The Tin Box (15 page)

I tell him the same half-truths and partial lies. Perhaps he catches me sometimes; I don’t know. He always stares at me with watery brown eyes until I feel my skin crawl.

I never told you some of these things either. You know you’re not my first, just as I am not yours. The first time I wanted a boy in an unnatural way, I was fourteen. The boy was saddled with the unfortunate name of Comet Halley Brown—he was born at the time that celestial body passed, I suppose—and he was a school chum of Edward’s. He was beautiful. I used to follow them around until Edward lost patience and shooed me away. I think even then he knew there was something wrong with me.

I do not remember desiring my mother. Poor woman, I don’t know that my father ever desired her either, at least apart from her small inheritance. I am positive that Edward and I owe our existence to Father’s sense of duty and his desire to keep Mother occupied while he went about his affairs. More than once I’ve seen him secrete himself in his office with some attractive young woman. It’s hardly a secret. But nobody finds that behavior unnatural or worthy of incarceration.

And my fantasies are simple ones now. That feeling in my chest when I run to your house on Sunday mornings. Strong coffee and flapjacks in your kitchen, with the radio playing softly in the corner. Drowsing lazily in your bed, in your arms.

Dr. Fitzgerald is doing research, he says. He has an idea he might want to try.

I will do anything if it means I can be released.

It used to be that when I was anxious about things, you would calm me down. “It’s nothing,” you’d say. “Don’t worry about it.” Why can’t you be here now, to whisper those words in my ear?

What if I’m like Moony or Danny Meadows or the others? What if everyone forgets me and I die here?

Have you forgotten me, Johnny?

The jays call to me sometimes when I’m in my cell. One of them—I’m quite certain it’s always the same fellow—lands outside my window sometimes and looks in on me. He’s no doubt wondering what a human is doing in a cage, and whether I sing for my masters. He’s very handsome, blue and gray and crisp white and black. He squawks at me as if he’s asking me a question. I’m very fond of him.

Yrs always,

Bill

William took a sip of his coffee. Although it had grown cold, it tasted better than the bile at the back of his throat. He sat on his couch—the same couch he’d shared with Colby the previous night—with the closed tin box nestled on his lap.

He had been denying his sexuality, even well into adulthood when the sanctions he faced would be relatively minimal. How could he possibly have denied what he was, especially when Bill had endured so much just for being in love?

How could he continue to hide his true self?

His cell phone lay on the table beside him, mute. There was something accusatory about the little chunk of glass and plastic.

Jeez, he was anthropomorphizing his gadgets. Maybe
he
was going nuts now.

He picked up the phone, opened his contacts, and pressed a name. The phone on the other end rang three times before being picked up.

“Hello? Lyon residence.”

“Hi, Mom.”

“William!” Her voice betrayed surprise, but William couldn’t tell if it was pleasure or alarm. “Is something wrong?”

“No. Nothing’s wrong.”

“Have you reconsidered the divorce? I spoke with Lisa the other day and she sounds very lonely. She’s a lovely woman. She keeps telling me you’re divorcing because you have different goals. What does that mean?”

“I’m not reconsidering.”

His mother clucked with disappointment. “If the two of you would only try counseling. Our church does that, you know. Pastor Saenz even runs couples retreats. Now, your father says those retreats are claptrap, but I think they sound nice. They’re held near Lake Tahoe, I believe.”

“Mom. Lisa and I are over.”

This time she sighed. “Young people today expect everything to be perfect all the time. It isn’t. It never is. We have to make
sacrifices
. But if we work very hard at it and pray hard too, the Lord will lead us down the right path. He never fails us, William.”

William squeezed his eyes shut. His parents knew he’d lost his faith long ago, but they kept hoping he’d return like a lost sheep to the fold. Their own personal Prodigal Son. Sometimes his mother mailed him church flyers, and every birthday she sent a card full of Bible verses and promises to pray for him. He’d given up arguing about it; there didn’t seem to be much point.

The tin box felt very heavy in his lap.

“Mom, I need you to listen.” He spoke slowly, as he might to a small child. “I am not going to get back together with Lisa. Counseling and prayers and trips to the mountains won’t help. I don’t love her the way I need to. I’m gay, Mom. I’m attracted to men.”

There was a heavy silence. He knew she hadn’t hung up, so he waited. Finally, in a strained voice, she spoke. “We’ve discussed this, William. You can move away from this lifestyle. There are organizations—”

“That’s bullshit.” She probably gasped at his profanity, but he continued. “The American Psychological Association and everyone who knows a damn thing about psychology, they all say you can’t cure homosexuality. It’s who I am, Mom. I can’t change who I love any more than I can make myself shorter. I can… I can stoop down. I can
pretend
to be short. But it’s a lie.”

“We can’t accept this decision! Your father and I won’t accept this.”

“It’s not a decision, Mom. It’s who I am. It’s me… your son.” His voice almost cracked but he got himself under control.

His mother was a strong woman and she didn’t waver. “As long as you insist on embracing the homosexual lifestyle, we cannot have you in our lives.”

He almost laughed. The homosexual lifestyle? So far that had meant a total of four kisses, one evening of voyeurism, and a little porn. The average high school kid had a more active love life than he did. When his parents’ preachers railed about the evils of the homosexual lifestyle, were they really thinking about guys finishing their doctorates while holed up at former mental institutions in the middle of nowhere?

“This is it, Mom. This is me. I’ll always be gay.”

“We cannot have this in our lives.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

“Do not—” This time her voice cracked. He shouldn’t have been pleased to hear that, but he was. “Do not contact us unless you are ready to pray for salvation.”

“Okay, Mom.”

She hung up.

He should have been devastated. His mother’s rejection should have made him sad or at least very angry. Strangely enough, he felt neither of those emotions. In fact, he realized after several minutes of introspection that what he mostly felt was relief.

He stood, put the tin box back on the shelf, and went to read Dr. Ochoa’s e-mail response to his queries.

W
ILLIAM
was aware that he couldn’t build an admirable physique in three days. Nonetheless, he stuffed his face with protein-rich calories, jogged for hours through the hospital hallways—too warm and sunny outdoors—and started weightlifting. He vowed to buy some more exercise equipment during his next trip to Mariposa. In any case, by Tuesday afternoon he was as scrawny as ever.

He also hadn’t accomplished much on his dissertation. He’d tried, but his attention kept wandering. He read all three of the books he’d borrowed from Colby, however. Maybe they weren’t great literature, but they were fun and better written than he’d expected. He watched two more videos starring his favorite performers.

He was startled when the landline rang on Tuesday afternoon and felt a frisson of worry as he picked up.

“Hi, William. Jan Merrick. I’m glad I caught you in.”

“Oh. Hi.” He didn’t intend to sound rude, but he remained concerned that something was wrong. What if she had called to can him? He knew the funding for the caretaker position was a little iffy, relying mostly on donations and some state grants.

“How’s everything going, William? You must be pretty settled by now.”

Well, that didn’t sound too ominous at least. “It’s great. The apartment’s really comfortable and I’m enjoying the peace and quiet.” And one of the townies, he didn’t add.

“Isn’t it amazing how much you can get done without a million interruptions? There are times I wish I could have the job again. But my husband and kids probably wouldn’t be very thrilled. The loneliness isn’t bothering you too much?”

“No, it’s okay.”

“You do make it off the grounds now and then, right?”

“Sure. I’m a regular at the general store and I’ve explored the delights of Mariposa.”

She laughed. “I’m glad to hear that. And the hospital itself, it has so many stories to tell. I really hope someday we can scrape together the funds to really use the space. Maybe turn part of it into a museum. It would be great to educate the public on the history of mental health treatment.”

William thought about the treatment Bill had received within these walls and grimaced. “Yeah.”

“Thousands of patients lived there. Hundreds died. I wish we could tell their stories.”

“I think most of those stories are really sad.”

“They are. That’s why they need to be told, William. So we can learn from them. Oh, and now I’m lecturing at you! Sorry. Bad habit. I do it to my husband and kids too. Anyway, I was just calling to make sure everything was all right, and to see if there’s anything you need.”

“Thank you, Jan. Everything’s good. Oh, I saw some ants in one room.”

“As long as they’re not in your apartment, ignore them. They’re impossible to get rid of.”

They said their goodbyes and hung up. William was relieved to know he wasn’t losing his job, but he also found himself thinking about what Jan had said. From what he had gleaned from the letters, Bill seemed a private man. Would he want his tale shared with others?

William sat at his computer and did a fairly quick search of academic literature on the treatment of homosexuality. As expected, he found quite a number of articles about conversion therapy and other modern attempts to straighten gay people out. He only skimmed those because the details would have brought back painful memories. He found some early writings on the supposed causes of homosexuality, such as Stekel’s 1922 treatise
The Homosexual Neurosis
, which claimed that homosexuals were narcissists who hated and feared women and were incapable of loving anyone but themselves. What he didn’t find, however, was much on how gay people were forcibly incarcerated in places like Jelley’s Valley and subjected to abuse and deprivation. William knew Bill’s tale wasn’t unusual, yet few people seemed inclined to write about it. Were they ashamed, he wondered? Or did they think that people like Bill didn’t matter?

Speculating on these matters allowed him to temporarily ignore the other knowledge that had been nibbling at his brain for days: the pile of unread letters in the tin was quickly dwindling. There weren’t many papers left. He really did
not
want to think about what that might signify.

A
FEW
minutes before six, William pulled his Toyota to a stop in front of the general store. There was another car in the lot, an elderly brown Ford with one primer-gray quarter panel. When he stepped indoors, he took a moment to appreciate the coolness of the air conditioning. But he startled when he noticed a woman behind the cash register. She was leafing through a magazine and hadn’t looked up when he entered.

William stood uncertainly for a moment and was relieved when Colby appeared from the back room of the post office section. “Okay, it’s all— Hey, Will!” Colby waved before vaulting the counter. He ran over and gave William a one-armed hug. He was wearing his Total Dance Whore shirt and his tightest jeans.

The woman behind the counter finally looked up. The first impression William had of her was that she was someone who’d led a hard life. Her face was lined, her eyes tired. She looked as though she was used to disappointment and didn’t expect anything else. But then William noticed the color of her eyes, the shape of her chin and nose. He wasn’t especially surprised when Colby said, “Mom, this is my friend William.”

Her expression didn’t change and she didn’t say anything.

Colby bounced in her direction, tugging William with him like a reluctant puppy. “Will, meet my mom.”

“I have a name, Colby.” Her voice was deep and raspy.

“Complains the woman who named her only son after a cheese.” Colby grinned impishly and hopped out of the way of her swinging hand.

William couldn’t help but smile too. Colby was always youthful, but at the moment he was acting like a wayward twelve-year-old. Colby gave a deep, theatrical bow. “William Lyon, I’m pleased to introduce you to Camilla Marie Owens.”

“Cammie,” she growled.

“It’s nice to meet you,” William said and received a curt nod in response.

“So the PO’s all shut down and everything else is set. You remember how to close out the cash register, right Mom?”