” she said.
She didn’t mean it like that. She was just explaining why she was up so late playing music.
Erik Satie. Eugene recognized it.
About 1 a.m. at this point.
He stood outside her door, listing to the right. He still had his earring in but had left his coat in his room.
“I’ve been drinking copious amounts,” Eugene said.
“I know. I can smell it.”
She invited him in.
A poster for The Turning Point hung above her bed. Photos of the ballerina dancing were taped to the wall, along with a framed one on her dresser where she stood beside an old, twisted-up woman in a wheelchair. Her grandmother, maybe.
“Erik Satie,” Eugene said. “I love this.”
“You know it? Me, too! It’s so beautiful!”
Should he sit on her bed? Or was that too suggestive? He didn’t want to screw things up. Maybe better just to lean against her roommate’s desk.
He was waiting for the ballerina’s excuse for not meeting him at the movies. But she seemed to have forgotten. She asked if he wanted tea.
Why had she told him to come by?
Oh, good. He was still drunk enough to ask.
“Why?” the ballerina said. “I felt like talking to you. I can’t figure you out. You’re strange, but in a good way.”
“I’ve decided to be more normal,” Eugene said. “From now on.”
“I don’t know if you should,” the ballerina said.
On second glimpse, the woman in the wheelchair wasn’t that old.
The ballerina saw him looking, and said, “That’s my mom.”
He didn’t ask what was wrong. One of those muscle diseases.
No wonder Erik Satie. So beautiful, so sad.
He looked at the other photos. The ballerina at various ages, leaping, pirouetting.
The Best American Short Stories 2019 Page 16
