Bonds of Earth (29 page)

Guilt followed hard on the heels of the anger, leaving him shaken. How quickly he had lost sight of the most important thing: the fact that Margaret and the children were well. Picking up the letter from the floor, Michael smoothed it out, his hands trembling. In the end, his hurt feelings didn’t matter a damn, and the sooner he realized that, the better.

Checking his watch again, he cursed softly. He needed a shower and a change of clothes, and quickly, the prospect of John’s carefully concealed disappointment too much for him to bear on top of this news.

I
T
ONLY
took five minutes for Michael to decide he disliked John’s alienist intensely.

It had nothing to do with the fact that Doctor “call me Nathaniel” Collins was easily two decades younger than Michael had been expecting, with a full head of wavy blond hair and the long, lithe build of a runner. His toothy smile and his overly familiar manner set Michael on edge from the beginning.

“Michael, you’ve been quiet,” Collins said, bringing Michael back to the conversation. “Would you like to tell us what you’re thinking?”

Michael smiled. “I was thinking you looked familiar, Nathaniel.”

Collins nodded. “It’s entirely possible you’ve seen me before. I sometimes consult at Saint Vincent’s—”

“I was thinking more of the Saint Alex,” Michael interrupted, lifting his chin. He could feel John’s gaze on him but did not turn his head to meet it.

“The Saint Alex?” Collins asked, a faint frown marring his serene features. “I’m not familiar with that hospital.”

“It’s not a hospital, it’s a men’s bath in the Village,” John murmured. This time Michael did turn to face him and saw John’s jaw was tight, his shoulders tense.

“Oh,” Collins said, nodding. “Well, I haven’t been to a bath in quite some time, so I doubt I would have seen you there—”

“I wouldn’t be so sure,” Michael said airily, throwing his arm over the back of the chesterfield. “I started sucking cocks in the baths when I was fifteen.”

John blew out a breath. “Michael, do you have to—”

“I thought you said he was one of us,” Michael gritted. “Surely he’s heard of cocksucking before.”

“I have heard of cocksucking,” Collins said, unfazed, “even been known to participate in it enthusiastically on occasion.”

John snorted in amusement, and Michael’s fist clenched where it lay on his thigh.

“Is that what this is, then?” Collins asked, still maddeningly calm. “A test? Because if it is, I understand your wariness completely. Homosexuals usually have much to fear from psychoanalysis.”

“I don’t fear you, Nathaniel,” Michael returned. “But I am curious: how the hell did you manage to become an alienist?”

That startled a laugh out of Collins. “I lied, of course. I completed my studies in Vienna, where they had slightly more—enlightened—views of us. While there, I studied Ulrichs and other homosexual theorists, and I learned that I could be an alienist without judging and criminalizing our behavior. But when I came home to America and sought my license, I hid that part of myself, and I told them what they wanted to hear.” He paused, searching Michael’s face. “We have to lie—to authorities, employers, family, friends—in order to survive. It’s a terrible burden.”

“We lie to ourselves most of all,” John murmured.

Collins nodded. “There’s no doubt it appears easier to many of us to try to deny our natures, to shoehorn ourselves into one life instead of two. Thankfully, you and Michael have already embraced the truth, and one another. That takes enormous courage.”

John brushed his fingers over the back of Michael’s fist. “I spent many years ashamed of who I was,” he said softly, “but I’m not any longer. I have Michael to thank for that.”

Michael’s head snapped up, and he stared at John, shocked. He’d never heard John say anything of the kind before, and the fact that he was finally making this confession now, in front of a stranger, made Michael furious. What Svengali-like hold did Collins have over John that he was now able to divulge secrets he’d kept from Michael for years?

“Michael? How do you feel about that?” Collins prodded.

Michael jerked his hand away from John’s. “I’m not doing this,” he ground out. “I’m not carving myself up and spilling my guts on the carpet for your entertainment.”

Collins regarded him steadily. “Believe me when I tell you I don’t find any of this entertaining. Our lives, the compromises we make, the self-hatred we accumulate inside us until it bursts from every pore and consumes us—they aren’t the least bit entertaining.” The sincerity in his voice and demeanor was evident to Michael even in his agitated state.

“I can’t,” Michael rasped, shaking his head. “I’m sorry.”

“Michael, please,” John began, but Michael was already on his feet and heading for the door.

W
HEN
John returned to the apartment in the late afternoon, Michael greeted him with a wave of his half-empty glass. “Good’fternoon,” he slurred.

“Well, this is a switch,” John said tightly, shrugging out of his jacket and hanging it on the peg by the door. Even as well-oiled as he was, Michael didn’t fail to notice the slight wince that accompanied the movement.

“Why is your shoulder hurting you?” Michael demanded.

John sighed. “Because I’ve been walking the streets for the past three hours. My entire body hurts.” He pointed at Michael’s glass. “Where’d you get that?”

“From Mr. Radwanski, the lovely Polish gentleman on the second floor. He has connections.” Michael held up the bottle. “Aged three whole months.”

John rolled his eyes. “More like three whole hours, if that. Give it to me before you go blind.” He strode forward, his limp more pronounced than Michael had seen in some time, and snatched the bottle from Michael’s hand.

Michael made a valiant but ineffectual attempt to recover his liquor. “Hey, that’s mine.”

“Congratulations,” John muttered, setting the bottle down out of Michael’s reach. “You’re an even more pathetic drunk than I was.”

“I strive for ex’lence,” Michael retorted. He drained his glass. Christ, but the stuff was vile.

“Michael,” John said softly, pulling up a chair and sitting in front of him where he sat sprawled on the chesterfield, “please tell me what’s troubling you.”

Michael frowned, instructing his lips and tongue to enunciate the words more clearly this time. “Are you fucking him?”

John straightened. “Who?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Michael snapped.

“Oh, for God’s sake, you mean—I’m not going to dignify that with an answer.”

“You’re not fucking me as much as you used to, so you’re probably fucking him,” Michael pointed out. The logic was flawless; Michael was quite proud of it.

“I’m not fucking you as much as I used to because you’ve been spending eighty hours a week at the hospital!” John snapped. “It’s not my fault you’re too damned exhausted most days.”

Michael nodded, vindicated. “You see? Makes perfect sense. You’re not getting enough, so you’re fucking him. He’s got wavy hair.”

John stared at him. “I’m going to make you some coffee.” He made to rise, but Michael sat up and caught him by the wrist before he could stand.

“Why did you say it in front of him?” Michael demanded.

John shook his head. “What?”

“About not being ashamed anymore.”

John’s gaze softened, and he twisted his arm in Michael’s hold until his own hand was gripping Michael’s wrist as well. “In case you haven’t noticed, it’s not always easy for me to admit my deep, dark secrets.”

“And Collins helps you with that.”

“He does,” John said. “And it’s not because he has wavy hair. I’ve realized it’s easier to discuss some things with a person you
don’t
care about, because—” he sucked in a breath, “—you don’t have to worry they’re not going to love you after you tell them.”

The words penetrated Michael’s alcoholic stupor like a kick to the solar plexus. “Do you honestly think that I would stop—”

“No,” John interrupted, squeezing Michael’s wrist. “But this isn’t about what I
think
, it’s about what I
feel,
and sometimes all the reasoning in the world doesn’t help.”

Michael released him and ran a hand over his face. “Fuck,” he breathed, the fight suddenly deserting him, leaving his limbs feeling heavy and lethargic.

John moved to sit beside him. “Does this have something to do with the letter from your brother?”

Michael’s head jerked up, and John must have read something in his expression, because his own expression became stricken. “What’s happened?”

“Nothing,” Michael said dully, “nothing at all.” When John stiffened beside him, he drew a breath and added, “I had lost touch with Margaret, but it’s all right. She’s living with Colm and his wife in Boston now.”

John studied him carefully. “When did you lose touch with her?”

“Six months ago.”

“Dear God,” John breathed. “You must have been sick with worry.”

Michael barked a harsh laugh. “I needn’t have been. She was fine all along. She just didn’t bother to let me know whether she was alive or dead.”

“Oh, Michael,” John murmured, laying a tentative hand on his arm. “I’m sorry. But why didn’t you tell me from the start? I could have hired a detective—”

Michael shoved himself to his feet and was mildly alarmed when the room swayed. “That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you,” he snapped. “You’ve already spent far too much of your money on me.”

John looked up at him, expression unreadable. “I’ve never been particularly interested in money for its own sake,” he said quietly, “so you’ll forgive me if I choose to spend it to help the people I love.”

“You’ve been saving for Sarah’s college tuition—”

“Which is secure—”

“And for that trip to Paris—”

“Which can wait.”

“God damn it!” Michael exploded. “You shouldn’t have to wait! You could have gone on that trip three years ago if it weren’t for me, and your career would be so much further ahead. You’ve sacrificed too much, done too much, and it’s not—I’m not—” Michael shook his head, his thoughts muddied by the whiskey.

John rose stiffly. “Not what?” he asked softly. “Not worth it?”

Michael stared at him, heart leaping into his throat.

“We’re very much alike, you and I,” John continued, brushing back a lock of Michael’s hair that had fallen in front of his eyes. “It can be a damned nuisance, but sometimes it allows me to know exactly what you’re thinking. And I know because I’ve thought the same thing myself, a hundred times. But it’s a lie, one we have to let go of if we’re truly to be happy.”

Michael stood stock still, as though he were a deer in the forest caught in the hunter’s sights. It was madness, he knew, but he couldn’t help himself. There was a visceral fear that still arose in him whenever he felt exposed and vulnerable, and while John had done more to ease that fear than anyone, there were times when Michael wanted nothing more than to run from that too-perceptive scrutiny. This was one of them.

John took Michael’s face in his hands, forcing him to meet his gaze. “Michael, I’m sorry I haven’t told you this as much as I ought to, but listen now: you’re worth more to me than anything on this earth, and I—”

Michael jerked away from John’s touch as though he’d been burned. “I have to—” he rasped, “I have to—to go.” And before John could try to stop him, he tucked his tail between his legs and fled.

16

T
HE
ensuing week passed in a blur of alcohol and a parade of sickeningly familiar sights and sensations. By the night before his graduation ceremony, Michael had vague memories of bad jazz played at breakneck speed, bathtub gin that tasted like bathwater, and puking up the same gin some time later in a nondescript alleyway that already stank of piss and rotten fish. He made the rounds of the Five Points dives and the Village speakeasies and walked through Central Park in the early-morning darkness, listening to the sounds of men seeking their illicit pleasures in the shadows beyond the reach of the streetlamps. He was propositioned several times by boys looking for a fast dollar, but when he looked in their eyes, they all seemed too hungry, too desperate, and far, far too young. In the end, he turned every one of them down with a polite shake of the head and a regretful smile.

It was inevitable that he ended up at Millie’s apartment. At three o’clock in the morning, Michael knew she would be relaxing after her night at the Saint Alex, perhaps adding up her profits or updating her books. Millie was a conventional business owner in many ways, and she always liked to work on her accounts when no one could see her wearing her reading glasses.

Sure enough, Millie was in one of her silk dressing gowns, the rich, deep red of the material lending her a regal air. A raised eyebrow was her only comment upon seeing him before she silently stepped aside to give him room to enter.

“Tea?” she asked. “I’ve just boiled some water.”

Michael nodded. “Please,” he managed, trailing behind her into the kitchen.

“I don’t suppose I have to tell you that you look like utter shit,” she said conversationally as she took the kettle off the stove and poured some water into a bone china teapot. Finely painted swallows chased one another across its surface, doomed never to meet.