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It was the regular deal: the windows on the F train carved up to where they were impossible to see through, the station signs, once you got out of Manhattan, splattered with graffiti and unreadable, Tilda waiting for that first stop, paying attention so as not to miss her exit. “But here’s the wrinkle. As soon as I arrived and came up from out that shit-ass station,
wild dogs
started chasing me.
Wild dogs chased me through DUMBO for four blocks
.” She laughed and updated Alice on her attempts at networking: “Oh, I dropped something off for the group show I told you about. The assistant said the curator’d get back to me, so, I mean, I know what that means, but who knows, right….” Then moved on to the
gloriously sketchy
legal proofreading class she’d found in the back classifieds of the
NYPress:
“It’s taught out of this woman’s apartment, okay? It’s enough to make me ashamed of myself. You take this class and instead of having to go through the official certification rigmarole, this woman gives you a list of phone numbers of
other people
who’ve taken the class. They’re working at law offices and vouch for you. So long as you pass the official proofreading entry test, you’re in. Then
you
vouch for other people from the apartment. Naturally, every name on my contact list is disconnected.”

“There must be a way for me to see Doe during chemo,” Alice said.

Tilda went quiet. Her puttylike features froze.

“Whether I need to talk with another hospital,” Alice continued, “the transplant surgeon, whoever, there has to be someone. I mean, we don’t have a choice about this consolidation, okay. But to not see my child?”

“She won’t remember a thing,” Tilda answered. “It’s going to be harder on you.”

“I can’t do this and be separated from my baby. I won’t.”

Tilda took care in placing the debut album from Oliver’s favorite noise band into Doe’s little grip; she let the child slobber on the silver surface; she softly rubbed the length of Alice’s calf. “Enjoy your time in the now. The treasure is right here.”

“I don’t trust Western medicine,” Alice said. “If I didn’t have Doe to consider, I could easily go up to some ashram, treat myself through meditation.”

“Western medicine can be part of God, too. You just have to let it be.”

Alice batted her head, as if swatting away the remarks. “The uncertainty is the hardest thing.” She teared up. “Living with fear.”

“People who go through something are interesting. They’ve lived. That’s worth something. Believe me: writers, fashion, art, whatever, if it has no point of view, if it’s entertaining but not profound, I always want to say:
Why do this?
How many guys have I met that are wastes of time like that—”

Alice leaned back, giving her weight to the headboard’s wrought-iron curls and swirls. She closed her eyes. “In the winter, when a tree hibernates, all of its strength goes down to the roots.” Feeling for Tilda’s hand, Alice clasped. “I have to leave behind my smallness, my pettiness, all the things I don’t like about myself. If I keep on doing things the same way”—a dismissive flick of the wrist—“this is a failure and a waste of time.”

“You can’t honestly believe there’s some connection?
Habits
have nothing to do with this.”

The sound of the noise machine. Then a sniffing.

“I’m giving it a year,” Alice said. “In a year all will be better.”

Tilda nodded, then became distracted, an awareness: dawning, taking over. Alice smelled it, too. Always that dry ice.

“Can we— Let’s get out of here.”

Tilda did not move.

“I’m up for it,” Alice said. “Toesie-swear. Come on, honeysuckle. Don’t be such a puss.”

—

Legend had it that the owner and his pals used to ride their motorcycles around inside the biker bar. Behind the massive ornate wall mirror, bras hung like toilet paper from tree branches: some were lacy, worn, and supportive, others had underwire, still others were made for business. Each was deeply sexual. From behind the ancient oak bar, young men in expensive suits stood, four thick in the stacks, jostling for position, waiting for their turn to try for the attention of one of the hot little numbers plying drinks. One otherwise indistinguishable white young man waved his money. The brunette passed. Leaning toward his childhood friend, straining to be heard above the music and din, Ruggles screamed: “The science these people have now, fucking
nuts
. They have more answers, sahib. More
knowledge.
Telling you, best time in the
history of civilization
to get sick.”

Every day was like this for Oliver. Another member of the inner circle getting in touch, another heart-to-heart. The next morning it was Jonathan, his older cousin, a survivor of three consecutive New York City Marathons, asking to meet him at the West Side Pier, where Jon ran in the mornings before heading in to the architecture firm (he was a junior junior something). Having just finished ten miles, Jonathan was bent over, taking deep breaths, his lightweight jogging hoodie open, his shirt soaked. What did the perennial voice of reason want to tell Oliver? “At least you’re not referring to the baby as
it
anymore.”

Friends, long out of touch, called as soon as they heard. “Unbelievable” was said, again and again, each pal heartfelt, having the best of intentions, wanting to know: “Can I do anything?”

Ruggles lifted his PBR, kicked his head back, took yet another swig. He loosened his tie and did not pretend to hide his appreciation of the cowboy-hatted college girl behind the bar. “Sahib, I’m telling you, fucking
way
more’s being done to make sure Phase One and Two cancer drugs are available to patients these days. Serious, man. Cancer drugs are rainmakers. So much goddamn capital’s invested in them. Don’t let this shit get to you, understand?”

Going into a stretch of early afternoon. His dad barely waited for Oliver to pick up the phone. “Those insurance agencies,” Dad began. “Buncha dirty whores. I say this ’cause they have sex for money and don’t bathe after.”

Ruggles slapped away Oliver’s attempt to pay for a round. He smiled at the waitress, watched her withdraw and sashay past. “Jillian made me see
Angels in America
—you see it? Hell of a play. One of the main characters leaves his infected lover. I couldn’t help think of your situation.” Ruggles took a swig, swallowed. “That’s cocksuckers, though. You’re being a man.

“Plus no kid involved,” Ruggles added.

Oliver returned a call from the previous day’s seven in the morning. Blauner told him to hold on. After a few minutes, there was the sound of a door shutting. When he returned, Blauner was apologetic and asked where they were. Trying to keep medical costs from preventing his wife’s lifesaving transplant, Oliver said. That was where they were.

All the good friends who showed up but were stunned and didn’t know what to say or how to act, and Oliver had to get the hell away from, ASAP.

“And that motherfucking Speaker of the House. Bastard serves his wife with divorce papers
while she’s in the hospital getting chemo.
” Ruggles wiped his mouth with his sleeve, continued. “You tell me how that fat fuck looks at himself in the mirror.”

“Help with the baby?” A chorus of inquiries. “Help with groceries?”

“Isn’t a bone marrow transplant the modern equivalent of the iron lung? Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean—”

“Where can I register to be a donor? Is there anything you need?”

“One thing you’re going to learn,” Blauner volunteered. “Doctors can be the best people on earth. They can be the worst. Sometimes you get both in the same.”

Jonathan apologized to the nearby bum who asked for spare change. When the vagrant finished cursing them, Oliver’s cousin motioned toward a bench by the water. Fog was thick but not impossibly so. Jonathan said, “I can’t begin to imagine what you’re going through.”

Oliver felt the breeze on his face. “Honestly, I’m in it, and I can’t imagine.”

Ruggles stared into the dregs of beer number whatever. “Serious now, sahib, you’ve been screwed. You have every right to feel sorry for yourself. I mean, your wife’s been royally screwed. And that poor kid. But my God. What’s happening to you isn’t fair. Isn’t right. I know you know this, but fuck it, I’m drunk, you need to hear someone say it.”

(Dumbfounded, swollen with appreciation, Oliver stared in return.)

The alarm clock showing six thirteen, the phone echoing, his dad calling from the deepest worst part of the night in Cowtown, California. “Sure you don’t want a second opinion?”

“You’re still the poor sonofabitch who’s got to stand strong.” Ruggles’s tongue flared, licked the foam from his lip. “You have to strap up for battle and take care of your family. You’re the one carrying the burden. It’s bullshit and it sure ain’t fair, but that’s the deal. The shitty business of being a man.”

—

During that most indulgent stretch of the eighties, in the wee hours of those wild nights, back when stockbrokers and club freaks had finished their cross-cultural tangles on the various dance floors of Limelight, or had tired of dry humping in the most impenetrable crannies of Tunnel, or had chopped out their final lines on Nell’s glossy tables; after the go-go boys of the Paradise Garage, the strippers from Billy’s Topless, the bears at Mineshaft, and drag queens of Jackie 60, to say nothing of the dominatrices from all those converted basements, and the chicks with dicks who were hooking for tricks on Little West Twelfth; once all of those beautifuls and their damneds had finished crawling through the darkness, done with their respective hobbies, predilections, and transgressions; when they were still strung out, still jittery, and needed a place to calm down, somewhere to hash out all those loose ends, relive the night, perform some more, or just grab some decaf, accepted wisdom—among those who knew—had it that no matter where you’d been, no matter
whom
on the West Side you might have done, someone else from your particular locale of debauchery would have made
their
way toward that street of deep grooves and broken cobblestones. The aquamarine-blue metal panels from a different era. Oversize steel letters provided a stylish signature:
R & L RESTAURANT
, the name of some disappeared Hopperesque diner. This decrepit neighborhood’s single safe haven for a fag to plop himself at such hours. The only place chic enough for a late-night countercultural epicurean to want to hang. The only open joint where there was passable coffee, let alone steak-frites, or the poached egg Caesar with goat cheese (legitimately
inspired—
you
had
to try it)
.

Breaking off a discussion with his liquor distributor, the restaurant owner hurried over, kissing Alice on each cheek of her mask. She looked radiant. How glorious it was to see her. His accent as glamorous as his dusty shag of hair. A moment of proper admiration for the
bébé,
then he hooked his arm in Alice’s—at which point something clicked. He was horrified, and withdrew what he realized was not a sterile arm—an arm that had put her at risk for infection. His apology was both obvious and implicit, although in Alice’s eyes no damage had been done, and nothing needed to be so much as implied; in this place there was only love.

Taking hold of the stroller handles, the wide-chested man Alice called Florent pushed the apparatus out ahead of them, thus allowing Tilda to guide Alice, the two friends progressing slowly, because Alice had to go slow (
Careful,
Tilda warned): down the gap of space between the lunch-counter stools and the row of square school-lunchroom-style tables; over linoleum slick with carried sludge and wet footprints. The above-the-fold, large-headline-famous artist, in his usual lunch seat beneath a map of the country that boasted his name, looked up at Alice; all the members of his lunch party did the same. The eyes of busboys consciously avoided Alice, as the owner had long ago ordered others to do with a generation of sickly patients.

—

“I pray every day for your wife to survive” came through the phone, Blauner pausing for effect. “And when she does get through this, in all candor, she’s got a lot to deal with. One little gem: she’s no longer going to be eligible for life insurance. So your parents, her parents, too—if they have any money—start putting it away for your daughter. Trust fund. College fund. Something.”

“I hadn’t even thought of that—”

“Right, why would you? Good I remembered. And when you file your joint return and itemize the deductions you’re allowed to take for medical expenses—which you should do, and are allowed by the law—all the co-pays, prescriptions, out-of-network costs, anything not covered by your policy and that you have to pay, soon as you report them on your Schedule A, one hundred percent guarantee, that number’s going to wave a red flag for the IRS.”

“You mean—”

“Your business and personal returns get audited. So keep those receipts.”

“You’ve got to be,
shit,
it’s not enough that—”

“You’ve got a while until that happens, though, so there’s more immediate problems. While we’re working to land some good new insurance, the ceiling on what you have is low. Three, right? Let’s do whatever we can to make sure your policy covers as much as possible, let’s stay on top of costs—”

“I just, I mean—”

“Bubbie, you’ve
got
to be with it. Every time a doctor comes into a hospital room, that’s a billed visit. Research doctors, no. Students on rounds, no. But each time the person in charge of your case comes in? Bill. Any test procedure? Different bill. People reading the results of that test?”

“Bill.” Oliver was with the program, even if he wasn’t happy about it.

“It gets nuts,” the lawyer continued. “Doctor visits get processed in a department specifically for doctor costs. Hospital costs get processed somewhere else. Lab costs, somewhere else. You’re going to get these different statements, all from different areas, sometimes different companies.”

“That’s already happening. Most say we don’t have preapproval, which is just bullshit—”