JOAQUIN SAT in the dark apartment and waited for Jacob to come back home. He always left in anger; he always came back; Joaquin always waited.
“You didn’t come home last night.”
“You’re lucky I came back at all.”
“I don’t feel lucky. Not right now.”
“I didn’t mean that. I’m an asshole sometimes, J. I wasn’t with anyone.”
“Doesn’t matter if you were. Other people are not what’s wrong with us.”
“You gonna leave me, then. J?”
“I would if I could.”
“Why can’t you?”
“I can’t. You’re the one that’s going to have to do all the leaving.” He could hear a thousand conversations between them. He had been gone a long time now. But he always came back. Come back. He didn’t want to turn on the lights, “I have to get used to living without them.” He thought of Julimes, of his brother. He wondered what would have happened to him if his brother had lived, if his father and mother had not died. It was so useless to think about things that had long since passed, about people who had already died, and he tried to stop. “Maybe it’s natural to think about the dead,” Joaquin whispered. He wondered why he was whispering. “The dead are alive!” he yelled. “The dead are alive.” He coughed, then laughed. He wanted to think about the bodies who had returned to become a part of the earth because he was more a part of them now than he was a part of the room he was sitting in. He tried to picture his brother’s face, then his mother’s. It comforted him to think he would soon be a part of the communion of the dead.
He remembered the day he crossed the Rio Bravo with his mother. He remembered his mother had felt something—but he had not felt it. To him, it had just been a river. Later, he had understood what the river meant. He remembered learning English, how it had been a game—how he had learned to recognize sounds and how the new arrangements that came from his mouth had become something meaningful. And yet in the deepest part of himself, he felt the sounds he was making to be meaningless. Languages meant so much to the people around him, but he had always been a little indifferent about the sounds of people’s words. But his dreams were still in Spanish. Jacob had told him he’d always be a Mexican. “I’m not,” he’d said, “I’m not a Mexican.” “Well, you’re not really an American,” his lover had answered. “No, and who cares?” He had yelled back. Even now, he had no loyalty toward the place where he’d lived most of his life. It was a country, and in so far as it had deserts and trees and grasses, it was good, but he had never thought of himself as a citizen of any nation. He remembered telling Jacob that his body wasn’t the possession of any goddamned country. Jacob had laughed. As he sat there he remembered the conversation, the condescension in Jacob’s laugh. “Let’s just drop it,” he’d told him. “Are you mad, J?” Jacob had asked. “Don’t be mad. Look, you were born in Mexico—you’re Mexican. I was born in America. I’m American. It doesn’t have to mean anything.” Joaquin had nodded. After that, he’d stopped discussing certain things with his lover. Later, Jacob had asked him, “But you love America, don’t you—don’t you love living here?” He had nodded. He had lied. What he loved was the desert. And in his mind the desert did not belong to a nation. To belong to the desert was enough. If he loved America at all it was because it had given him Jacob who himself was as hot, as wordless, as quiet, and as untamable as the desert itself. Now that he was sick he wanted to go back—not to Mexico, but to the desert. He wanted to die there, there where he had first lived. But if he went back to that place, he would have to go without Jacob. Jacob’s body would have to be enough desert for him to die in.
He felt sleepy, he wanted to lie down, but the bedroom seemed as far away as his body. He slowly pushed himself off the chair he was sitting in. He stared into the darkness of the room. He wondered if he had died. He touched his own arm. He thought it strange that his skin was still smooth. He didn’t think it was an odd thing to be dying—he thought it a strange thing to be breathing. Everything he had done and felt and seen and touched had just been a dream—and he knew he was about to wake and find something completely unfamiliar. He felt tears running down his face, and found it odd and incongruent to find himself crying. Why was he crying when he felt nothing? He fell down on his knees, then crawled around the room as if he were searching for something. He was a baby again. He started yelling for his mother. “Mamá. Mamá.” He started yelling for Jacob, but he didn’t know he was yelling. No one came to him. He prostrated himself on the floor and wept. His mouth was dry. He wanted water. But he could not make himself rise. He fell asleep exhausted.
He was standing in the middle of the desert dressed like a groom, his pure white shirt so bright and perfect it seemed it had been cut from the sun. He watched himself as he undid his bow lie, tossing it on a cactus, the thorns shredding it as if it were nothing more than paper. He took off his socks, his shoes, the desert sand burning his feet. He tugged off his shirt as if it were an enemy killing him, the buttons flying into the sky. He ripped the shirt in half and wiped the sweat off his face. He saw that he was strong, his skin pulled tight around the muscles of his arms and back. He shone in the morning light and, for a moment, he was a god. He let his pants drop to the ground and stood naked, completely a part of the desert. He was not afraid of the burning around him. The desert was in flames and he walked through them, and his skin did not burn. Nothing could harm him. In the distance was a river, and he ran toward it, and the river was calling, “Come.” And the river repeated his name. “Joaquin.” He kept running through the endless flames, and the river did not seem to be getting any closer. Suddenly, inexplicably, the river was in front of him. “Come.” He looked back one last time to see Jacob fully clothed in the distance behind him. “Come back!” Jacob yelled. Joaquin looked into the cool waters of the river—and jumped.
Joaquin woke up and felt Jacob’s arm around him. “You’re burning up, J,” he said. He wiped the sweat from his forehead. He rocked him in his arms. He froze for a moment when he realized Joaquin’s breathing was heavier than his body. “Is it hard to breathe?”
Joaquin nodded. He took a deep breath. “I was having a dream, gringo,” he whispered. “The desert was on fire. And there was this river—”
“Shhhhh—don’t talk. Just don’t talk. I’ve got to take you to a hospital.”
“The river was so clear and blue—bluer than your eyes, Jacob, I could even see the fish and they were gold. And I was thirsty and the desert was on fire. And you were calling me but I couldn’t go back so I just jumped.”
“It was just a dream.”
“I wish you believed in dreams.”
“It doesn’t matter.”
“Do you remember the time you left me?”
“Shhh—we don’t have to talk about that anymore.”
“I waited and waited, and then I thought you’d never come back. I thought I’d never see you again. I wanted to die, did I tell you?”
“But I came back.”
“Are you glad?”
“Yes.”
“I’m tired, Jacob.”
“Don’t talk. You don’t have to talk.”
“I’m tried.” Joaquin looked up at his lover. “You seem so far, Jake. Are you going away?”
“I have to get you to a doctor.”
“Can’t I just sleep here?”
Jacob kept rocking him in his arms. “Shhhh. Shhhh. I’ll carry you.”
“What?”
“Like a river carries water.”
“Yes—just like that.”
“How serious is it, Tom?” He had long ceased calling his and Joaquin’s doctor by his title. Tom seemed too young to be a doctor though he’d been one for twenty years, and Jake wondered how it was that a man who worked so many hours managed to look so rested and relaxed. He wanted to like him as he stood in the hallway of the hospital, not that he hated him anymore, just couldn’t like him. “It was only a kiss, Jake—a very smalt one.” “Did you—” “Look, we’re friends, and have never been more than that, and will never be more.” “I don’t believe you.” “That’s because you don’t know how to have friends.” “What the fuck does that mean, J?” “Look, we’re just friends.” “He had his arm around you.” “I’m only going to say this one more time, gringo, Tom and I are friends. You don’t get to pick my friends and I don’t get to pick yours.” He looked at the way Tom was processing his simple question—he hated that about him sometimes—the way he was too careful, the way his sincerity took up all the space in the room. “How serious, Tom?”
“Well, it’s serious.”
“A vague answer to a vague question. Doctor.” He combed his hair with his fingers, then pulled at the ends of his hair.
“Pulling your hair out, huh, Jake?”
“Why’d I have to pick a gay doctor with a sense of humor?”
“Good taste.”
The doctor nodded. “You want to have a cup of coffee instead of standing here in a hospital hallway in the middle of the night?”
“Nothing’s open.”
“We can get some in the lounge. It’s a friendly place—always open, always coffee. They’re nice to visitors on this ward—didn’t you know?”
“Yeah, I remember. The last time Joaquin got sick, they were redoing it—making it more user-friendly.”
“It isn’t an instrument.”
“It’s just a room with a few couches. Let’s have some coffee.”
“I don’t want to leave him.”
“He’ll be OK.”
“What if he dies?”
“Not tonight.”
“How the hell do you know?”
“I know.” Tom walked toward the lounge. Jacob followed him down the hall toward the lounge near the nurses station, Jake noticed his walk—tight, I wonder what Joaquin ever saw in him? Too asexual. The hallway was quiet, and it seemed the whole world had gone away and left him with this man, this doctor. The lounge was dim. The carpet was soft and thick and Jake felt his feet sink into the fabric as if he was walking on mud. He read the plaque on the wall that read: IN MEMORIAM: NORMAN CAMPBELL ROBERTSON. There were magazines neatly arranged on a glass table and a bookshelf full of books. There was a refrigerator and a drip coffeemaker on a shelf next to a small sink. He stared at the plaque and sat down on a beige-and-turquoise couch that was comfortable enough to be in somebody’s living room. “Very Santa Fe,” he mumbled, then shook his head.
“Huh? Did you say something?”
“No, I was just making remarks about the decor.”
Tom handed him a mug of coffee and sat on an overstuffed chair opposite the couch. “Where were we?”
“I asked if it was serious and you gave me the kind of answer they teach you in medical school.”
Tom smiled, then sipped from his coffee.
“Nice set of teeth, Doc. I bet your parents paid a bundle for those.”
“As a matter of fact I was born with this set of choppers. Are you flirting with me?”
“No. I’m not interested in white boys.”
Tom laughed and shook his head.
They sat in the quiet for a long time, the sound of footsteps moving in the background like calm waves in an ocean. Jake stared at Tom for a while as if he were about to ask him something, but said nothing. Tom remembered the first time Jake had walked into his office. “Just good old-fashioned gonorrhea. Are you allergic to penicillin?” “Nope.” “Talkative, are you?” “Didn’t come here to talk.” “I suppose you didn’t come here to talk about your sexual practices either?” “What’s that mean?” “It means you should be careful.” “I know about sexually transmitted diseases.” “Firsthand, I’d say.” Tom had hated him then, hated him for his don’t-give-a-shit demeanor, his superior sense of masculinity, the complete look of disdain he wore on his face as if it were a medal won in a war. He’d been this man’s doctor for seventeen years, and he felt no nearer to knowing him as he sat there than he had the first time he’d walked into his office. He remembered the first time he’d met Joaquin, how they had connected instantly, how Jake had resented their friendship from the moment it began. “I want your paws off my boyfriend, Tom.” Some people were not meant to be friends, he thought, and yet he had never stopped trying. He wanted to break the silence, but it was as hard as the ice of his Minnesota childhood. “How’s the coffee?”
“It sucks.”
The silence returned like the San Francisco fog. “It’s OK to be afraid,” he said finally.
“Thanks for your permission.”
“It’s OK to be afraid,” he repeated, “but it’s not OK to be an asshole.”
Jake smiled. “I deserved that one.”
Again, they sat in the quiet. A patient down the hall was moaning, Jake shivered. “Why are we sitting here?”
“We’re sitting here because your lover has Pneumocystis carinii, and I happen to be your doctor and your friend.”
“Joaquin’s friend,” Jake corrected.
Tom nodded. “Sorry. You know, it’s a good thing I like you, Jake. Otherwise, I’d kick your ass from here to L.A.”
Jacob laughed. “That’ll be the day.” He shook his head as if his hair was wet and he was attempting to dry it. He leaned back and looked up at the ceiling. “I don’t think you do like me, Tom.”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.” Jake sipped on his coffee. “This is really bad stuff.” He looked at Tom. “How can you do this for a living?”
“I’d hate it.”
“That’s because you’d have to be nice to people. You’d have to touch them.”
“You know what your problem is, Tom? You think life is a good thing.”
“It is a good thing.”
“Yeah?”
“It’s not as disgusting as all that, Jake.”
“Well, you and Rick are a pair, aren’t you?”
“Don’t start in on Rick, Jake. He’s a decent man.”
“Meaning he’s a politically correct faggot.”
Tom kept himself from wincing. He kept his voice steady without hiding his disgust at Jake’s remark. “You have an interesting way of thinking about things, you know that, Jake? You’re so fucking insulting sometimes.”
“Are we taking off the gloves now that Joaquin’s not here to play referee for us?”
“How come life’s a boxing match for you?”
“I had a psychology class in college, too, Tom.”
“Did you pass?”
Jacob stood up from the couch and glared at the doctor. “That’s it—I’m outta here.”
“Finish your coffee.” Tom said calmly. “I don’t want to fight. I’ll change the subject. It’s too late to be arguing with you, Jake. And it’s useless.”
“For both of us.” Jake sat back down.
“Yeah, for both of us. Look, go home and get some rest. You look like hell.”
“To you too, Doc.”
Tom got up and put his mug in the sink. “I’ll come by sometime before noon and check in on Joaquin. I need to check his vision. You’ll be around?”
Jake nodded.
“Get some sleep, Jacob.”
“Tom?”
“Am I gonna lose him this time?”
Tom took his time with Jake’s question “I don’t know. Maybe we should …” He paused. “We should be ready for anything.”
There was quiet again between them, but the sadness over Joaquin was shared, and so, for a moment, they did not feet so far away from each other.
Pneumocystis carinii, Pneumocystis carinii. Jacob kept repeating the Latin words like a prayer at matins. He spelled it out in ink over the headlines of the morning newspapers. He thought of the conversation he’d had the night before with Tom. He was a good doctor—the best—and he trusted him completely. Mister Clean, Mister Responsible, Mr. Spokesman for Safe Sex, good diets, and holistic health. If he had been bom straight, he would have been unbearable—too many virtues for Jake’s taste, too much of a social conscience in that morally superior Protestant way he had. “If I hear Dr. Gay Community Awareness say ‘the common good’ one more time tonight, I’m going to stuff my fist down his throat.” He remembered saying that to Joaquin at a party one night. “How come you think life is a boxing match?” He looked out the window—the sky seemed as dark to him as Joaquin’s black hair. He sipped on his morning coffee. He picked up the phone and called his office. He recognized Alice’s raspy voice. “I won’t be in till this afternoon.”
“Are you OK?”
“Yeah. It’s J. He’s in the hospital again.”
“Take the whole day—we can handle it. You got some time coming—take as much as you need. The ads keep coming in by themselves. The Chronicle will survive—just make sure you do the same.”
“Thanks, Alice.”
“Give J my love.”
“Sure thing.”
“And eat well, Jacob.”
“Don’t you have enough sons?”
She laughed as she hung up the phone. At least she has a heart. he thought. Thirty years of selling ads for the Chronicle and she still had a heart. Amazing. “I’d have killed somebody by now.”
He got up from the kitchen table, pulled on his bathrobe, and stared at a blue patch of sky that was somehow visible through the fog. He watched as it disappeared. For some reason the sky reminded him of the summer he’d spent in Seattle. He didn’t even remember how’d he’d gotten there—he’d just found himself in that strange and lonely land of rain, nineteen years old with no money and no place to go and no plan and no one to belong to—with no future and a past that only made him want to throw himself or somebody—anybody against a wall until all the bones that held the body together broke and cracked. Didn’t somebody have to pay for what had happened to him? “I should have killed them.” Even now, more than twenty years after he’d left his parents’ house, he felt intimate and comfortable with that hate. “I should have killed them.”
He remembered himself in Seattle that summer. As he had walked along the shore of Lake Washington, he remembered seeing a heron gliding over the water, its wings flapping, then spreading, the labor of its slow-moving wings dwarfing the sky. He remembered how it had flown up, up almost as if the white and lonely bird knew he was there and needed reminding that flight and movement and grace were possible in the physical world despite the limiting pull of gravity. For a reason he did not understand at the time, he felt the heron was freeing him, and that flight, common occurrence that it was, was anything but common. That flight was everything there was in the world, and everything seemed to depend upon the grace of that flight. He urged it to fly on, to fly as if the beating of its wings would save the world, would save him from all the cruelties that had been and were yet to be. He remembered the clarity of his voice as he shouted at the great white heron: “Fly, fly!” He had yelled and yelled until he had almost gone hoarse. He was so mesmerized by the flight that he had lost control of his voice, of his mind, of his body. It occurred to him that he had never bothered to watch birds in flight; he had been oblivious to them because nothing else had existed except his pain. He had not felt himself to be a part of the world, of the earth. He was a permanent and unnatural foreigner, and there could be no possible home for him. But he knew he would keep what he had just seen, he would put the scene in his brain as if it were a pocket where he could store a lucky penny.
Many years later, he had dreamed the flight of the heron and it had been so real that he expected to find himself at that same lake when he woke. Joaquin had asked him about his dream. “You were yelling, ‘Fly, fly!’” “I don’t remember,” he’d said. He’d lied and had not felt bad about the lie. There were certain things that were only his and not even Joaquin could have them. He looked out the window at the slowly moving fog and thought of that nineteen-year-old boy wandering, lost. He was moved by the image of that wounded boy, and wondered how that boy had managed to survive the cities he had lived in, had managed to survive his own rages, his own flirtations with destruction. He loved that boy, now, loved him for what he had survived. On the way to the hospital, Jake wondered if it wasn’t time to start thinking about letting go of Joaquin. “But how will I live without his eyes, his hands, his voice?” He saw a convenience store, found a parking spot, then ran in and bought a pack of cigarettes. He sat on the hood of his car surrounded by the gray morning, and smoked a cigarette. He held the smoke in his lungs as if it were Joaquin.