Justice at Risk (26 page)

I spent the next few days locked up in the house finishing the first draft of my script, and using it as an excuse to keep my distance from Peter. It seemed the right thing to do, completing the script, given how much I’d already put into it, and I felt obligated, since Cecile Chang had promised to pay me for my work. Besides, I’d never liked leaving a piece of writing unfinished; the rare times I did that, it nagged at me like an unfinished thought or an unexpressed emotion. So, day after day, I wrote.

Nights, I visited Harry. His condition gradually worsened, which included a second stroke that left him with nearly as little movement on his left side as he had on his right. He could neither speak nor make signals of any kind, although his eyes moved. Just his eyes, shifting right and left, making us guess what they were trying to say. Just his eyes, that was all that was left of Harry.

On Friday afternoon, I put a hard copy of the finished script in the mail to Chang, along with a version on diskette, an invoice for payment, and a note telling her she could use the script or not, as she pleased. There was still something about it that was not right, not complete; I’d never quite nailed down my theme, found the underlying meaning of what I was trying to say on the troubling issue of bareback sex. That’s what rewrites are for, and rewriting was no longer an option for me. So I sent my first draft off, finished yet frustratingly unfinal, and faced being unemployed and without job prospects once again.

That night, six days after Charlie Gitt had raped me on the grubby floor of the Reptile Den, I came down with what felt like influenza.

The symptoms, which typically signaled a recent exposure to the HIV virus, were also typically flu-like: headache, congestion, low-grade fever, aching, fatigue. But there was something else—a telltale rash, pinkish spots that spread over my upper body like freckles, heaviest on my chest and neck. When I first saw them in the mirror as I stepped from the shower, I felt as if everything were speeding out of control and coming to a standstill at the same time, as if I were on a wild roller coaster ride in pitch-dark space. I’d been infected with HIV, I was certain of it. Reality slammed into dread like two dark comets on an inevitable collision course, and my body, my being, was the universe that absorbed the explosion, and the billowing toxic cloud it produced.

Then I stopped myself: Or was I infected? The flu was going around, lots of people had it, and I might be one of them. As for the rash, I’d been popping much more ibuprofen than I should have for the pain I’d been suffering from my run-in at the Powder Room, and for the headaches I experienced every time I came away from another depressing visit with Harry. When I checked the warning label, I found that a light rash was among the possible symptoms of ibuprofen overdosing. So I wasn’t infected with the virus after all; I was simply worrying too much, obsessing on the negative.

That was how it went: One moment, I was certain I was HIV-positive; the next, I was trying to convince myself it couldn’t be happening, not now, not after so many years of dodging the virus. The rash and other symptoms were simply a passing flu; I’d be fine. The virus was spreading like wildfire in my body; I’d be dead in a few years, regardless of the new treatments that were saving so many. I’d be one of those who couldn’t tolerate the drugs or their myriad side effects, who couldn’t afford them, couldn’t find the exact combination I needed. I was being silly, letting my imagination get the best of me. I was OK. Everything would be OK. I was sick, headed toward a hideous death. Every reasonable mode of suicide passed through my fevered imagination, at the oddest moments, unannounced and without reason, night and day, endlessly.

My mind played Ping-Pong with the options until I was sleepless, exhausted, feeling on the brink of going mad. The rash and flu-like symptoms passed, which was typical of both the flu and the onset of HIV. I stayed in the house with the shades drawn, letting the answering machine take calls, avoiding everyone, even mute, motionless Harry; I could no longer stand to go into the hospital, because of what it represented now; when I thought about returning there, I saw myself in Harry’s bed, helpless, dying. I’d been thrust back into crisis mode, crisis thinking, and I couldn’t escape it, no matter how hard I tried.

Peter took care of the animals, coming in through the broken back door, which I hadn’t fixed since the burglary. I could see him from where I hid in the shadows of the house, knowing he couldn’t see me. He’d glance around when he came in to open the cats’ food and put it in their dishes, or to clean their litter box, or to get Maggie’s leash and a plastic poop bag to walk her; I’d see him looking around for me, and I’d draw back, deeper into the shadows, until he was gone.

It went on like that, day after day. I knew there was no point in being tested this soon; the incubation period for HIV was several weeks to several months from the date of infection; then the body began producing antibodies to the virus and it became detectable in the blood. That seemed an eternity to wait, an intolerable chasm of time. It seemed a blessing, a wondrous, welcome reprieve. I was a man ripped down the middle, with each side flailing away at the other. I grew very, very tired.

Most of the phone messages that piled up were from Templeton, and through the days I could sense her own comets colliding:

Justice, I haven’t seen you at the hospital. Have we been missing each other? Call me at home, OK?

Justice, where are you? Harry’s condition hasn’t changed, and it gets harder and harder to see him like that. I could really use a friend right now, Benjamin. Please call.

I haven’t heard from you. Did you go out of town, take a fling with your TV money? It’s weird not having a job. I went down to apply for unemployment today, but I couldn’t do it. Listen, I hate talking to a machine like this. Call me when you get back, will you?

Justice, it’s been a week since I’ve heard from you. I came by the house but it was all closed up and no one answered the bell. Are you all right? I’m getting worried. Please, please call me.

The
Sun
folded today. They couldn’t find any investors to save it. Roger Lawson released a prepared statement calling it a sad day for Los Angeles journalism, or some crap like that. This is all FYI, should you care.

Justice, if you get this message, or bother to listen to it, I’m at my wit’s end. I’m going home for a while to spend some time with my parents. We have to do something with Harry, Justice. He can’t stay in the hospital much longer, and I’m afraid they’ll stick him in a warehouse somewhere if we don’t do something first. I’ve never had to deal with anything like this, Ben. I could really use a friend now, you know? Oh, Christ, I’m starting to cry. Damnit, I hate this. Where the hell are you?

Mixed among Templeton’s messages were one or two from Oree Joffrien and several from reporters across the country who had read the
GQ
article and wanted to grill me about the Pulitzer scandal of eight years ago, now that I’d finally been dragged by Templeton out of the woodwork. I ignored them, along with all the others. There were no calls from Cecile Chang, Sergeant Montego, or Melissa Zeigler; it was as if they had all receded into the past, into another time that had nothing to do with now.

Once or twice, I found myself at the kitchen window, watching Peter mowing the lawn, or watering in the early evening, usually in his swimming trunks or running shorts, without a top. Physically, he hadn’t changed; he was as lean and golden and flawless as ever. Yet I didn’t feel a thing for him physically now; my eyes roved his body, his face, every inch and contour of him, looking for something that might ignite a spark of desire. Once, he turned with the hose and saw me at the window, looking out. This time, he didn’t bother to call my name, to pry at me for answers or explanations. He allowed me to see the pain in his eyes for a moment, and then he turned away to continue his watering. In that moment, when I saw his eyes, he seemed years older, seasoned by the life experience he had come to L.A. seeking with such earnest resolve.

Sometime toward the middle of the next week, there was a knock on the front door. After that, the doorbell rang. Then I heard footsteps leave the porch and move around the side of the house, to the back. I wasn’t sure of the time; the shades were down, but sun glinted in at the edges of the windows, so I knew it was still daylight, but that was all. There was a clock ticking somewhere in the house. I had grown frightened by clocks, by the ticking away of time, and didn’t look.

The back door opened. A tall, broad-shouldered figure filled the doorway, silhouetted against the light.

“Ben? Ben, it’s Oree.”

He stepped in, calling my name, checking about the house, until he found me huddled on the floor in a far corner of the living room. I hadn’t bathed or trimmed my beard or changed my clothes in days, nor eaten much, for that matter; I could only imagine what I might look and smell like. I didn’t really care at any rate.

“Ben, what’s going on?”

He pulled up a chair facing me and folded his lanky frame easily into it, as calm and centered as the night I’d first met him over dinner at the Addis Ababa.

“Ben, talk to me.”

“Why?”

“I’m concerned about you. We all are.”

“If you’re so concerned, why did you send me to Cecile Chang? Where was your concern then?”

“What’s Cecile done that’s so terrible?”

“Where do I start?”

“Start wherever you need to, Ben.”

“Why didn’t you tell me the whole truth about her, before I got myself into this mess?”

“I’m not following you, Ben.”

“If I’d known sooner who she was, I wouldn’t have gotten myself in so deeply. I would have had all the answers I needed right there, with her. I never would have needed to talk to Charlie Gitt, to go anywhere near him.”

“You’re losing me again, Ben. Who’s Charlie Gitt?”

I sprang like a cornered animal, straight at him. The chair went over backward and I was on top of him, my hands on his throat.

“Stop lying to me, you sonofabitch!”

He was a big man, probably as strong as me, possibly in better shape. Yet he didn’t try to move, just fixed me with his calm dark eyes.

“Take it easy, Ben.”

I was crying angry tears now, and spitting my words through clenched teeth.

“When you sent me to Cecile Chang, you sent me straight to the devil, straight into hell!”

“Calm down. Tell me what’s happened.”

“You knew that Templeton and I were trying to find Winston Tsao-Ping. I remember talking to you about it that night we had dinner at Chan Dara.”

“Yes, that’s true.”

“You knew that Winston Tsao-Ping, better than anyone, could tell us what happened that night fifteen years ago. That he’s the only one left alive who can do that.”

“I understand, yes. But how does this involve me? Or Cecile?”

I tightened my hands on his throat.

“Stop lying to me!”

He gripped my wrists with his big hands, kept me from killing him.

“I swear to you, Ben, I’m completely in the dark.”

“You’re saying you didn’t know that Cecile Chang and Winston Tsao-Ping are the same person? You’re saying you didn’t know she’s not a lesbian, not the woman she pretends to be?”

A stunned expression crossed his face, and his eyes showed shock. When he spoke, it was almost a whisper:

“What are you talking about?”

“You’re telling me you didn’t know that Cecile’s a transsexual?”

“What?”

“That she’s probably had the full surgery?”

“My God.”He turned his head, his eyes searching the air for answers, or maybe questions. Then he looked at me again. “Ben, I swear, I didn’t know. Are you sure?”

“It took a chance comment by a funny kid named Harold to open my eyes. To see what I should have seen a long time ago. Yes, I’m sure. She’s fooled a lot of people—apparently, even Tiger Palumbo.”

“My God. Cecile. All these years.”

He let go of my wrists, and my hands fell away from his throat.

“You never knew?”

“When I met Cecile, she was a woman.”

“A woman without a past.”

“Without a past, yes.”

I sagged, feeling close to collapse, and braced myself with my hands on his chest. Then I rolled off him, onto my back on the hardwood floor.

“I’m sorry, Oree.”

I stared at the ceiling, listened to the ticking clock.

“I’ve been going through a bad time.”

“I can see that.”

“Not dealing with things very well.”

He reached out to touch me, the way Peter had tried to do. Once again, I put up my hand.

“Please, don’t.”

“What can I do, Ben? Tell me how I can help.”

“I just need one thing from you, Oree.”

“If I can do it, I will.”

“Talk to Cecile. Convince her to see me again, to tell me the whole truth. To tell me exactly what happened that night fifteen years ago.”

“Melissa Zeigler?”

“Yes, this is Melissa.”

“Benjamin Justice.”

“Ben. How are you?”

“Getting by, thanks. You?”

“Back to work, staying busy.”

“I’m sorry I haven’t been able to help you more. I was hoping I’d have some answers for you by now. About Byron’s death, I mean.”

“You tried. I appreciate it.”

“You’ve put it behind you, then?”

“Not really, not with all the questions that were left unresolved.”

“I hope you’re not alone with this.”

“I’m in a grief support group now. I have some wonderful friends and a very supportive family. My synagogue’s been important during the worst of it. Byron’s family, too. We’re very close.”

“You’re lucky in that sense.”

“Yes, I know that. Very lucky.”

“I have a favor to ask, Melissa. If it’s not too much.”

“Certainly, Ben, if I can.”

“A friend of mine, Harry Brofsky, had a stroke. He’s lost his speech function, isn’t communicating much. Not at all really.”

“I’m sorry.”

“He just lies in his hospital bed, paralyzed, not responding. The thing is, he has to be moved. Isn’t that a horrible word, moved?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Anyway, for personal reasons I won’t go into, I haven’t been going in to see him. Right now, hospitals are, let’s just say, out of bounds for me.”

“That’s common for many people, for all kinds of reasons.”

“You’re the only social worker I know. I was wondering if you might be able to help find a place for Harry. Someplace that’s—”

“Comfortable, with good care?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve done a good deal of work involving nursing home placement. I’ll be happy to help out.”

“I don’t know how we’re going to pay for it. We’re not sure what his insurance situation is. My friend Alexandra has some money. She said she’d be willing to help with the bills as long as she’s able.”

“I’m sure we’ll be able to work something out.”

“I’d go to visit Harry, but I just can’t bear to see him like that. And the hospital, so many sick people, I—”

“I understand, Ben. Just give me the details I need, and I’ll see that Mr. Brofsky is placed in a setting where he’s well cared for.”

“A setting. That’s another one of those words, isn’t it?”

“I’ll take care of everything. We’ll find a good place for your friend.”