The Great Believers

by Rebecca Makkai

  Eventually she put her hand on Claire’s back, and Claire screamed. How had she even felt it through her parka? She yelled, “Leave me alone forever!”

  Someone had stopped behind them, a woman who bent down and asked Claire, in a Jamaican accent, if this was her mama.

  Claire, caught off guard, said yes.

  The woman stood and said, “Just pick her up and carry her. Last time she little enough for that.”

  And although Fiona expected Claire to kick, to bite, she bent and scooped her from beneath, a compact mass. Claire clutched her own legs to her chest but did nothing to fight. A block later she was sobbing into Fiona’s chest, and by the time they reached home, she was shaking so hard Claire worried it was some kind of seizure.

  Why hadn’t she thought to pick her up in the first place? Why did it take a stranger to tell her this?

  She laid Claire on the bed and zipped their coats off and curled up around her, and Claire didn’t elbow her away, didn’t act, for once, like Fiona was touching her with ice hands.

  In the hospital, when Claire was born, Fiona had been so flooded by hormones and panic and grief and fear and guilt and revulsion that when Damian brought her the baby, impossibly small and alien, its body a lurid pink, Fiona told him to take it away, to keep it safe from her. She had some horrid, febrile vision of a mother animal smothering its young, eating it. In fact Fiona did have a fever, as it turned out, and when she emerged from its fog, five hours had passed, and Claire had been given a bottle in the nursery. Fiona was furious—all the books had said not to do this—but when they brought Claire to her for a supervised feeding, nothing worked properly anyway. The baby wouldn’t latch, and Fiona had no milk yet. The nurse assured her this was how you got the milk, by letting the baby try. Fiona was crying so much, sweating so much, that she couldn’t imagine her body would ever secrete anything but saline.

  “You have so much else going on,” Damian said. “I’m sure it’s partly mental.”

  He’d meant it to be reassuring, but to Fiona it was an indictment: This was her own fault, not just a failure of the body.

  And in fact the nursing never worked, despite the best efforts of three lactation consultants. Claire was underweight, Fiona was bleeding and then her breasts were dangerously infected, and in the end it was in everyone’s best interest to stop trying.

  Not that it should have mattered! Whole generations turned out fine on bottles. Fiona hadn’t bought all the La Leche stuff about bonding. But as she lay on the bed with eight-year-old Claire, what she remembered far too clearly was her resignation to the idea that this baby would never be able to take comfort from her—that Fiona had nothing left of herself, that first day or ever since, to give.

  And what she remembered now, staring out Richard’s window toward the afternoon sun, was the absurd feeling back then, when Claire was eight, that they’d already missed the boat forever. That the damage had been done sometime in the past, not the present, and they were living in its aftermath. That the best they could hope for was good scarring.

  1986

  Yale didn’t say anything to Bill about messing up with Debra. He told him Nora had given a few general dates, provided some context, but that she wasn’t great on specifics. “Roman will type it all up for you,” he said. “Including a lot of stories about Ranko Novak!” He felt gross going for the cheap laugh; Ranko had grown on him.

  He had a message waiting on his desk from Esmé Sharp, and when he called her it ended up spilling out that he had no place to stay, and so at her insistence, he spent the night at the Marina Towers in the fifty-eighth floor apartment Esmé and Allen let lie empty all winter when they were in Aspen. “Stay as long as you like!” she said. “You can water the jade plant.”

  It was far enough from Boystown that he wouldn’t run into Charlie. He did want to see Charlie soon, wanted to yell at him all the things he hadn’t yet yelled, but only when he was prepared. He didn’t want to bump into him at the ATM.

  Esmé insisted he could take the master bedroom, but instead he set himself up in the smaller guest room, which had its own half-balcony and featured a shelf of architecture books. In the kitchen was a rack of wine that Esmé said “better be drunk up the next time I check.” In the living room was the best stereo system Yale had ever used, and a shelf of classical CDs and opera and Broadway and Sinatra. Left to his own devices, he’d have been listening to The Smiths, which wouldn’t have helped a thing; and if it turned out he only had a few years to live, shouldn’t he be listening to Beethoven? He could see the river and the Sears Tower from the windows. At night, the city below him turned to constellations of yellow and red.

  Back when Charlie had first taken him to the Bistro, right up the street, he’d been fascinated to see the two Marina City towers up close, the way each flower petal projection was really a curved balcony. And now, from the inside, he was terrified by how low the balcony railings were, how easily someone tall might lose balance and pitch over, how easily someone could step up and jump.

  He wouldn’t do this, not even if he tested positive. Because the test didn’t mean you’d get sick this year or next year. If he ever went blind, he thought, he might end it then. If he couldn’t get through the day without shitting his pants. He and Charlie had met a guy in a bar that summer who’d sat there telling them about his lover, how this guy had vowed to kill himself when he couldn’t dance. And then when he couldn’t dance he’d changed it to when he couldn’t eat. And when he couldn’t eat, he’d said, “When I can’t talk.”

  “He never did it,” the guy said. “He fought for his last breath. And what does that tell you? What does that tell you?” Yale and Charlie hadn’t offered an answer, and neither had he.

  * * *

  —

  The days were ticking by, the odds of a reliable blood test increasing. Good news still wouldn’t be definitive, but bad news might be making an early debut. And then at least he’d know. It was the kind of decision he’d have loved to bounce off a friend, if the ones who knew about Charlie didn’t hate him, and if the ones who didn’t know could be told. He hadn’t seen anyone, really, since he’d run into Teddy at the Laundromat. One evening Yale was coming out of the dentist on Broadway—an appointment he’d made in another lifetime—and Rafael from Out Loud was passing with a friend. Rafael, drunk, kissed Yale on one cheek and bit him on the other—but they hadn’t had a real conversation.

  Roman kept to his normal schedule, coming in both Wednesday and Friday afternoons—and, mercifully, the first time he entered Yale’s office, Janice the cleaning lady was in there with the vacuum, making any greeting other than a silent wave impossible. Roman went about his normal business, albeit more nervously. About twice an hour, he put his forehead down on his desk, and Yale didn’t dare ask if it was over some frustration in transcribing Nora’s letters or in the grant applications Roman was assisting with, or if it was a more existential crisis, one to do with Yale himself, one to do with Roman’s own soul. In any case, Roman was the last person on earth Yale would confide in about his fear of infection.

  * * *

  —

  On Sunday evening Yale saw Julian at Treasure Island. He could have gone to the Jewel right near Marina City, but he hated figuring out the layout of a new store. And maybe he’d been hoping to run into someone after all. Julian was buying a plastic-wrapped roast beef sandwich. He looked better than he had two weeks ago, or at least he had more color in his cheeks. He froze when he saw Yale, stood there like he’d been punched in the gut, and it wasn’t till Yale stepped closer and squeezed his shoulder that he relaxed, said hello.

  “Teddy’s been feeding you,” Yale said. “You look good.”

  Julian glanced down the aisle. He whispered. “Teddy’s suffocating me. Have you noticed that he never stops moving? Like, ever. And he’s in my face, like I open my eyes in the morning and there he is. Listen, don’t say anything t
ill it’s done, but I’m getting out of here. Out of the country.”

  Yale wasn’t sure he believed him—Julian was prone to overstatement—but he acted as if he did. He said, “Where?”

  “I got a passport two years ago, and I never used it. Seriously, I’m not going back there. I have my stuff.” Julian turned to show Yale his backpack. “I don’t even know where I’m going. I gave up my apartment.”

  “You’re not going to Thailand or something, are you? You’re going to be careful?”

  “Listen,” Julian said, “I heard a rumor that you’ve got a place. What if—I just need like three nights, just to get my shit together before I leave. If I stay at Teddy’s, he’s gonna sedate me and tie me to the bed, I swear. I know you hate me right now. I know that. Why wouldn’t you hate me? I hate myself. You should—you should let me stay with you, and then you should throw me out the window. You can say no. I can’t stay with Richard again, it’s too weird there. I could pay you.”

  It was humiliating how happy Yale was to say yes. Julian was almost the last person he wanted to spend time with, but it was someone, and he wouldn’t be staring at the TV alone for the next few nights. He wondered how much he’d wind up babysitting, wondered what drugs Julian had in that backpack—but it felt like a triumph to be asked. A year ago he’d have thought about germs, but he was over it. “Do you need any more of your stuff?”

  “I can’t go back there. Not for a second. And you can’t tell anyone where I am, okay?”

  So Julian helped Yale carry his grocery bags all the way back to River North on the El, all the way up the very fast elevator and into the apartment.

  They ate pizza and drank beer at the dining table, and turned off the lights so they could look out the windows at the city. Julian said, “This is like The Jetsons. Like, a flying car should pick you up outside your window.”

  It had been nearly two weeks since Julian had shaved his head, and at least you couldn’t see white patches anymore. Still, it was all wrong. His ears stuck out, his forehead looked broad and pale.

  Yale said, “I want you to know I’m not mad at you. I’m mad at Charlie, and I’m mad at the world, and I’m mad at the government, but you’re hard to be mad at.”

  “It’s because I’m so pitiful. No, really, it is. I’ve learned this recently. When you’re a sad sack of shit, no one feels anything for you but pity.”

  “I don’t think you’re pitiful,” Yale said.

  “Just wait till I weigh eighty pounds. I mean, you won’t ever see that, ’cause I’ll be gone. That’s my point. I hate being pitied. I wish you’d just be mad at me. I wish you’d kick me in the head. No one’s willing to be mad at me but God.”

  “For Christ’s sake,” Yale said. “You can stay over, but Jerry Falwell can’t, okay?”

  “I can’t shake the feeling that God chased me up here from Georgia. I tried to make my life perfect, and I came up here and everything was beautiful, it was so good, and I should have known. I should’ve been waiting for this.”

  “I understand, but that’s—you’re internalizing a lot of bullshit.”

  “Did I ever tell you about Disney World? Not when I worked there, the first time I went.”

  Yale said no, got them more beer.

  “They have this thing called Grad Night, when they keep the park open all night long for kids about to graduate high school. And Valdosta’s right across the border, so the Parents’ Association got us buses and bought us all tickets. You could go on any ride, no lines, and there were bands playing. You just had to stay awake all night. Everyone had a flask.

  “And at first I was sticking with my friends, all these theater girls who thought they were gonna marry me, and then I start noticing these three guys from some other school. So beautiful. And so gay, like dripping with gay. Which wasn’t something I’d really seen in Georgia. We’re waiting behind them for Space Mountain, and one of them, this kid with an earring, starts talking to me and says they’re getting food next, do I want food. So by the time we get off the ride, I’m following these guys, eating ice cream with them, and my friends are gone. And the guy with the earring wants us to do the PeopleMover. It’s not even a ride, really, it’s like you go in this little box along an elevated track, but slow. So his friends go in one car, and he and I go in the next one, even though we could have squeezed together. And at this point in my life, just being in the same space as this guy is the most thrilling thing I’ve ever done. I’m terrified.

  “So the ride goes through some buildings, and at one point it goes into the dark. And it’s only supposed to be a few seconds, but the ride gets stuck there. In the dark. Everyone’s shouting and laughing.”

  Yale wasn’t sure if the story was about to turn pornographic or romantic or terrible, so he just said “Oh God,” which covered all three possibilities. “What did you do?”

  “Nothing. The kid got down on his knees and unzipped my fly and sucked me off. It was the most amazing two minutes of my life. I mean, I was terrified they would turn on the lights, but I didn’t really have much mental space for that. The ride started moving again like half a second after I zipped back up.”

  “That’s—wow.”

  “Well, yeah. And my takeaway from the whole thing, besides the fact that I was definitely gay, was that there were good places and bad places in the world. Disney World was a good place, and Valdosta was a bad place, and I had to get back to Disney as fast as I could. Which I did. And then after a couple years it was about getting to a real city, so I tried Atlanta, and then it was about getting out of the south, getting to a bigger city, a bigger theater scene. Like, the more steps I took away from Valdosta, the safer I’d be. It was a ladder that just went up and up and up, right? And it ended in some kind of mansion in San Francisco. But look at me. I feel like such an idiot. That I ever thought I could have a really good life.”

  Yale said, “You’ll have a better life if you stay here than if you go. You need to stay where people love you. Aren’t you falling into the same trap again? Thinking there’s some better place out there?”

  “I mean, there are warmer places. I’ll say that. If I’m gonna die, I want to die with the sun shining on my face.”

  “Fair enough.”

  Yale made sure Julian had towels in the master bathroom. He imagined the Sharps coming home next month to find an entire fifty-eighth-floor refugee camp of the recently diagnosed. Sleeping bags and cots, vitamins and protein shakes.

  * * *

  —

  On Monday morning, the heat in the office was broken. Yale walked straight back to the El, relieved he wouldn’t have to see Roman but dreading an empty day, one in which he now had no excuse not to get the test over with. But when he got off the train he just stood there by the pay phone, because he wasn’t even sure where he was going.

  He thought of calling Dr. Vincent, but it was as if Charlie had inherited him in the breakup, the same way he’d inherited most of their friends. He couldn’t imagine walking in there and awkwardly trying to figure out how much Dr. Vincent already knew. And maybe Dr. Vincent had known for months, for years, that Charlie was cheating. Maybe he’d been treating him for gonorrhea, telling him to be careful. Yale couldn’t face him, his sweet, watery eyes. He thought of calling Cecily, but he’d caused her enough stress as it was, and he didn’t want anyone connected with the university believing he might be sick. He thought of going back to Marina Towers, but seeing Julian would scare him out of going through with it. What had the test done for Julian but wreck his life? He considered calling the Howard Brown hotline, but the thought of some kind lesbian talking him through his options—reading to him off a form, cautiously choosing her words—made him ill. Worse, Teddy’s friend Katsu might answer, might recognize Yale’s voice. Plus the hotline wasn’t open till evening, and it wasn’t even 10 a.m. So although he knew better, although she was the last person who needed to
be put through all this again, he called Fiona Marcus.

  After three rings he started hoping she wasn’t home, but she was. She’d been about to bundle up her charges and take them to the zoo. Did he want to come? Yes, he did.

  They met by the big cat enclosures, Fiona in a bright blue parka that made her look more substantial than she really was. The two girls circled her, spinning, yelling. Fiona reminded him that the little one with the pink hat was Ashley and the five-year-old was Brooke. Their father was high up at United Airlines, and their mother, according to the stories Fiona told, mostly occupied herself with tanning. Brooke announced that she wanted to visit the penguins and polar bears. “Because those are winter animals,” she said.

  “Hold on,” Yale said to Ashley. “Let me straighten your ears first.” He gently tugged one up and the other down. “Much better,” he said, and the girls giggled and looked smitten. It was his only line for kids, but it always worked.

  Fiona said “How are you?” and then, as they walked, “I’ve heard contradictory rumors. I mean, I know about Charlie. But I decided I wouldn’t believe anything else till I heard it straight from you.”

  “Thank you,” Yale said. “That’s refreshing.”

  “Spill.”

  The zoo was nearly empty, just a few well-insulated stroller-pushers and a sole jogger.

  He told her the entire story, more than he’d even told Cecily, in part because there was more to tell now. He told her about the fight at Terrence’s funeral, about Roman, even, and about the circle on the calendar a week and a day ago. He left out the part about Richard’s house. Why make her blame herself when Charlie might have been lying anyway? He said, “Your cousin Debra hates me now,” but left out how much money was involved. He told her about Julian crashing with him.

  “God, this is depressing,” Fiona said, although she wasn’t talking about Yale’s issues. They were in front of the penguin enclosure and you could hardly see through the grimy glass. “Are they even in there?”