Julian spent most of his time locked in the master bedroom, or else working out in the Marina City gym in exercise clothes he’d dug out of Allen Sharp’s dresser. As far as Yale could tell, he was staying clean—but then he didn’t know what went on during the day. At 6:30 each evening, Julian would appear in the living room to turn on Wheel of Fortune, which Yale wondered if he even enjoyed; he never made any effort to guess the answer. When the winner went shopping in the little showcase after each round, Julian would wonder aloud if the person would choose the Dalmatian statue. That was the extent of his engagement.
* * *
—
After work on Tuesday, Yale saw Asher Glass at the Hull House pool. Asher was already toweling off when Yale got there. Yale jumped in and talked to him from the water. He felt scrawny next to Asher, pale, and the water was a good cover. Asher had heard that Yale was living down in River North. Yale said, “In the corncob towers. I keep trying to think of a good cornhole pun, but I’ve got nothing.”
Asher didn’t laugh, just looked at him with concern. He said, “If you need legal help getting what’s yours out of your old place—or anything financial—I’m just saying, this is what I do, and I’d be glad to help.”
The water clung to Asher’s shoulders and chest hair in perfect spheres.
“It means a lot that you’d say that.”
He hadn’t thought much about the things he’d left behind at Charlie’s. He’d been wearing Allen Sharp’s sweaters for several days now, and Allen Sharp’s very soft bathrobe, and he had all the music and furniture and dishes he needed, for now. But the fact that Asher would help him instead of helping Charlie—it made his skin warm in the cold water. After Asher left, he sank to the bottom of the pool and looked up at the streaks of pale blue light.
* * *
—
Fiona called Yale at the office on Wednesday to say Roscoe was ready to be picked up. Yale didn’t ask about the money, and Fiona didn’t mention it either; he paid the 360 dollars. He brought Roscoe home in the cardboard carrier they gave him.
Yale hadn’t mentioned the cat episode to Julian—because it was upsetting, and because he didn’t trust himself to tell the story without also telling the story of getting tested—so when Yale opened the box, when Roscoe took a tentative step out, Julian stared bewildered from the couch. Yale said, “Remember this guy?”
It took only a second of blank confusion before Julian was down on the floor, clutching Roscoe like a long-lost security blanket. “Where did he come from?” he said, and—mercifully—didn’t give Yale time to answer. “Hey, buddy, you’re living in the penthouse now! Is he gonna stay? Can he stay?”
“If he doesn’t have another social engagement.”
He worried, the way Julian was holding that cat, that now Julian would never leave either. But Julian’s ticket was purchased, and he seemed antsier every day. Yale went back out and bought Roscoe a litter box and some food and a dish and a cat bed. Halfway out of the store, he turned and went back to buy him a toy, a purple ball with a feathery tail.
* * *
—
On Thursday, a Foujita expert came in—he’d flown from Paris—to meet with Bill. Yale wanted to listen outside the door. He wanted to spend the rest of his life building Nora’s Paris out of sugar cubes, brick by brick. He wanted a one-way ticket to 1920. He thought about Nora’s idea of time travel. What a horrible kind of travel, that took you only forward into the terrifying future, constantly farther from whatever had once made you happy. Only maybe that wasn’t what she’d meant. Maybe she meant the older you got, the more decades you had at your disposal to revisit with your eyes closed. He couldn’t imagine ever wanting to revisit this year. Well: In eleven days he’d have his results. And maybe then he’d long for this purgatory, the time when he could sit at his desk clinging to some small splinter of hope.
* * *
—
When Yale got home that night, Julian was at the table reading the TV Guide, even though he was nowhere near the TV. It was an old one, from the last time the Sharps were here. Roscoe was on his lap.
Julian said, “This is funny. They pretended to interview Kermit and Miss Piggy.”
“Yeah, I saw that.”
“He insists they’re not married, and she thinks they are.”
“Hilarious. You doing okay?”
“I’ll be out of your hair in two days.”
Yale sat down. If Julian really was leaving, Yale could ask him. He ought to, before he left. He said, “I want to say again that I forgive you for what happened with Charlie. I should be poisoning the coffee, but I’m just not mad at you. But you have to tell me something. I need to know whether that was really the only time.”
Julian flipped the magazine over, open, as if he didn’t want to lose his place. He held Roscoe up to his chest. A shield. “Okay. So . . . yeah, pretty much.”
“Pretty much?”
“He blew me once. About a year ago. But in terms of—if that’s what you’re asking, then yeah, only once.”
“He blew you about a year ago.” Yale was trying to do mental math, trying to remember what had been going on in their lives last winter. Charlie’s paper was struggling. The test hadn’t come around yet. He wasn’t surprised, but then why was his heart pounding?
“But listen, Yale—like, if you really want to know this stuff?” Yale nodded. “He was definitely getting around.”
Yale controlled his breath. He said, “I need you to be more specific.”
“What would happen—he kept it so bottled up. I mean, you know how I feel about monogamy. He’s this pillar of the community, or whatever, and then every six months or so he’d snap. I’m not saying it was constant, but—you know how if you haven’t eaten all day, your body takes over and eats a whole cake? I just know there was a lot of, like, dark corner sex. Train station bathrooms, the forest preserve, that kind of stuff. He used rubbers. At least he said so.”
Roscoe came in and out of focus. Julian’s face came in and out of focus. Train station bathrooms were where guys from the suburbs went, furtive men with wives and kids, the “commuter gays” Charlie used to rant about. People who could match his guilt, his self-loathing. Yale didn’t believe for an instant that Charlie had used rubbers. What Charlie was doing was suicide. You don’t use condoms for suicide. He said, with the last of the breath that had already escaped him, “Fuck.”
“For what it’s worth, I think he stayed away from, like, our community. He wasn’t picking up guys at Paradise or anything.”