by Matt Dean
"Christa, please. I'm a little-."
"In about eight months' time, do you think you might be available-?" She smoothed her hands down the front of her blouse, smoothing the fabric tight over her belly.
Whether or not she meant the gesture as a hint, it did the trick. "My God, you're pregnant."
"What I was going to say was, in eight months' time, do you think you might be available for babysitting?" She stared at her fingernails. Her nail polish was chipped, her cuticles ragged. "It sounded funnier when I was rehearsing it earlier."
"How long have you known? Have you told Tory? What did he say?"
She worried one of the pearly pink buttons of her blouse. Her foot patted the speckled blue-gray carpet. The heel of her shoe flapped against the sole of her foot. "That's just the thing. It's not his."
"It's not his? Whose is it?"
Throwing up her hands, she said, rather loudly, "Some guy." She took a step back. Her shoe skittered across the hallway. Quiet now, she said, "Just some guy. You never met him. I never mentioned him. It's not important."
I leaned over and scooped up her shoe. It was a strappy thing, black, stiletto-heeled. I handed it to her. "What are you going to do?"
Holding the shoe in one hand, she ran the thumb of the other along the sweat-darkened arch. "I'm in the process of moving to Hudson. My mother's going to help out."
Surely I had misunderstood her. I put my hand on her shoulder. The pinkish-white fabric of her sleeve was silky and cool to the touch. "I know you can't be saying that you're planning to move in with your mother."
Leaning on the wall for balance, she put on her shoe. "I don't know what else to do. I don't have room for a kid, and I don't have enough saved to move to a bigger place."
"And so-." I cleared my throat. Looking down, I smoothed the front of my shirt. "Is there a delicate way to ask-?"
"I'm thirty-four years old. I'm having it, of course." She stuck out her arm and jerked it a bit to coax her watch lower on her wrist. Staring darkly and perhaps a little blankly at the white face and black hands, she said, "Tick-tock, tick-tock."
"What about Tory? You can't leave him hanging. He thinks-."
Her eyes narrowed. "You talked to him?"
"Yesterday. He invited me over for brunch."
She stared at me, hard. "Are you ever going to trim that ratty beard?"
I touched my cheek, my ratty beard. "That's awfully harsh," I said.
"You look like a mad bomber. Or an ayatollah." She laughed. "That's it. A baby ayatollah. Ayatollah Cockamamie."
"You have to tell him. He thinks it's something to do with some stupid movie. You have to tell him, Christa."
"Fuck," she said. Holding her stomach, she galloped down the hall.
* * *
When she returned, I was staring forlornly at my book report. I called to her over the wall between our cubicles. "Do you have time-?"
There was a rattle and a thump. "I'm going home," she said. "I can't take this any more."
I went to her cube. She had already put on her jacket and boots, had already slung her purse over her shoulder.
"If I barf one more time, I swear to God," she said.
"I need to get this-."
Sighing, she dropped her purse. It fell to the floor with a flump. "Sit. I'll show you."
I sat at her desk. She leaned over me. She flipped a switch on the side of her word processor, and the beige and sinister creature rumbled to life. The screen crackled. Somewhere in the depths of the machine, a fan whirred. Christa slid a floppy disk-it appeared to be roughly half a foot square-into a slot. She tapped a couple of keys, and the first paragraph of my book report glowed, white on black, on the screen.
"You just type, right?" she said. "Or in your case, hunt and peck. Every thirty seconds, press this button." She pressed a button marked "Save." Gears clinked and chattered. A word-"Saved"-appeared at the bottom of the screen.
"How do I print?"
She sighed. "Press this button," she said, and pointed to a button marked "Print."
"Is that all there is to it?"
She cut her eyes at me. She sniffed the air. "When was the last time you took a shower?"
I groaned. "This morning, if it's any business of yours."
"There are things growing in that beard." She reached for my cheek. Her fingers twitched. "I think there are mushrooms in there somewhere."
"Jesus," I said. I leaned away from her. "I hate it when you're sick."
"I'm hormonal. I've had sixteen hours' sleep in six days. I puke twenty times a day. Ten minutes ago I threw up water-freaking ice water, for God's sake. I have every reason to be cranky."
"Okay," I said. "Okay, okay."
"Every thirty seconds," she said again, "press the save button."
As she took up her purse and walked to the door, I turned to the screen. "Wait," I said. "How do I-you know-go to the next page?"
With her hand on the door knob, she stopped. To the door she said, "'Page Down.'" Over her shoulder she looked at me. "If you run into trouble, don't even think of calling me at home."
"Message received," I said.
I searched the keyboard. Gingerly I pressed the button marked "Page Down." On the screen the text leapt and shimmered. I lifted my finger.
Stinson and by extension Thorstensen seems to believe that the sexes are disparately different genders. Flagmen are flagmen and females don't exist.
I paged down.
Adherents to diversity are strip language of meaning. Examples including waitstaff and soldiers.
I was lucky Martin hadn't fired me.
I spent the rest of the morning rewriting and making corrections. Every so often, I punched the button marked "Save" and waited for the shining bold word to appear at the bottom of the screen. "Saved."
I found a rhythm. Type, type, save. Type, type, type, save. My fingers moved in flourishes, tapping the keys faster and with increasing confidence.
Somehow, while I was looking at the pages of the printed report spread out on Christa's desk instead of at the keyboard, I managed to press the wrong key. The text of my report vanished. The word processor droned. At the bottom of the screen there appeared a single ominous word: "Deleted."
"Holy shit," I said.
I searched the keyboard for a button marked "I Didn't Mean to Do That" or "Rescue Me" or "Save My Ass." No such luck. I found a key marked "Undo." It didn't do-or undo-anything.
"Holy shit," I said again.
I leapt up from Christa's chair. I paced the floor.
I approached Martin's door. It was ajar-actually ajar, now. Knocking, I pushed the door open. Martin stood before his desk on his bare right foot, his left leg thrust out to his side, his arms parallel to the floor. The thin fabric of his left pant leg had slid back to reveal his slim, hairless calf. He changed poses, drawing his arms and his airborne foot inward. Breathing deeply, he traced with both hands the axis of his body from navel to clavicle and back again. "What can I do for you?"
"Something just happened," I said. "I seem to have lost my report."
"I don't know anything about that infernal machine," he said. "Ask Christa."
"She went home for the day. She's-. She's still sick, I guess."
"What is wrong with that girl? Her aura is as muddy as the Mississippi."
"You noticed it too?"
He looked at me askance. He touched forefingers and thumbs. His pinkies splayed outward. Closing his eyes, breathing deeply, noisily, he raised his arms above his head.
"End of the day tomorrow," he said.
"Here's the thing," I said. "The report was always meant just for internal use-just for you, basically. Maybe we could just sit down and I could tell you what the book said?"
He exhaled. "Very well. Very well. I'm listening."
"Well-." I slumped against his doorjamb. I had no idea what I wanted to say to him about Onslaught. It was only that I couldn't bear the thought of typing the whole report again. "It seems pret
ty clear-. If we-. If in the forums with Thorstensen's people, maybe if we give them a chance to vent about how society dumps on religious people-. Let them vent about how persecuted they feel-."
He nodded. "That makes sense. What else?"
"Maybe-." I sighed. "Give me a couple of hours. Okay? Or maybe-. Maybe in the morning?"
He dropped his arms, dropped his leg, stood flatfooted on his flat little feet, looked at me. "I had hoped, after so long a time away, that you would have developed a better attitude. A more positive aura. A smiling disposition. A habit of conscientious behavior."
"I'm sorry," I said. "It's been a bad couple of-."
He raised his hands. "Tomorrow morning, first thing. You'd better know what you're talking about."
Anything I might say next, I thought, could only make things worse. I said nothing. I backed out of his office and softly closed the door.
* * *
17 - Forgiven
Thursday dawned clear and cold, but in the evening as I drove toward Prospect Park, a rugged wind rocked the Chevette. Clouds streaked the sky. An early moon, a half moon, shone clear and bright, high above the trees.
On Eliot's stoop there was a new mat, a thick rubber one bearing the word "WELCOME" in fat raised letters, in plain English. I rapped the knocker.
When Eliot answered, I realized how strongly I'd hoped for Charlie. I'd craved some small moment of privacy with him, for what reason-pure or impure-I could only guess. I met Eliot's smile with a smile. Again, as on Saturday, he hugged me.
With a hand on my shoulder he drew me inside. "I'm glad you're here," he said. "You won't regret it."
In the entryway I stopped to pull off my boots. I saw that he'd demoted, not discarded, the old rush welcome mat. In the corner, where before there had been a blot of gritty dried snowmelt, the old mat lay crowded with boots and shoes-Eliot's Nubucks, Tigger's Doc Martens, two pairs of hunting pacs with dingy white fur around the tops, a pair of slumped galoshes with pointed toes, a pair of loafers. Charlie's loafers? They were salt-stained, without tassels. An inch or so of stitching had come loose at the toe of the left shoe. They couldn't be Charlie's.
As we entered the living room, Eliot said, "I think you know everyone."
Fred, Jeremy, Tigger, Rob, Mason. I knew everyone.
A lacquer tray lay in the center of the coffee table. Crowded onto it were two carafes of coffee, a row of four mugs, and three silver bowls of chips, nuts, and pretzels.
As before, Mason sat in an armchair. As before, he wore a pilled cardigan. He gave me a thin smile and a small nod.
In the armchair opposite Mason, Rob slouched with his long legs stretched out before him, his ankles crossed. The other three sat on the couch, Fred and Jeremy close together on one end, Tigger leaning on the opposite arm.
I sat on the hearth, and Eliot sat beside me. The fire warmed my back.
"Charlie's not here yet, but why don't we get started? How did everyone survive the holiday? Rob?"
Rob hauled himself up and leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. "I made out all right," he said.
Eliot said, "And your father?"
"It could have been worse." Chuckling, Rob rubbed the palms of his hands together. "I guess it could always be worse."
No one spoke. I said, "I thought you were having an orphans' Thanksgiving at your place."
"Everyone had other plans." He looked at Tigger. Tigger shifted in his seat on the couch, running his hands down the length of his thighs. "Well, almost everyone did. So I went home instead," Rob said. "My parents only live a few miles from me."
"What happened?" Eliot said.
Sitting up, arching his back, Rob said, "Everyone else in the family is very supportive. They're proud of me for trying to change. But he-my dad-won't let it go. He makes these-these comments. I almost said 'subtle jokes,' but they're hardly subtle, and if they're jokes they're not very funny. Hairdresser jokes, AIDS jokes, all very junior high."
Eliot asked, "How did you respond to that?"
Rob crossed his legs, ankle resting on knee. Looking at Eliot, he said, "I ignored it as much as I could. We had a fire in the fireplace all day, and by five o'clock or so there was no wood left in the house. We went out together, my dad and I, to fetch some in, and I explained to him again what all this was about, what I was trying to do."
Tigger cleared his throat. He spun a pewter ring around the little finger of his right hand. His eyes, glassy and blind, fixed upon a narrow gap between Eliot and me. "I'll bet that didn't make a difference, did it?"
For a long moment, Rob studied Tigger. "It didn't make a difference at all."
Bending over the coffee table, Tigger set a mug right side up and poured coffee into it. He turned toward Rob. "I envy you," Tigger said. He lifted the mug, hugged it to his chest. "It may not be perfect, but at least your family welcomes you."
"Were you alone again this year?" Eliot asked. Tigger nodded. "Did you do anything to keep busy?"
Tigger swigged from his mug. Abruptly he stood. He paced the floor behind the sofa. "I went to the beach." He gulped coffee, grimaced. "There was no one there. I stayed all day, but no one else was there."
"Bare Ass Beach?" I said.
Tigger stared at me. He nodded.
I pictured him obsessively trudging the empty paths, tippets of mist and windswept snow curling around him.
Eliot said, "Tigger, maybe you should come sit down." Tigger returned to his place on the sofa. "If you hadn't been alone at the beach, what then?"
Tigger shrugged. "I suppose I would have taken what was offered," he said. He set his mug on the side table. Again he ran his hands down his thighs. "It scared me pretty bad. I couldn't seem to make myself leave. Not until dark, when I started to worry about bashers." He shook his head. "Bashers. As if that could be the worst thing." He swallowed dryly, stared wide-eyed into the fire.
"Tigger?"
Eliot's voice called him back. Tigger said, "Since then I've just gone to work and come home. Watching TV-that's all I've been doing. I've been wishing I could have another crack at that book. I haven't had the money to buy my own copy."
Book? What book?
Eliot said, "Charlie has it." He looked around, as if Charlie might be hiding in the folds of the curtains. "I wonder where he is."
Fred sat tall, his arms folded across his chest. Our eyes met. He looked at Eliot. He said, "Jonah doesn't know we're talking about Hope and Healing." To me, he said, "It's a new Sam Stinson book that he wrote to help people like us. Eliot bought it, and it's been passing around the group."
Tigger looked at me. "There's a chapter called-what is it? 'Encouragement'? 'Tenacity'?"
Eliot supplied the name: "'Fortitude: Tenacity of Purpose.'"
"I've been trying to remember everything that's in it."
"Pray," Eliot said. "Make every thought a prayer."
Rob said, "Read the Psalms of praise."
"Take some physical exercise," Fred said.
Fred looked at Jeremy, and Jeremy added, "Sing hymns." I noticed, suddenly, that Jeremy's cheek was puffy, that there was a purplish swelling under his left eye.
Looking around at each of the men in the circle, Eliot said, "Enjoy the company of those who share your journey."
Holding out his hands, Tigger laughed, a genuine belly laugh. "Guys, guys. I think that'll hold me."
Eliot smiled. "It's good to hear that again," he said. "It seems I haven't heard you laugh in a month or more."
"The holidays always do me in," Tigger said. He rocked his head side to side. Bones in his neck popped. "I'm either dreading them, or-or enduring them, or getting over them." He groaned. "And there's Christmas yet."
Eliot scanned our faces. "Jonah? How did you do over Thanksgiving? You went to San Francisco?"
My skin burned. My hips and shoulders ached. If a case of the flu were coming on, as I'd suspected all week, I wished it would just come and go and be done with me.
They all watched me. I began
to tell the story of my conversation with Barbara in the Vietnamese restaurant. Along the way, I fixed on a description of the food. I heard myself call the meat sauce an "offal slurry," and then I had to clarify for Jeremy the difference between "offal" and "awful."
Eliot cleared his throat and held up his hand. "I feel like you're avoiding something, Jonah. There's something you're not prepared to talk about?"
"I-I hadn't started all this yet. My mother works nights. I did some-some bar hopping. I did some things I can't be proud of now." I looked into my empty, chapped hands.
Eliot said, "There are no judgments here. You can-and should-talk about anything you need to talk about."
I looked at the faces in the circle, each in its own way welcoming me to open up, some-Eliot, Fred, Rob-by making eye contact, some-Mason, Jeremy, Tigger-by discreetly avoiding it.
There had been a few men. A slim blond in a USC sweatshirt I'd met on the street in front of Barbara's. A Latino boy with sparkling black eyes who'd cruised me in a men's room in the Embarcadero Center. A beefy black man in chaps who'd smiled at me in line outside the Lone Star, who'd yanked me out of line, who'd led me to his loft-cum-dungeon in the Mission.
"How much should I tell?" I said. I said, "You don't want intimate detail, do you?"
Eliot opened his hand: it was up to me.
Now the heat of the fire was oppressive. I stood. I edged away from the hearth. "I can't go into detail," I said. "I just can't. Suffice it to say, I spent the whole week wishing I'd put some condoms in my pocket."
No one spoke.
"Someone, anyone, please say something," I said.
Fred was the first to break the silence. He said, "We've all been there."
Tigger nodded vigorously. He said, "Totally."
"The crazy stuff I did when I was a drunk," Rob said.
Jeremy said, "It's purely by the grace of God I'm still here."
So there it was, just as Barbara had said. Men fear death, and so they cling to God. Was that why I was here? Fear of death? I didn't fear death-or I didn't think I did, not any more than anyone else. It was more a fear of life, a fear of fucking up, or that I'd already irrevocably fucked up. Maybe it was, after all, a fear of death.
"Are you angry with yourself?" Eliot asked.
Before I could answer, the door burst open to admit a whistling squall and Charlie Kent in a gray wool overcoat and boots. He stood on the threshold between the entryway and the living room. He saw me. He grinned.
