“So yeah, let’s say it takes a few years. That’s now. I’m at the top of the slide. I’m hoping it starts with herpes and thrush at the same time, so I look like some kind of white-tongued dragon when I open my mouth. What’s the thing where you bleed from your gums? I want that too. But then just for you, Yale, when I open my scabbed-up lips to show my bloody gums and the yeast farm I’m growing in my throat, I’m gonna look in the mirror, and just for you I’ll floss. Because I wouldn’t want any plaque in there messing things up.”
Yale held the floss container between his thumb and finger. He said, “Did you sleep at all?”
“I can sleep on the plane.”
“When you’re gone, when it’s been a few days, can I tell people where you went?”
“You can say you saw me, and I looked like a handsome fucking devil, and I said I’m sorry. Feel free to tell them Puerto Rico, because by the time Teddy could fly his ass down there to find me, I’ll be gone.”
“What about your family?”
“I’ll send a postcard.”
Yale found a pen and wrote his office number and the Sharps’ number inside the back copy of Pet Sematary, the one book in Julian’s backpack.
He said, “Let me call you a cab.”
* * *
—
That night, Yale tore off a bit of Julian’s dental floss and threw it away, and then he tore himself some to use. The next night, he used it again. He only did this before bed; he used his own each morning. It was a way of making Julian’s last longer, but it was also a way of reflecting back on his day. One day since Julian had left, two days since Julian had left, and what was different? What had he done?
Not that Julian’s absence should be such a great hole, but about an hour after Julian had taken off, as Yale worked the Sharps’ elaborate coffee machine, he’d been hit by the fact that this was another friend gone from his life. Nico was gone, Terrence was gone, Charlie was on another planet as far as he was concerned, Teddy judged him, and now Julian had gone off to curl up under a palm tree and die. Asher was left, but he was so busy. Fiona was left. There were people he knew a bit who weren’t fully associated with Charlie—Katsu, for instance—but everyone seemed lately to be hunkering down with their oldest, closest friends, not clamoring for new ones. There was Roman. He talked more to Roman than to anyone else, which wasn’t saying much. Roman had gone to the Alphaville show, and told Yale about someone stomping on his foot. Roman was wearing a Pisces T-shirt, and they talked about astrology. Yale tried to drop details that modeled self-acceptance into the conversation: “I haven’t been to Mexico since ’72; that was the year I came out, at least to myself.” Once, when they talked about food, he said, “My ex-partner only knew how to cook three things, but one of them was paella.” Roman never asked more.
He flossed his teeth the night he found a bright purple bruise on his ankle and freaked out all over again.
He flossed his teeth the night of the day the bruise started to fade, turn yellow at the edges.
The night after Bill Lindsey excitedly told him the Soutine experts were on board, Yale weighed the floss container in his hand and tried to guess how much was left. Surely there was some fairy tale like this: a story of a king whose reign would end when the magic ball of twine ran out. That sounded right. He wasn’t going to floss with a two-inch string just to make it last, but he also wasn’t going to waste it the way Charlie always did, an arm’s length every night.
On Valentine’s Day, he looked in the mirror and worked the string between his molars and told himself he’d made it through the week, at least. He’d made it through the test and through the awkwardness with Roman, and he hadn’t broken down and called Charlie, and he hadn’t jumped off the balcony, and he hadn’t gone out and had suicidal sex in some video booth, and he hadn’t cried. He’d done his job. He’d kept Roscoe alive. If he could get through another week like this, then another—if he could stand here at the end of the month and congratulate himself again on getting through in one piece, then he could keep doing it forever.
* * *
—
That Monday, Roman came bounding into the office early. Roman had four weeks left on his internship. Yale had told him he’d be happy to keep him on for the spring quarter, but Roman had shaken his head and said something vague about other plans. Yale couldn’t blame him. He said, “I found some Ranko Novak stuff!” and he dug from his backpack a thick library book with the kind of rough canvas cover Yale couldn’t stand to touch. “He’s a footnote. A literal footnote.” Roman came around Yale’s desk—the closest he’d gotten since Wisconsin—and opened the book to where he’d stuck a circulation slip. The footnote took up half the page, and Yale had to lean close to see the part Roman had marked with pencil. “It’s basically everything she said about the prize,” Roman said before Yale could read for himself. “I mean, it’s not very complimentary. Like, he really shouldn’t have won. Wouldn’t that be the worst, knowing no one thought you deserved it?” Yale saw the dates, the names of the winners, the information about three slots being open that year, the fact that the award was delayed. Despujols and Poughéon eventually traveled to Rome after the war, the book stated, while Novak’s injuries and eventual death (1920) prevented his ever accepting the prize.
“Show Bill,” Yale said. “Wait, don’t tell him it’s a footnote, though. Can you Xerox just that part, so it looks like it’s the main text?” He cared more and more about Ranko’s inclusion. It felt like a matter of principle now—that poor Ranko, locked-in-the-castle-with-no-reward Ranko, should finally get his showing alongside his betters.
Bill was now talking about the show going up next fall. Such a cruelly long time to wait. Yale wished they could rush things just so Nora could die knowing it had happened, but according to Bill, fall of ’87 was already a rush. It would be his last show—he’d made that clear—and he’d be out of there in time to spend the winter in Madrid.
Roman stayed close to Yale for longer than he needed. Yale found himself indulging in the fantasy that later this spring, when the internship was over, he might call Roman and invite him for a drink. He wouldn’t actually do it, but he was allowed to think about it.
The phone rang, and Roman jumped and backed away, headed toward his desk and then, remembering the book, walked out the door with it toward Bill’s office.
The voice on the other end was impossibly loud. “Mister Yale Tishman!” A man’s voice; it sounded like an accusation. If Terrence were still alive, Yale might have imagined it was him, doing some impersonation, a prank. “Chuck Donovan here. Trustee, Wildcat class of 1952. I’m calling from the office of Miss Pearce, on her phone. Miss Pearce tells me you’ve been responsible for dealing with the Nora Lerner estate.”