At Risk Part 9

"No," Ivan says. "But he has AIDS. Do you want to come with me?"

Polly stops looking at Ivan; she reaches for the clock on the night table and sets the alarm. Ivan takes off his shoes and socks last. He sits heavily on the bed; he can feel Polly turning away from him.

"I'm too tired to go anywhere," Polly says. "If you want to take flowers, you should buy them here before you leave. They'll be much more expensive in Boston."

Her voice breaks as she speaks, but other than that Polly doesn't give herself away.

"All right," Ivan says as he turns out the light. "I'll do that."

He chooses daylilies, yellow ones, even though they're three dollars a stem. The flowers are wrapped in thin green tissue paper, and when Ivan parks on Marlborough Street, they slide onto the floor of the Karmann-Ghia. This morning he talked with the supervisor of the hotline, who phoned Brian and got permission to release his address. The college students are back from summer vacation and there are U-Haul vans double-parked up and down the street. The brownstone where Brian lives is broken up into three condos. Once it was a single-family mansion; there are crimson and blue stained-gla.s.s windows just above the door, the floor of the hallway is a circular pattern of white and black marble. The building is a formidable one,-lawyers live on the first and third floors. Brian spends a great deal of time looking out his window, which has black iron bars. When he watches Marl-borough Street he's glad he never let the guys in his band talk him into moving to Los Angeles permanently when their first alb.u.m took off. He was born in New Hamps.h.i.+re and he always wanted to live in Boston. He has sworn that he'll never let himself just lie in bed and watch TV, but he's started to watch game shows. He cannot bring himself to listen to records or CDs, although he dreams of music. He has a collection of songs he's written in the past few months, music far different from anything he ever wrote for the band; he's been composing for instruments none of them could play. Ba.s.soon, oboe, violin. Black-and-blue music with a line of pure white fury through the middle, a line of stars, a line of desolation as cold as the moon. He's just begun to realize he's been writing dirges. He keeps them in a folder; no one will ever hear them, except for Brian, who hears the music in his mind. At night it helps him fall asleep. It helps him separate himself from his anger. No one could stay as angry as he was and survive,- he would implode, ignite his clothes with a butane lighter, jump out a twelfth-story window.

He's twenty-eight years old and he' wets the bed every night. He knows he will have to have a catheter soon, but he couldn't stand it if it were now. The nurse who sleeps in every night doesn't even know about this,- rather than be humiliated, he stays in bed, on the urine-soaked sheets until Adelle comes in the morning to relieve the nurse. Adelle was once his biggest fan, she was the band's secretary, a gofer really, but now she works for him alone. In his will he's left her everything, including this apartment, but it isn't enough. In the beginning he made charts and lists, he was obsessed with figuring out how he got AIDS, he has been in love only with men, but he has slept with both men and women, and years ago he shot cocaine all through a tour of the South without ever thinking twice when he shared someone's needle. He's so used to thinking I've gotta quit every time he readies for a cigarette he still thinks it even though there's no reason to quit anymore. He always makes certain to smoke far away from his oxygen tank; he sits by the window so the smoke spirals outward, between the bars.

Last week, before Brian had this relapse, Reggie' came to visit. Reggie was so uncomfortable that Brian was doubly glad he hasn't told his family in New Hamps.h.i.+re. They have never approved of anything about him other than the money he's made. Reggie didn't touch anything in the apartment; he had a blank, startled look on his face, and Brian realized Reggie had never seen the welts of Kaposi's sarcoma on his face before. The band's latest record has been an enormous flop, and they have to do whatever they can to salvage their careers. Without thinking, Brian began to cry when Reggie told him they had found a new lead singer. That made Reggie back even farther away.

"Look, forget I told you," he said.

"No, really," Brian said. "I'm happy for you guys."

"Yeah?" Reggie had said. He turned away and Brian could see his body shake with a slow sob. "Man," Reggie said without ever facing Brian again. "Why did you do this to us?"

Today Adelle has brought a box of little cakes she picked up at Bildner's, and she's making a pot of tea they can have when his guest arrives. Brian will not have any of it; he has problems swallowing. Adelle makes him a mixture of spring water and honey and some kind of liquid protein. From the window, Brian can see a man enter the brownstone, and when the buzzer goes off Brian yells to Adelle, "He's here!"

G.o.d, he's actually excited to have company. This guy he doesn't even know, but of course when Ivan comes in Brian realizes he does know him. He's talked to him for hours; he knows things about Ivan no one else will ever or can ever'know. Before she brought him into the living room, Adelle took Ivan's jacket and said, "Let me warn you. He doesn't exactly look like his photographs right now."

"All right," Ivan said. He has never seen a photograph of Brian and what he sees now is a very thin man who has lost most of his hair. Brian wears a gold hoop in one -of his earlobes, and loose blue jeans. A few months ago these jeans probably fit him just right; now Brian has to hold onto them when he stands up to greet Ivan. They shake hands and then Ivan gives Brian the flowers. Brian studies the lilies for a moment, then gives them to Adelle to put in a vase.

"I came to see you," Ivan says. He can't believe how desperate he sounds.

"Great," Brian says. "Have a seat."

Adelle goes into the kitchen for the tea; the apartment is cavernous and her footsteps echo. An entire wall in the living room is taken up by tape equipment; next to the window is a piano that Brian doesn't use anymore. The ivory is too cold; when he tries to play he feels that if he pushed a little harder his fingers would snap off at the bone.

"I guess I came to thank you," Ivan says.

Brian begins to cough, and he turns his head away. The cough shakes his whole body. Ivan grabs a box of Kleenex off the coffee table and holds it out, but Brian shakes his head. He can't cough anything up,- it's all trapped inside him. Ivan feels panicky; he reaches into his pocket and finds a roll of Life Savers he bought for Charlie but forgot to give him.

"Take one of these," Ivan says. "This will do the trick."

Brian takes one of the Life Savers, but instead of eating it he holds it up to the light. "I used to love these," he says. He puts the Life Saver on the table, reaches for a cigarette, lights it, and coughs. .

"I plan to quit when I'm thirty," Brian says, fvan stares at him. "That's a joke," Brian tells him.

"Ah," Ivan says. "I'm not very good at those lately."

"No," Brian says. "Tell me about Amanda. Tell me how she is."

Ivan looks at him, uncomfortable, then he sees that Brian is sincere. He really wants to hear, and so Ivan tells him, tells him how she has taken to wearing her hair in a French braid, how she feels in his arms, so damp and thin, when he goes to her in the middle of'the night. He tells him that he has tried everything for her diarrhea, but that on some days she has to miss school because of it. And then, for some reason, Ivan begins to talk about the stars. He tells Brian the stories he used to tell the children, stories of mythical heroes plucked from death and set into the sky. In every story there is a reward for bravery, for, courage/ in each, flesh and blood is transformed into blinding white light.

Brian has closed his eyes, and when Ivan stops talking he opens his eyes, slowly; even this takes great effort.

"Beautiful," Brian says. His voice is thick, no longer the voice of a singer. He lights another cigarette and asks, "How's Amanda's vitamin therapy going?"

"She hasn't gotten any better," Ivan says, "but then she hasn't gotten any worse."

"That's something," Brian says. "Isn't it?"

Adelle comes in with the tea and cakes.

"Put out that cigarette," she says.

"Don't give me orders," Brian says, but he stubs out the cigarette. Blue smoke hangs in the air like a spider's web. "Pour the f.u.c.king tea."

"I stay only because of his charm," Adelle tells Ivan. "Keep it up, I tell him. Good for you, you're too mean and too stubborn to die fast."

Ivan takes a sip of his tea because his throat feels so tight. What the h.e.l.l is he supposed to do without Brian? Who will there be for him to talk to?

"That's right," Brian says. "And when I do I'm coming back. I'm not taking this lying down."

Adelle grins at him, but as soon as he turns away, she looks as if she might burst into tears. She's brought Brian a gla.s.s of spring water, which he drinks now. He's so pale it's almost possible to see the water through the delicate skin of his throat. Brian is tired. Ivan can see now that he has overstayed. Brian leans forward. He has extremely blue eyes; girls who fell in love with his picture could never decide if they were aqua or sapphire.

"Kids are funny," Brian says. "They can be stronger than we are. Don't give up on her."

"No," Ivan says. "I won't."

"Don't listen to doctors. They told me I'd be dead months ago."

"And here you are," Ivan says.

It's late now, and the sunlight is fading. Adelle coughs and goes to the windows to lift the shades higher. When the light fills the room, Ivan swears he can see all the bones in Brian's body rising to the surface like fish. He can see Brian dissolving, and in this instant Ivan realizes that Brian is barely here, he is already looking at something far away, something in another dimension no one else can see.

Laurel Smith sits in the bleachers with her knees pulled up, her feet balanced on the empty seat in front of her, her toes curled so her rubber flipflops won't fall off. She chose this side of the gym because it's much less crowded than the rows of bleachers she faces, where students and families are scrambling for good seats. This is the first meet of the season, and it's against Medfield, a school farther west, which is Ches.h.i.+re's archrival. It's an important meet, and Laurel knows it's an honor for her to have been invited by Amanda. During the time they've spent together Laurel has been the instructor, teaching Amanda how to braid her hair, how to simmer chocolate for mousse, how to scoop sand in the marsh and find peculiar blue crabs. Now Amanda wants to show her something, and that's why Laurel's here, even though she should be at work.

Laurel was lucky to get a job in Morrow, and she knows it. With no real skills, other than the ones she's taught Amanda, now that she's given up her readings she has only the little income she gets from her parents' estate. She's lucky, too, that Marie Pointer, who runs the gift shop, is quite deaf, so that if anyone had told her not to hire Laurel, she probably wouldn't have heard. Mrs. Pointer is extremely patient. She spent an entire afternoon teaching Laurel how to work the cash register, and another showing her how to make out invoices. Mrs. Pointer's store is not one of the better shops in town; there are no displays of local crafts, no pottery and weavings. But there are plenty of Hallmark cards, and there are ceramic figures of poodles and collies and ducks bought by children on Mother's Day, as well as rows of candy and gum, magazines, office supplies, and, up by the register, trays of cheap jewelry, mostly birthstone rings made of col- -ored gla.s.s.

Laurel doesn't mind the job. The shop is messy and there are always boxes to be unpacked in the storeroom, trinkets to be dusted, magazines to be rearranged on the rack or, if it's a really slow day, to be read. The accomplishments of this job are meager. The high point so far has been straighten-' ing out a tangled web of ribbon. But Laurel took the job for a weekly paycheck, not for any personal satisfaction. For that, she has Amanda.

Laurel has always kept her distance from people in Morrow; her cottage is far enough out of town for her to be ignored. This is not the only place where she's felt she doesn't fit in. She's felt that all her life; she's well practiced at making herself as invisible as humanly possible. Today she's wearing a pair of sungla.s.ses, and her hair is wound up in a knot, but she was foolish enough to wear a white cotton dress, which makes her more noticeable. Certainly Polly sees her as soon as she and Ivan come into the gym.

"I can't believe this," Polly says to Ivan. "Laurel Smith is here."

"It's a free country," Ivan says. "It's a free gym."

"Hah," Polly snorts, and Ivan wonders if she's thinking about all the meets he missed last year.

"We should go over and say h.e.l.lo," Ivan tells Polly.

"Absolutely not," Polly says.

"Fine," Ivan says. "I'll go."

"Don't," Polly says, and she's not kidding. She doesn't trust Laurel Smith. She's certain Laurel is after something.

Ivan was even more suspicious of Laurel than Polly was,- the only way Amanda got him to drive her out to Laurel's house was to have a fit, complete with tears and threats of locking herself in the bathroom. He doesn't know what he expected, but he certainly didn't expect Laurel to be so down-to-earth. As soon as he walked into Laurel's cottage he realized it was exactly what Amanda would have chosen for herself if eleven-year-olds could have their own houses: it was all pink and yellow and wicker, with a cat who was allowed to leap onto the table and lick out mixing bowls. Ivan went to sit out in the Karmann-Ghia; occasionally he could see Amanda and Laurel through the window, mixing up something, their faces streaked with chocolate. Afterward, Amanda ran out to the car, her face s.h.i.+ning. She carried a tray of little chocolate things, which Ivan slid into the back of the Karmann-Ghia.

"Tarts," Amanda informed him.

He didn't care if Laurel Smith was a kook if she could make Amanda look so happy over a bunch of tiny pastries.

"Look," Ivan says to Polly in the doorway of the gym, "Amanda is crazy about her."

Polly practically had to tie her parents to kitchen chairs to keep them away from this meet. She wanted today to be a special time she and Amanda and Ivan shared. Just the three of them. Now that's ruined. Polly can't help but wonder what Amanda and Laurel could possibly have to say to each other. It kills her that Amanda would rather spend time with a stranger than with her own mother. But Ivan is right, what matters is what Amanda wants, and Amanda wants Laurel Smith.

"I'll go over and get her," Polly finally says.

Ivan goes and finds them some seats while Polly crosses the gym_ Laurel is in the third row. Her head is bent down; she's reading a newspaper, though Polly's sure it must be impossible to make ajiything out with her dark gla.s.ses on.

"You're sitting on the wrong side," Polly calls from the floor.

Laurel looks up; fl.u.s.tered, she lifts her gla.s.ses off.

"Everyone on this side of the gym is rooting for Medfield,"' Polly tells Laurel.

Laurel grimaces, then quickly makes her way down to the floor. "Stupid of me," she says.

"Why don't you sit with us?" Polly says with absolutely no warmth.

"Oh, no. I couldn't," Laurel says.

"You've already forced yourself on us, you might as well go ahead and sit with us," Polly blurts out. She turns away from Laurel, shocked by what she's said. "I'm sorry," Polly says now.

"If she didn't love you, she wouldn't need to talk to me," Laurel Smith says.

"Don't say that," Polly snaps. "Don't you dare tell me what my daughter needs."

"She's afraid to tell you the things she's thinking about," Laurel says.

"How the h.e.l.l do you know what she's thinking about?" Polly says. "You don't even know her."

Polly's not about to stand here and listen to this. She starts to walk across the gym, but Laurel Smith follows her.

"She's thinking about death," Laurel says. -"That's what we talk about. She doesn't want to tell you because she's afraid she'll hurt you."

Polly stops at the bottom of the home-team bleachers.

"I could never steal her away from you," Laurel says. "She can't be stolen. She's yours."

Polly can't speak, but she nods her head.

"I don't have to sit with you," Laurel says.

"Sit with us," Polly says. "Really," she says. "I want you to."

While Laurel follows Polly up the rows of bleachers to the seats Ivan has saved, Jack Eagan has to do the hardest thing he's ever done. Harder than the decision he made in college not to go on for the Olympic tryouts because he knew he wasn't good enough. There's been a lot of talk about Amanda in school, but he hasn't listened to any of it. He's something of a loner, he doesn't consider many of the teachers to be his colleagues, and he never has. The only one he really likes is Rose Traymore, the other P.E. teacher,,who coaches basketball and runs the kindergarten through third-grade cla.s.ses. When Linda Gleason came to his office yesterday, Jack Eagan was shocked. No one ever comes to his office, which is little more than a closet with two desks that he shares with Rose Traymore, right off the equipment room.

"You could use a coat of paint in this office," Linda Gleason had said when she walked in.

"We could use an office," Jack had told her. He was in the process of going over the new schedule for away meets and he didn't want to be bothered.

When Linda Gleason told him she wanted to talk about Amanda Farrell, Jack pulled at his hair and said, "Not that again!" And now he has to tell Amanda what the princ.i.p.al told him. Jack Eagan never even thinks about the blisters on his girls' hands; every gymnast has them, usually from working out on the uneven parallel bars. Because the parents of one of her teammates have a credible medical report that allows that there is a slight chance of infection to her teammates if her blisters bleed while she's on the uneven parallel bars and another girl with open blisters immediately follows her onto that piece of equipment, Amanda can no longer compete in that event. Which, in effect, means she can't compete at all, since a gymnast isn't taken seriously unless she performs every event. The medical report is rotten, but even Jack Eagan realizes there are real fears of infection involved. Amanda can continue with all her other events, but, Jack Eagan wonders, what is the point?

Eagan feels like walking out on this meet. For two cents he would get into his Pontiac and drive to the beach and go surf fis.h.i.+ng. Instead, he asks Rose Traymore to go into the locker room and bring Amanda to his office.

She's already put chalk on her hands and she has that blank look good gymnasts have before a meet. But when the coach leans back in his chair, fumbling for words, Amanda's face loses its color, as if she knows what he's going to say before he says it.

"I'm not that sick!" she says. "I don't even look sick!"

"I know," Jack Eagan says. "I didn't say this was going to be fair. People are so dead wrong about sports, they think sports are fair, but when you think about it there are more losers than winners."

Amanda has her back to him and she's crying.

"I ought to know about losing," Eagan says. He doesn't know what he'll do if she faints, or if she gets hysterical; maybe he should stop, but he doesn't. "I did it enough when I was competing."

Amanda wipes her eyes with the back of her hand and turns back to him.

"People think reading and math are so important, but it's in a sport where you'll really learn something. You don't always win."

"No," Amanda says. Her voice is very small but she's not as pale. "The bars were always my worst event," Amanda says.

"You didn't have a worst event," Jack Eagan says.

"I don't think I could have done it anyway," Amanda admits. "I'm not strong enough. I just didn't want to tell anybody."

Jack Eagan knows that once you're committed to sports it's hard to lie about your body. You have to use what is good about it, accept your limits and work around them.

"Would it be all right if I did my floor exercise anyway?" Amanda asks. "I asked a friend to come and see me."

Jack Eagan thinks to himself that life stinks. It stinks because things are beautiful and then they're taken away.

"Sure," he says. "Do your routine."

Polly and Ivan realize something is wrong when most of the girls on the Ches.h.i.+re team have completed two or three events and Amanda is still on the bench.

"Maybe she's sick," Polly whispers.

"She looks fine," Ivan says. "Eagan wouldn't have her sitting there if she was sick."

Ivan stares across the gym to where Amanda sits on the bench. Something's happened to him. He's thinking about things differently. He can no longer think the way he must to do his work at the inst.i.tute; questions no longer have answers, and yet he has more questions than ever. He often finds himself thinking about the afternoon light in Brian's apartment, how it fell in bands across the polished black piano. Sometimes, for no reason at all, Ivan's throat gets so thick he can't talk. He wonders if he'll ever work again, he just doesn't seem to care, although at night he dreams of shooting stars and supernovas, and when he wakes in the morning he still sees their brilliant light.