Blame: A Novel (21 page)

Tonight was Thursday, a possible Ian night, but he rarely showed before ten. Then, suddenly, it was nine-thirty. Patsy put a hand on each man’s arm. You guys want water or anything?

They turned in tandem, as if surprised to see her there.

No, I better get on, said Goldstein. Leave you two to your evening.

I’ll walk out with you, said Cal.

Alone, Patsy poured herself a glass of cold water and took it into the living room. In a minute she’d turn on the table lamp and read until Ian came, if he came. But first she wanted to relive Cal’s chivalry and seeing Knock-Knock so dimmed and defanged in Cal’s dazzling presence.

The thought of Ian, too, paled in comparison. After Cal’s easy elegance, Ian seemed skittish and irritable, a smaller, secretive soul fueled by some deep underlying pain—pain that he refashioned into luminous paintings of fish.

But Cal had transformed himself. And he himself was luminous.

If she ever had a husband, Patsy thought, she’d want one a lot more like Cal, only younger by twenty or thirty years.

It was already after ten. If Ian didn’t show up tonight, that’d be all right.

But he did show up, and that was all right too.

The note on her door read
G back in Huntington
.

What’s going on in here? she said, walking into the hospital room.

I need someone who can hold it together, he said. Take care of business for me. Brice is a mess, Mother is a mess. Auntie is way too busy. Dr. Truescorff is a real person, but also busy. So it’s you, Patsy.

It’s me, she said. It’s me for what?

I probably have that kind of pneumonia that only queers get, he said.

Well, I’m at your service, she said, trying to remember what she’d heard. Gays and Haitians got it. You could get it from dentists, mosquito bites. A colleague at Hallen told Patsy he’d stopped going to the gym because of sweat left on the exercise equipment.

I need some reality here, Gilles said, his voice rising. Auntie says to turn to my higher power, but I’m not very fond of my higher power right now.

I’m not so fond of your higher power either, Patsy said, and leaned down to embrace him. He clung to her with such tenacity her own terror ignited. He was such a small human, really, with thin little bones, and he sobbed into her neck like an eight-year-old. His lungs mewed and rustled like static on the radio. The more he wept, the more congested he became. Fear somersaulted through her—she’d also heard that bodily fluids, spit, and even tears could carry the disease. If that was true, it was already too late, her neck was drenched. She didn’t care, she thought, though in spite of herself, her heart galloped with the dread of infection. She stroked his head—his hair was not very clean—and held him until he began to wriggle free. He dried his eyes and blew his nose. There, he said. Enough of that.

Her own life had taught her that the surges of terror, the sense of
drowning in a cold black wave, were temporary. Sooner or later a person crawled back onto solid ground. Gilles, she said. We’ll get you through, whatever it is.

Maybe not, Patsy, that’s the thing. So don’t get all cheerleader on me.

Okay, she said.

You weren’t a cheerleader, were you?

No.

Mother was.

•

A trim, big-eyed woman in a white coat came into the room. Truesy, this is Patsy, said Gilles. Patsy’s my best friend and our man on the ground. Tell her everything.

Dr. Truescorff, the woman said, and shook Patsy’s hand with a brisk maternal air. She turned to Gilles, and the brightness on their faces receded.

I have it, don’t I, he said in a low voice.

She took his hand. The results came back positive.

Patsy’s own heart began whapping like a helicopter; terror swept through her, hollowing her out. She stood there waiting for Gilles to ask questions, for the doctor’s reassurances, the list of treatment options. But moments passed, and the doctor and Gilles continued to look into each other’s eyes with such frankness and intensity that even Patsy was drawn in. Doctor, patient, and witness together bypassed all that could be said to look squarely at the way things were.

A familiar terror began to bloom, and Patsy had to turn away. She slipped unnoticed into the hall.

•

Gilles lived at Audrey’s after that. Patsy picked him up for the morning meetings, and Brice took him out for lunch. Most afternoons Patsy found him in Audrey’s living room on a chaise. Oh, his highness on his chaise, she’d say.

No, Patsy. It’s properly called a fainting couch.

That fall was hot and smoggy. They watched reruns of sitcoms—
I Love Lucy
,
The Andy Griffith Show
—in the air-conditioning and ate coconut Popsicles. Caroline or Binx would drop by later, and Patsy would
go home or stay and help Audrey with dinner. Evenings, Cal stopped by en route from work. Brice was in and out. He’d quit his job to freelance again and was fixing up another apartment at the Lyster. When Gilles’s other friends were there, Brice always found an excuse to leave. Patsy thought him selfish.

Brice is all right, said Gilles. He’s doing the best he can. I mean, poor guy finally sticks a foot out of the closet and this happens.

Some nights, if Gilles was up to it, they went to the club for dinner. Then Audrey was asked not to bring him anymore.

Cal’s kids have been talking too much, Audrey told Patsy. Telling their friends, who tell their parents, who panic.

Audrey resigned, and Cal followed.

Patsy found the Lyster dull without Gilles upstairs. No more barbecues on the fire escape. No more chatty dinners. Only Ian, on Thursdays and the rare Saturday. Once, he invited her back to his house. He wanted her to talk about his art again, and then they went to bed.

Her time with Ian came to seem a small excess, shameful, but her own, like secret cigarettes or hoarding Heath bars. Only rarely, in bed, with pleasure racing through her, did Patsy think she was in love and predict a shared future.

One night she came home from Audrey’s to find a painting leaning against her door—the luminous grouper and his cave. Ian had worked on it for months. She brushed at small smudges, saw that the paint was gouged.

I’d started to scrape it down to paint over it, Ian said when she called to thank him. Then I remembered that you liked it, so I thought I’d give it to you and start from scratch on something else.

Thank you, she said. I guess.

•

Gilles had a series of lung infections, a long bout with hives, and other reactions to medication. He was always nauseous, and lost a shocking amount of weight in October. He had to go to the hospital the day after Halloween for a week. His friends took turns sitting with him, making sure he was never alone. Brice bought him a wide cashmere throw, six-ply, hand-knit, a deep, saturated brownish purple that obviously cost hundreds of dollars. Gilles immediately took to calling it the old
rag. I’m chilly, he’d say. Where is that old rag? Or, When I die, I want to be wrapped in the old rag and buried under the fig tree. Or, You’re so good to me, Patsy, I’m thinking of leaving you a life interest in the old rag.

That’s a nice shawl, Binx said when she saw it.

This? It’s some old rag.

Some afternoons Patsy sat grading papers or going through her lectures while he dozed. He was quiet for long stretches, sometimes thinking so hard that his brow furrowed, his chapped lips moved, his fingers pinched the throw.

It’s like sitting next to a beehive, Patsy told him.

You know, Patsy, he said after one long stretch of thought. At least now I don’t have to take that stupid GED test.

Another time he said, Catering is really hard. I had fun cooking for your party. But I’m glad I didn’t actually have to
do
Gilles’s Meals. It’s way too much work, and for not nearly enough pay.

•

By Thanksgiving, Gilles was too sick to leave the house and Cal began bringing an AA meeting to him on Thursday nights. Rajid, Derek, Caroline, and Binx came, and Patsy too, although then she had to race home so as not to miss Ian. Once, when a meeting ran late, Ian had come and gone.

I can leave a key out for you, she told him.

That’s okay, he said.

I’ll put one under the runner, on the far side from my door.

He said, That’s okay, Patsy, don’t worry about it.

She put the key there and told him. The next Thursday, she stayed after the meeting to clean up, and when she got home, he wasn’t there. Yes, he said later, he had stopped by. No, he hadn’t looked for the key.

I don’t want to start with that, he said.

It’s like he’s committing adultery and feeling guilty, she said to Sarah.

I’m sorry, Sarah said. I kind of knew it wouldn’t go well. I should never have given him your number.

So why did you?

I thought you two could have fun. I mean, you’re both single, and neither one of you is in any position to start something serious.

What makes you say that?

Well, god, Patsy. Ian’s fresh out of a twelve-year relationship and you’re getting reacclimated. That’s all. You’re not even in your own home yet.

And for that, I don’t get to have a real relationship with a decent person?

That’s not what I’m saying. You didn’t have to go out with Ian. Nobody made you. You can stop seeing him anytime you want.

Maybe I envy Sarah, Patsy told Silver. She’s got the husband, the ballroom. And then she says I can’t have it, like I’m not entitled.

•

I wish you had wine, Ian said. He had shown up late. His painting clothes were now reeking on the floor by her bed.

I don’t have any wine, Patsy said. I don’t drink wine.

I know, I know.

So why bring it up?

Shhh, shhh, he whispered, tapping the sheets with his fingers, his eyes closed. This is so nice, right now. Can’t we enjoy it?

Not without wine, apparently, she said. Plus, I figure I have a minute before you shut down completely, and there are some things I want to say.

Ian closed his eyes, pretended to sleep, willing her to silence. She hadn’t planned any announcement, but now that she’d started, she was curious to see what she might say.

It’s not going to get any better between us, is it? she said.

Better in what way? he said. This is pretty nice.

You know. Doing other stuff. Talking on the phone. Going out—

I can’t, Patsy. I can’t do that right now.

Why not? We did it for a while.

Look, he said. What’s the point? Neither one of us is in any position to get serious, settle down with someone.

Says who? Sarah? I don’t think either of you should speak for me.

He slung an arm over her. You should have everything you want, Patsy. Dates, phone conversations. But I can’t give them to you. I’m not the one.

He kissed her then with such warmth and affection, she felt flung airward, woozy, as if she’d inhaled gas.

Oh god, she said, and breathed several times. Ian moved to kiss her again. She turned her face away, fury rising in her chest. What are you doing? she said. You’re being too weird.

Something like shame crossed his face, the briefest crumpling.

You know what? she said. I think you better leave now.

In an instant he swung out of bed and started gathering his clothes.

I mean for good, she said, and stood.

She went into the bathroom and closed the door. In the mirror, her hair was snarled. A feral glitter lit up her eyes.

Showering, she thought she heard doors closing. She leaned against the old rectangular tiles, which were still cool in all the water and steam.

It had to be done, but she hadn’t meant to do it tonight.

He was gone when she got out.

Never mind. Never mind, she whispered to the upsurge of regrets, regrets gathering like beggar children.

She pulled off the sheets, scrubbed at the small oval of sperm that had seeped into the mattress pad. She stuffed the sheets into the laundry basket, took clean, crisp ones from the linen closet, and opened them with a great flapping over the bed. A vanquishing.

But she could not sleep.

At the morning AA meeting, Patsy raised her hand to share. Why is it, she said, when you actually do the right thing for once, it doesn’t feel good? In fact, it feels so awful you think you’re going to die?

The question was rhetorical, and no cross talk was allowed; she did not expect an answer, except maybe of the indirect variety, when people countered with stories of similar experiences. Today, nobody addressed Patsy’s question, even obliquely. They all had their own crises and complaints. Child custody battles. Chronic insomnia. Letters from the IRS.

Cal Sharp came up beside her as she left the meeting hall. He was dressed for some boardroom in a graphite gray suit, white shirt, silver and black striped tie. His face had been steamed, shaved, and slapped to a high polish.

You feel like you’re going to die, Patsy—he leaned in so close she inhaled his green-smelling cologne—because some part of you
is
dying. Some entrenched old tyrant of the soul, and sweetheart, she’s not going easy.

Patsy spent Christmas at Burt’s, and when she got back, a hospital bed had replaced the fainting couch in Audrey’s living room. In the late afternoons she’d find Gilles napping there, sometimes with Brice reading beside him. Patsy read too, for her lectures.

She looked up once to see Gilles watching her. You know what, Patsy? he said. When I lived in Paris on rue Jacob, I used to walk to the Luxembourg Gardens at this time of day. All those green chairs clustered around statues would be filled with middle-aged women reading novels. The chestnut trees, that Parisian sky. That’s the main reason I ever wanted a sex change, to guarantee my happiness in middle age. I’m sorry I’ll never be one of those ladies. But at least I didn’t have to have surgery. Brice! he said sharply.

What’d I do?

Gilles pushed him. You’re on the old rag, he said.

The cashmere was freed. Really, Patsy, you shouldn’t look at me like that. Don’t feel bad for me. I’ve had a wonderful life.