The Tin Box (12 page)

They walked side by side to the gate, Colby wheeling his bicycle and humming to himself. He waited for William to unfasten the lock, but before getting on his bike, Colby grabbed William’s hair and tugged his head down for a kiss. It was a very quick one, without a hint of tongue, but it made William’s lips tingle and his dick remember it had been cheated earlier in the day. “Thanks for the tour,” said Colby.

“Thanks for the lesson.”

“Anytime, Will. Anytime at all.” Colby hopped on the bike and headed down the gravel road. Before he rounded the first curve he turned slightly and waved.

William stood at the open gate for a long time, fingers at his lips.

W
ILLIAM
worked very hard that evening. He finished up another sizable chunk of analyses and, when he came up with some results that puzzled him, spent some time wrestling with his statistics textbook. But the text proved less than helpful, so in the end he wrote a summary of what he’d done so far, along with a list of follow-up questions, and sent it all off to Dr. Ochoa. The man was a stats whiz, which was one of the main reasons William had asked him to chair his committee. William had been pretty careful so far to rely on his own wits and efforts, but he figured asking for some advice at this point was reasonable. Dr. Ochoa had repeatedly reminded him to seek help when needed.

That much accomplished, William waded through a couple more journal articles. He ate while he read—pan-seared chicken breast, which reminded him to buy a little barbecue grill. He washed the dishes, started a load of laundry, and swept the apartment floor. Feeling restless, he grabbed the flashlight and, after testing the batteries, went for a stroll around the grounds.

The cows seemed to moo more in the evening, or maybe the breeze just did a better job of carrying the sounds his way. Crickets chirped. Something scuttled in the dry grass near his feet. He overcame his slight trepidation and leaned over to discover an enormous black beetle determinedly going about its beetle business. When he was a boy, he used to catch insects in jars and watch them through a little plastic magnifying glass. His mother had indulged him in this pastime, fashioning jar lids made of leftover window screening. He’d forgotten all about that.

Near the edge of the hospital property, where rusted machinery lurked in hunched piles, he heard frogs croaking. He wondered if there was a stream or a seasonal pond nearby. Maybe just a cattle watering trough. Colby might know.

Colby had the kind of skin that turned golden brown in the sun, unlike William, who went from pale to bright red almost instantly. William imagined a younger Colby sneaking over to the hospital with a friend or two and smoking a joint in the bushes just outside the fence. William had never used marijuana—or any other illicit drugs, for that matter. He’d gotten drunk once in college, but hadn’t liked the feeling of losing control—or puking the next morning—and had since limited himself to one or two drinks in a sitting. Although it was now well into the twenty-first century, William had lived a life in many ways more limited and closed off than Bill’s, many decades earlier. At least Bill had been brave enough to take a lover.

Back in his apartment, William put down the flashlight, peeled off everything except his khaki shorts, and headed straight for the laptop. He opened the site Colby had bookmarked for him. He paused only briefly before entering his credit card information. It was a brand-new card, in his name only. He and Lisa had closed their joint accounts. He had a pathetically small credit limit, but he could at least manage a month’s subscription to an Internet porn site.

After a few minutes of clicking around, he discovered he could search for videos by the performers’ names. He was slightly disappointed to learn that each of the actors in the video they’d watched that afternoon had also been filmed with a variety of other partners. He’d kind of hoped those two were a real-life couple. But there were more videos of the two of them together, and he clicked on one. It was set outdoors in what appeared to be a forest glen. As William watched, the men slowly stripped the clothing off each other, then lay down on a blanket for a session of serious necking and fondling.

Feeling guilty—and then feeling stupid for feeling guilty—William unbuttoned his shorts. It occurred to him he was sitting in the same chair where Colby sat while masturbating. That thought made William’s already half-erect dick harden completely. He stroked himself as he watched the action on-screen.

William
had
jerked off before. He was male, after all. But he’d done so rarely, furtively, and without any visual stimulus. In fact, he’d kept his eyes squeezed tightly shut and had tried to think only of soft curves, of breasts that he could cup in his hands. He hadn’t been successful in that regard. He’d always ended up imagining a man’s big hands on his skin, a man’s body against his, a man’s deep voice and whiskery cheeks. So when he’d finally climaxed, he felt more shame than relief.

Now, however, he finally allowed himself to focus on the two men in front of him. They were both very strong and limber. Maybe there were special exercise routines for porn actors. And just as in the previous video, they seemed to be genuinely enjoying themselves. He doubted he could ever be that relaxed during sex, even if he weren’t out in the woods with a camera crew watching every move. And there was nothing harsh or aggressive about what they were doing. In fact, the men were amazingly tender with each other, nuzzling, petting, slowly rubbing.

William was rubbing too. And as he did so, his thoughts strayed from the men on the screen to Colby, whose pupils had widened and whose face had flushed, who’d allowed his plump lower lip to fall open, who’d emitted those sexy, throaty little gasps….

William finished before the video did. He washed himself, wiped off the chair with some tissues, shut down the computer, and moved the laundry from the washer to the dryer. Then he curled up in the armchair with the tin box.

Sept. 18. 1939

My dearest Johnny,

I hope you’ll forgive me. I’ve betrayed you twice: first by not writing for so long, and second… well, I’ll explain that later.

Not long after I last wrote, they transferred me to one of the dormitories. I’ve no idea why. Sometimes I believe the staff members are as crazy as the patients, making arbitrary changes simply because they can. Some of the patients prefer the dormitories. You get to eat earlier, when the food is still almost edible, and there are no hours of oppressive solitude. You’re still kept behind locked doors and the windows are still barred, but the much larger room gives an illusion of freedom. And you get a bed—a real one, narrow and iron—instead of a mattress on the floor. There’s even a toilet you can use at will (so long as you’re not strapped to your bed at night), albeit within full view of dozens of other people.

But I prefer my own room. The dormitory is noisy. Someone is always crying, talking, snoring, yelling in their sleep. There’s always someone watching you there. And of course I couldn’t write to you at all.

When I realized I was to be returned to a cell—again, for reasons I do not comprehend—I was afraid it would be a new one. You can imagine how relieved I was to be back in my old room, your letters still safely hidden in the wall. And isn’t that strange, Johnny? I was relieved to be locked up!

But I’ve learned to enjoy small things. One of the nurses has a lovely voice and she sings as she does her chores. Last week we were given ice cream as an after dinner treat. The other day when I was in the courtyard I was standing very still and a honeybee landed on my arm. I was able to move very, very slowly, so as to bring the insect closer to my eyes. And then I could see what a beauty it was, with its furry body and translucent wings, and with yellow puffs of pollen stuck to its legs like stockings. I imagine it looked right back at me, although what it made of the man with the shaved head I do not know.

Some of the other patients can be entertaining as well. There’s a man here called Moony. I don’t know his real name. He’d old, I think, although it’s hard to tell. We all look aged after a few months of confinement. He believes that the stars and the moon sing to him at night—hence the name—and that they tell him secrets about the world. Recently, for instance, the stars told him that President Roosevelt is an artist, a painter who covers the inside walls of the White House with landscapes of forests and deserts. And that when the president eats onions he turns into a cat, slips out of the White House, and prowls the streets searching for mice. Moony has a different story every day, and he likes it when we gather ’round to listen.

And then there’s poor Danny Meadows, who was another soldier in the Great War. He says he was gassed and that muddled his head, and perhaps that’s true. The nurses say he had shell shock and never recovered. After the war he returned home to his wife and children, but woke up in the middle of one night with his hands wrapped around his wife’s neck. Luckily she didn’t die, but he was locked up, and here he remains. He startles at loud noises and loses his temper quite easily, especially when he thinks he’s been cornered. But he can build the most amazing structures from toothpicks or burnt matchsticks. Houses, churches, barns. Even railroad cars and trucks like the one you drive. It’s the only time his hands are steady.

One patient can’t feed himself without making a mess and needs help on the toilet, yet can recite any Bible verse you ask of him. Another can tell you exactly what time the sun will rise or set on any given day. And Tommy Pickens weeps for hours over possessions he imagines he’s lost, and then suddenly smiles and laughs and tells everyone silly jokes.

These things get me from hour to hour, day to day.

And of course at night I have my thoughts of you, my dreams. I imagine you waking up in the morning with your curls askew and your beard all scratchy. You growl like a bear until you’ve had your coffee and bacon, but then you soften and begin to smile. You get dressed slowly, teasing me, pretending that maybe for today you’ll just hop right back into bed with me. You drive off in your great rumbling truck—it always starts easily in my imagination; no swearing at the beast like you usually do—and I wash up the breakfast things because I know it will please you to come home to a reminder that I was there taking care of you. I know when you go to bed at night you’ll smell me on your sheets. And I’ll smell you on my body, feel you still, even as I’m toiling through the day in father’s stockroom, adding up endless lines of tedious numbers.

I wish the stars and the moon would sing to me, would tell me that these dreams will come true.

I’m no longer fat. In fact, I do believe I’m thinner than I ever was. My trousers fall off if I don’t hold them up. They won’t give me a belt.

But the insulin therapy has had other, longer-lasting effects. Or maybe it’s just the heat beating down all the time, stealing my air. Or the noises and the smells that surround me. Whatever the cause, I can’t concentrate well. I’ll begin a thought with all good will, but then it turns slippery and slides away and I’m left with nothing at all. Often I don’t mind, because I’ve found that the best way to deal with my deprivation is to let my mind fade. It’s a bit like being asleep, with senses registering only dimly. It’s like stepping out of time into another world where everything is dim and vague. But now I am able to write to you again, so I am trying to stay in this world for now.

My first betrayal is my long silence, for which I hope I am forgiven. But the second betrayal, Johnny, is far more bitter.

I’ve told Dr. Fitzgerald that the cure is working, that I no longer desire you or, in fact, desire men at all. This is a lie. I love you as deeply as ever. But I tell him that now I understand how unhealthy my thoughts have been, how my prior actions now disgust me. If I can convince him, perhaps then I will be set free.

But I am not and will not be cured. My heart still beats only for you, my dearest Johnny.

Yrs always,

Bill

W
HEN
William woke up the next morning, the first thing he did was beat off to another video with the same two actors. He wasn’t planning to become a porn addict or anything, but he’d never masturbated in the morning. It was… kind of nice.

Then he showered and ate toast with marmalade. His pantry was getting a little bare again. A trip to Mariposa was in order—this time without Colby, who was working today.

He whistled to himself as he opened the gate, drove through, and closed it again. He waved to the neighbor cows as he passed, tuned the radio to something country, and made up silly lyrics to sing at the top of his voice.

His good mood was only partly a result of two orgasms in a twelve-hour span, although he probably did have a lot of fun endorphins floating through his system. He imagined his dick snuggled happily in his underwear, pleasantly overwhelmed by the unexpected activity. But to a great extent, his happiness was the result of finding a good friend—a friend with whom he could be himself—and of waking up and discovering no divine or cosmic retribution for being turned on by men. He was pleased with himself for being slightly less chickenshit than usual.