The Tin Box (9 page)

My parents were waiting for me. They didn’t stand or say anything. Mother had been crying already—her eyes were red and wet—and she started in again, burying her face in a handkerchief. Father glowered at me as if I’d upset her on purpose.

I sat on a chair facing my parents and didn’t speak. I didn’t trust myself to open my mouth. How could I remain civil to the people who had incarcerated me, who had taken me away from everything I loved?

Dr. Fitzgerald came in a short time later. He tried to get us to chat but none of us took the bait, which made him unhappy. Finally, he turned to me. “Isn’t there anything you’d like to know, Billy?” They call me that here, as if I’ve regressed to childhood. “Don’t you want to know how your brother and sisters are doing?”

I don’t give a fig how any of them are doing. My sisters stood by as Mother and Father schemed to send me here, and it was Edward who followed me to your house and then gave the police the address.

So I asked the real question, the one that has been deviling me since I first arrived: “How’s Johnny?”

Mother began bawling again and I thought Father might punch me. His face grew red and his mouth pursed up like a hog’s asshole. “That man left town,” Father finally spat.

Now, I’m fairly certain he’s lying, Johnny. You have your job and your cozy little house, and you and I promised each other that no matter what happened, we’d always be there for each other. I remember that, Johnny. We promised it more than once. So probably my father is lying.

Or maybe you have left town and you’re near Jelley’s Valley now. Maybe even
in
Jelley’s Valley. Maybe you’ve come to be closer to me, even if we can’t see each other. Maybe you’re getting the lay of the land, trying to find some way to get me out of here. You would do something like that, wouldn’t you? You pretend you’re no romantic, but it was always you who said we should run away together, run far from my disapproving family. And it was always I who reminded you that we might starve if we did. I told you to wait. Someday things will get better, I said. There will be more jobs and we can go wherever we want.

If you come for me now, Johnny, I’m ready to run.

Dr. Fitzgerald spoke for a while after that. He told them that he’d been treating me, but that I wasn’t very cooperative. Which isn’t true. I always do everything he wants—except stop loving you. He said he wants to try something new with me, something called insulin therapy. I’ve no idea what that entails and he didn’t explain it. Perhaps researching it can be your task this time, instead of looking up words in the dictionary.

I miss the way you taste, Johnny. Please, come rescue me.

Yrs always,

Bill

William vaguely remembered reading about insulin therapy in one of his classes, but he had to Google it to refresh his memory. The treatment predated electroshock therapy and had been used primarily on schizophrenics. Patients were given doses of insulin large enough to trigger convulsions or comas. This would be repeated daily for weeks, sometimes months. Some patients ended up with brain damage. Others died.

He had to step away from the laptop before he learned more details. He began to pace. His hands were trembling, and he felt as if he might vomit. He couldn’t stop imagining Bill strapped down in a hospital bed, sweating and shaking and scared. And he started to remember some of the therapy sessions from his own youth, when just praying away the gay hadn’t worked and his parents had sent him— No. He wouldn’t think about that.

With a bit of a start, William realized his feet had taken him out of his apartment and down the echoing hallway. He knew where he was going, although he didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. It was like one of those dreams when you know you’re walking toward something scary but can’t stop yourself, or like watching a horror movie where some idiot goes stumbling blindly to his doom.

He’d peeked into this room before, but only briefly. It wasn’t very interesting. The comfortable furniture Bill had described was long gone, as was the painting of flowers. The walls had been repainted since 1938—probably many times—and were now a scuffed and tired pale green. But William was certain this room was the one where Bill had visited with his parents. It was close to the entry hall, and a subdued version of the entry’s grand chandelier hung from the ceiling. The floor was neither marble nor wood, but it also wasn’t the plain linoleum and tile found in the rest of the hospital. The floor of this room was a pleasing design of black and white hexagonal tiles.

As he stood in the doorway, William imagined Bill sitting on one side of the room, silent and miserable, while his parents faced him. The doctor was nearby, doing most of the talking.

God, why hadn’t Bill run away with Johnny when he had the chance?

With bile burning the back of his throat, William returned to his apartment.

“S
O
WHAT
did you think of Jesse and Brett?”

William blushed and looked furtively around, even though he knew he and Colby were alone in the general store. “It was… interesting,” he mumbled.

“Interesting like ‘gotta drop everything so I can finish reading this’ or interesting like a car wreck on the side of the road?”

“More… more the former, I guess.” William rubbed the back of his sweaty neck. “I don’t know anything about horses so I don’t know if the cowboy stuff was accurate.”

Colby rolled his eyes. “It’s a romance novel, not a how-to manual. Although I’ve learned a thing or two from porn over the years.”

William gave him a wan smile. “I’m, um, I need a few things. Groceries.”

“Mi tienda es tu tienda.”

After picking up a wire basket, William slowly strolled the aisles. Colby was busily swearing at a calculator and a stack of papers that looked like invoices, so for once he didn’t tag along to give commentary. William had peace as he chose between canned peas and corn, and then between sliced ham and sliced turkey. The peace was less pleasant than he expected. He took a long time shopping and didn’t return to the counter until his basket was almost overflowing.

Colby shoved aside the pile of invoices to make room for William’s purchases. “That’s quite a haul. Planning to go into survival mode?”

“I just need a lot of things.”

“Sure. Did you want another book? If Stetsons and chaps aren’t your thing, maybe I can recommend something else. What’s your type, Will?”

William was too taken aback at the question to complain about the nickname. “Type?”

“Yeah. What kind of guy do you go for? Bears? Twinks? Jocks? Men in uniform? Who gets your pulse racing?”

“I don’t… I don’t know.”

Colby squinted at him, puzzled. “Whattaya mean, you don’t know? What kind of men do you hook up with? Or at least dream about hooking up with.”

The blush returned to William’s cheeks with a vengeance. “I don’t… I haven’t… I never….”

“Oh. My. God. You’re a virgin!”

This time, William flinched. Then he looked down at the counter, as if he found his loaf of whole wheat bread fascinating. “I am not. I was married, remember?”

“Pfft.” Colby flapped a hand dismissively. “I mean
men
. You’ve never had sex with a man.”

William very much wished he weren’t having this conversation. He could feel the heat in his ears and knew they must be as red as his face. He wasn’t even sure which part embarrassed him the most—talking about sex, talking about
gay
sex, or talking about his lack of experience with gay sex. He would have marched right out of the store, but Colby hadn’t rung up his purchases yet.

At any rate, Colby wasn’t being cruel about the whole thing. He just looked slightly flabbergasted. “Okay,” he said. “So you’re a virgin. What kind of guys do you like in your porn?”

“I don’t look at porn.”

“Then what do you jack off to?”

William made a strangled noise.

But Colby had no pity, it seemed. “Seriously, Will. What gets you hot and horny?”

“I don’t masturbate.”

“Why the hell not? I mean, okay, I guess maybe when you were married you got enough het action to take the edge off. But what about before you were married? And now?”

“I—I….” The only time William had ever discussed sex with another man was during his therapy sessions, and of course back then the other man had been busily telling him how evil homosexuality was. He hadn’t even talked about sex much with Lisa. Sex was just something they did together, like watching
60 Minutes
or folding the laundry.

Clearly, what was needed here was a clinical approach. “Conditioning,” William said.

“Huh?”

“I don’t masturbate to homosexual pornography because the resulting pleasurable responses would only reinforce unwanted thoughts.”

Colby had to think about this for a moment. “Why don’t you want them reinforced? Oh! I get it. That’s why you got married too. You didn’t want to be queer.”

William gave a stiff little nod.

“Why not?” Colby asked. “Religion? Family? Political aspirations?” He gave a little grin at the last suggestion.

“Um, the first two.”

“Okay. And now?”

“I guess….” William shrugged. “I guess I’m kind of in recovery from being ex-gay.”

Colby bounced on his toes. “Mazel tov! I’ll help. I’ll be your fairy godfather!”

William was positive that he didn’t need anyone’s help, most especially Colby’s. But Colby looked delighted, like a child handed a new puppy, and William didn’t quite have it in him to disappoint the guy. “I think my ice cream’s melting,” he said mildly, pointing at the carton.

“Big deal. Here you are, emerging from your cocoon all bright and shiny, and you’re worried about a little defrosted dairy product.” But Colby quickly finished ringing up the items and shoved them into plastic bags. When William handed him money, Colby gave him change absentmindedly. He was clearly thinking about something else.

“Tell you what,” Colby said as William gathered his purchases. “Day after tomorrow’s my day off. I’m gonna head over to the nuthouse. I always wanted to see the inside. And I’ll give you a grand introduction to the world of gay porn. By the end of the lesson you will know exactly what kind of man you lust after
and
you’ll know where to find them on the Internet.”

“I don’t—”

“Day after tomorrow. Noonish? I like to sleep in on my off days.”

It was very clear that Colby would not be dissuaded. And honestly, William wasn’t sure he really wanted to deter him. So he nodded again and walked to the door, the plastic bags rustling in his hands. But before he stepped out into the heat, he turned toward the counter.

“Colby? What’s your type?”

Colby dimpled. “Geeks.” And then he winked.

W
ILLIAM
did more data analysis the next day. It was hard to concentrate, however, with his thoughts bouncing back and forth between Bill and Colby. He couldn’t believe he’d agreed to let Colby come over and look at porn with him. Even
thinking
about it made him blush. But thinking about Bill made him sad, and maybe embarrassment was better than depression.

Late in the afternoon, he received an e-mail from Lisa. It was short and businesslike—she wanted to let him know that the lawyer had filed the preliminary papers and everything was going smoothly. Also, she told him, she’d be switching back to her maiden name. He wasn’t surprised about that. She’d always hated being Lisa Lyon. There was nothing angry or incriminating in her words, but then there never had been. She’d been disappointed and pitying, but never angry. “I can tell you
tried
,” she said to him as he was moving out. He wondered if the split would have been easier for them both if they hated each other.

He e-mailed her back, thanking her for the update. He almost apologized again, but didn’t. And before he sank too deeply into self-pity, he decided to read another letter.

The writing in this one was different than the earlier ones. The script was less neat and several words had been crossed out and started again. The lines of text weren’t even. Some slanted upward, some down, and some curved like a bow.

Jan. 5. 1939

My dearest Johnny,

I didn’t know the date. I had to beg Dr. Fitzgerald to tell me. I lost the summer and the autumn.

I’m a prisoner but it’s Dr. Fitzgerald who should be locked up. He’s a thief. He stole all those months from me. Stole little bits of myself. I go looking for them sometimes and find them missing.

You’d hardly recognize me now, Johnny. They shaved my head. Remember how we’d lie in your bed and you’d run your fingers through my hair? You said it was soft like silk. Now it’s just itchy stubble on my head.

And I’ve become fat! You might find that hard to picture. I haven’t any mirrors, but I imagine I must look awful. It feels strange, as if someone replaced my body with another while I was asleep. The doctor says it’s due to the insulin. I’ll probably be skinny again soon, from eating the terrible food here. Which is good. In case you come to spirit me away, I don’t want to be too heavy to move.