That last remark, delivered with a crooked smile, was tinged with both tenderness and resentment. He seemed to be asking: Why does it take a calamity to get you here? His neediness came as a complete surprise to her, but it made her feel, well, needed.
“Do you wanna take Roman for a walk?” she asked.
THEY FOLLOWED THE RIVER ROAD out of town. They walked down the centerline, in fact, since traffic was nonexistent, and it was difficult to navigate the mounds of plowed snow on the shoulders. The landscape was different here, more desert than forest, really. The taller pines had vanished in a matter of minutes, leaving only the squatty pinyons on the hills and the silvery skeletons of aspens along the riverbank.
“I’d be more than happy to go with you,” Michael said out of nowhere.
It took her a while to realize that he was talking about her surgery.
“You haven’t said anything,” he added, “but the offer is there.”
“Thanks, Mouse. That’s really sweet, but . . . I think DeDe has pretty much got me covered. It’s sort of a girl thing, anyway, you know.”
He gave her a heavy-lidded scowl.
“It’s just an overnighter, Mouse. I’d rather have you guys waiting for me when I get out.”
“As you wish, madam. Whatever gender role you require.”
She socked him on his shoulder with a gloved hand. It would have been nice to have taken his arm and simply strolled for a while through this bleakly beautiful place, but the dog was trotting between them on his leash, keeping apace. She’d noticed that Roman wasn’t good at heeling for one person, but he had to be in the middle if two were traveling as one. He had his own insecurities, this dog, and wasn’t letting go of them.
After a long silence, she asked: “Have you seen Anna lately?”
The name didn’t come naturally to her. First-name familiarity seemed almost disrespectful to the kind, stately presence Mary Ann had known as Mrs. Madrigal. But Michael had apparently been calling their former landlady “Anna” ever since he’d reached middle age, so Mary Ann had taught herself to follow his custom.
“We had her over for dinner last month,” Michael replied. “I see her a fair amount, of course, when I have to pick up Jake . . . or drop something off.”
She had met Michael’s assistant only once, when she had flown back to San Francisco in Bob’s jet after Mrs. Madrigal had suffered her stroke. He had struck Mary Ann as extremely shy but conscientious. She hadn’t had a clue that Jake was transgendered until Michael told her after her return to Connecticut.
“It’s wonderful that she has him, isn’t it?”
“And vice versa,” said Michael.
A big black bird—a raven, she supposed, or maybe a crow—flew from the riverbank and landed just ahead of them on a yellow-and-black highway sign reading ICY CONDITIONS AHEAD. The bird cackled for a moment, as if punctuating the message, then flew away again, a harbinger out of Poe lost in the twenty-first century.
It all goes so fast, she thought. We dole out our lives in dinner parties and plane flights, and it’s over before we know it. We lose everyone we love, if they don’t lose us first, and every single thing we do is intended to distract us from that reality.
“Will you take me to see her?” she asked.
Michael had lost track of the conversation. “Sorry . . . what?”
“Will you take me to see Anna?”
“Of course.” He seemed almost relieved. “As soon as we get back, if you like.”
“Let’s wait until after the surgery,” she said. “It’ll be better then.”
She was always putting things off, she realized, always assuming she’d have at least one more chance. Sooner or later, she would probably have to pay for that.
Chapter 22
Sacred Garments
Jake was wearing one of Michael’s old coveralls that day. They were too tight around the waist for Michael, but they were still in good shape, so Michael had been happy to pass them along—tickled about it, in fact. Jake liked the retro eighties lettering of the name on the back—PLANT PARENTHOOD—and liked explaining its history, though the nursery hadn’t been Michael’s for years, and had since been renamed.
There had been a break in the rain, so Jake was on a ladder at a client’s house in Presidio Heights, cleaning leaves out of the fancy bronze gutters before the next downpour arrived. When his phone vibrated, he looked to see who it was—then took the call.
“Dude.”
Jonah didn’t say anything right away. Jake hadn’t talked to him since their soccer-and-cuddling session, so he wasn’t sure whether to expect regret or righteousness or what. In his mind, though, he was already watching TV with Jonah again (Manchester United, this time) and playing by the same uncomplicated rules of love.
“I need your help,” Jonah said at last.
“What’s goin’ on, man?”
“I’ve been lustful again.”
“Okay.” Jake’s face was aflame with unmanly blushes. Nice, dillweed. Good thing you’re just on the phone.
“Where are you?” asked Jonah.
“At work.”
“You get lunch off? Can we meet at your gramma’s place?”
“She’s not my gramma, dude. And she’s got company.” The upstairs neighbors, Selina and Marguerite, were probably hanging out with Anna now, since they’d all gone to the four-story rainforest that morning and had planned on coming home for lunch. “You’ve gotta give me some warning,” Jake said with a rapidly sinking heart.
“You could come here,” Jonah suggested.
“Where are you?”
“At the condo.”
“What condo?”
“The one they rented for the elders.”
“Dude.”
“It’s cool. I’m by myself. The others have gone back to Salt Lake.”
That’s right. They won. Their job is done.
“Gimme the address,” said Jake.
“You don’t mind?”
“Nah. I can get off. I’m my own boss.” That was almost true, since Michael was still in the mountains and lunch hour was always Jake’s to call.
“Praise God,” said Jonah.
“Whatever,” said Jake, already feeling like a fool.
•••
THE CONDO WAS ON THE fourth floor of a modern building near the Moscone Center. Jake had been expecting the chaos of a dorm room, but there was very little evidence that four other young guys had recently been camping out there. It wasn’t until they passed an empty room on their way to Jonah’s room that he spotted, stacked against a wall, signs of recent activity. That’s exactly what they were—signs—printed political posters that bore messages like YES ON 8 and MARRIAGE = ONE MAN + ONE WOMAN. There were also some obviously homemade efforts: cardboard crosses nailed to wooden stakes with Bible verses rendered in Magic Marker.
Jonah closed the door as they passed.
So that’s what the left-handed scissors were for.
“We don’t have to do it in the bedroom,” Jonah told him. “I just thought it might be easier on the bed.”
“Whatever,” said Jake.
In the bedroom, Jonah waited solemnly, wordlessly, for Jake to assume the position before crawling into his arms. There wasn’t a TV in the room this time, so they wouldn’t have soccer to talk about. Jonah was wearing a starched white shirt and creased trousers, which made Jake self-conscious as soon as the kid had settled against his chest.
“Sorry about the grody coveralls.”
“That’s okay.”
“I can take ’em off. I’ve got clean clothes underneath.”
“No . . . it’s more masculine this way.”
“Okay.”
“I need that energy, you know.”
Jake began to rock him, as the so-called therapy demanded, instinctively adopting a gruff tone. “I know, son. I know.” The “son” part might have been overdoing it, but Jake had seen enough daddy porn to know how easily he could pull off the slow-talking country contractor
thing. He was from Tulsa, after all. If Jonah needed the sexless affection of a man’s man to escape the fires of damnation, Jake was willing to oblige.
“What was it this time?”
“The same,” Jonah replied dolefully.
“The same guy?”
“The same thing. Lust.”
Jake could feel the heat of the kid’s breath on his chest. It felt pleasurable all by itself, so he found himself grateful that the doctor who had done his top surgery had done such a good job of keeping his sensitivity intact.
“Where were you?” asked Jake.
“A bus shelter out on Market Street.”
“What happened?”
“There were two guys. One was black, and one was white. And they were both naked and had their arms around each other.”
“Dude . . . I mean, son . . . in the bus shelter?”
“Behind the glass.”
“You saw them through the glass, you mean?”
“On a poster, dude. It was like . . . an ad for some AIDS thing. Ginormous. As tall as me.”
“Okay.”
“I’m like standing next to them. And they’re both smiling like everything is cool. It was the sin and the punishment, all in the same picture, and they’re smiling about it.”
“And you were turned on?”
“Yeah.”
Jonah’s despair hung heavy in the air, and Jake didn’t know what to say, so he just kept rocking for a while. “Am I doing okay, son?”
“Yeah. This is good.”
“Cool.”
“I just have to talk it out. Put it all out there, so I can banish it. That’s what my therapist says.”
Jake stroked the kid’s hair a few times. Jonah snuggled closer, like a big yellow cat getting comfortable. “I think Heavenly Father sent me here to test me.”
“And distribute flyers,” said Jake.
The crack carved out another silence between them. “You know, dude,” Jonah said. “I don’t judge you for your lifestyle. That’s your choice. I just don’t choose that myself.”
“Gotcha.”
“Then who is she, if she’s not your gramma?”
The sudden change of subject threw Jake. “Oh . . . she’s just a friend. She’s my boss’s . . . my business partner’s old landlady. I keep an eye on her and cook and stuff, help out with things.”
“She was nice to me,” said Jonah.
“That’s how she is.”
“Are you worried about losing her?”
No one had ever asked Jake that question. He’d heard Shawna and Michael talk about Anna’s mortality on several occasions, once even in front of Anna, but he’d never been asked how he personally would feel about her passing.
“I think about it,” he said.
“She’s way old, I guess.”
Jake nodded. “And she seems like she’s kinda ready.”
“Like . . . how?”
“I dunno. She fusses over her clothes in the morning like it’s the last thing she’s ever gonna wear. Scarves and little hats and shit like that. Then she goes out and just sits there for hours, all dressed up, like she’s just waiting for a bus or something.”
“Sits where?”
“You know what a gazebo is?”
“My sister got married in one. At the Radisson in Phoenix.”
“Right . . . I built one of those for Anna out back, and that’s where she hangs out. Sometimes it looks like she’s expecting a mother ship to arrive.”
“Or the Lord.”
Jake wasn’t going to argue about who or what Anna might be expecting, but the constant intrusion of the divine made him begin to wonder about something.
“So . . . are you wearing your sacred underwear now?”
Silence, and then: “They’re called temple garments, dude.”
“Whatever.”
“People mock ’em, but it’s no different from any other religious garb. Like nuns with the habits . . . or Jewish people with those little beanie things.”
“C’mon, dude, it’s underwear. Underwear is funny.”
Jonah held his ground. “Not to us. We wear them to remind ourselves of the covenants we made in the temple. And to gird against temptation. They give them to us at the Endowment Ceremony.”
They have an underwear endowment ceremony. “So now that you’re a man, Jake, here is the endowment for your underwear . . . your sacred packer.”
He smiled to himself and continued to rock Jonah. “How much of you does it, like, cover up?”
“We’re not supposed to talk about the garments.”
“Dude, I can Google it.”
Jonah sighed. He’d obviously been asked this one too many times. “The pants go down to the top of my knees. The top is like a regular T-shirt, only longer. You’re not supposed to see skin if you put your hands over your head.”
“Can I just . . . feel?” Jake slipped a finger between two of the buttons on Jonah’s shirtfront.
“Whoa . . . dude!”
Jonah’s squirming overreaction annoyed Jake. “This is supposed to be a nonsexual thing, right? Just man-to-man affection with our clothes on.”
“Yes.”
“So why are you acting like it’s something else? I’m down with the program, Jonah. You’re the one who’s actin’ like a teenage girl.”
“I just don’t—”
“If I’m gonna cure you from being a homo, the least you can do is let me touch your magical garments.”
Jonah smiled, rolling his eyes in a way that struck Jake as totally gay. “They’re not magical,” he said, undoing a single button on his shirtfront.
“Obviously.” Jake rubbed the cotton fabric briefly, chastely, before buttoning up Jonah’s shirt again. “When you headin’ back to Snowflake?”
“Day after tomorrow. Another elder is takin’ the bus in from Bakersfield, and we’re flying out together.”
“He was . . . what? . . . going door to door?”
“Yeah.”
“I guess it’s easier in Bakersfield. Than here, I mean.”
“Word,” said Jonah. “Prop 8 passed in Bakersfield.”
“Sorry we’ve been so hard on you.” Jake’s lip curled just enough for Jonah to catch his meaning. “Listen, Jonah, you’re gonna hafta take cold showers from now on.”
“What do you mean?”
“Just . . . I won’t be available for therapy tomorrow. I’ve got a big gardening job, and I won’t be home until late.”
“Oh.”
“So don’t plan on any emergency boners.”
The kid sighed. “I never plan on it, dude.”
“Funny how that works.” Jake rocked him for a while. “Almost like it’s natural, huh? Like it’s who you are, and there’s nothing you can do about it. And it’s not just about your dick, either. It’s about who you are inside, and what you need to be happy.”
Twisting his head to look at Jake, Jonah frowned.
“You know what I think?” He coaxed the kid’s head back into his hands. “I think you’re gonna go back to Snowflake and have a nice reunion with Becky, and the next day you’re gonna go to your therapist and climb on his lap, and tell him all about me.”
Jonah wrenched himself free from Jake’s embrace, rising to his knees on the bed.
His face was contorted and completely aflame, like he was some other person entirely. Jake braced himself for the jolt of a fist across his jaw.
“You fucker,” Jonah murmured, before leaning down to kiss Jake on the mouth.
They stayed that way for a while, Jonah’s soft lips nestling in Jake’s beard while his tongue foraged for something he seemed to have wanted for a long time. Jake gave it to him, too—not because he required anything more, but because he wouldn’t settle for anything less. It was a turning point for both of them, and it deserved recognition.
Afterward, as Jonah lay in his arms, Jake asked: “Was that your first kiss with a guy?”
“Oh, yeah.”
He tous
led the kid’s hair. “It’s been an honor, then.”
Chapter 23
Beauty Sleep
Otto, still panting from the bike ride through the Mission, set the box on Shawna’s kitchen table. He had ended up taking his two-wheeler, though he’d argued compellingly for the unicycle, claiming it would lend an air of whimsy to the proceedings and make the whole thing more of a celebration. The idea had actually appealed to her, for a moment or two, until she made herself picture a unicycle arriving at a crematorium, or—worse yet—leaving. It might have seemed a tad indecorous.
Otto used both his hands to rake his unruly hair. “Did you know they call them cremains?” he said, sitting down at the table. “Whatever happened to ‘ashes’? ‘Ashes’ is poetic. ‘Cremains’ sounds like some sorta powdered shit you put in your coffee.”
Shawna smiled at him. “You want some?”
“Sure.”
She rose and poured him a cup of coffee, bringing it back to the table. “I didn’t do any better at the coroner’s office. I had to fill out something called a Homeless Death Form. I’m not sure which word is less depressing: Homeless, Death, or Form.”
“That’s cold, all right.”
“They just wanted it filled out. It didn’t seem to matter much if it was the truth. They told me to write ‘unknown’ when I didn’t know the answer, and I must’ve written it a dozen times. It felt like I was erasing her life.”
Otto held the coffee cup under his nose and sniffed it. This was one of his funny rituals around food, something he called Active Appreciation. “Any luck with that?” he asked, meaning Alexandra’s lunch box, which was next to her ashes on the table.
Shawna shook her head. “Too bad a picture isn’t really worth a thousand words.” She’d hoped to find something in the photos that might lead her to one of Alexandra’s survivors, if such a person existed. There had been those parents, of course, the ones who’d rented their child to strangers, and that creepy Mr. Williams, who may or may not have been a client, but Shawna had no illusions about bringing them to justice thirty years after the fact. All she was hoping was that someone, at some point in Alexandra’s short, miserable life, had loved her enough to wonder what had happened to her.
“How many pictures are there?” asked Otto.