Kindred

LaVieEnRose

I was jotting down notes for an afternoon meeting when Alice, head of the art department, appeared at my doorway. “Mr. Kinney?”

“Hmm,” I said, and when that apparently wasn't enough to get her to speak, I looked up and raised an eyebrow.

She looked nervous. “Can Justin come in?”

I put down my pen. “No, Justin cannot come in.” Justin was preparing for a small show at the end of the week, nothing major, but enough so he had some press stuff to take care of and, because he's him, a last-minute painting he wanted to get done. Also, he did not fucking work here. “Justin is not the custodian you can call in when you can't clean up your own shit.”

“Well, then, this is what you're giving to Lukavics.” She approached my desk and hanged me a folder.

I opened it and flipped through a series of images, then closed the folder and set it carefully on my desk. “Are you shitting me?”

“I wasn't on this project,” she said. “I'm supervising the Brown mockups and you know they're gorgeous.”

“The entire fucking department is your responsibility.”

“I can only work with what I have,” Alice said. “If you keep bringing in snotty Parsons interns who think they're too good to get paint on their hands, I have to work with the snotty Parsons interns.”

“I thought Evan was on this. This is not Evan.”

“Evan hasn't been in in three days.”

“He what?”

Alice sighed. “Frankly, Mr. Kinney, I like the kid, I do, but we've had a lot of problems with him. He's missed a lot of days, he has issues understanding written directions, and God forbid we need him to write something down. He's a great artist, but he just...he isn't meshing well with the team, and he's disappeared for three days without explanation. And don't look at me like that. Emily's Deaf and everyone loves her. And I just came in here begging you to call Justin.”

I studied her.

She said, “So, now that you've seen what we have to work with...are you going to call Justin?”

I tossed the file back at her. “No. I am not calling Justin. Fix your own shit.”

I did end up calling Justin as soon as she was out of my office, of course, but not to get him in here to clean up after my embarrassment of an art department. He was at his studio curled up on his ratty couch. He'd been feeling shitty when I left that morning and he still didn't look great, but at least he'd made it out of the apartment.

How's it going? I asked him.

He stretched. Okay. I got a little done. I'm just so tired today.

Have you eaten?

He yawned and nodded.

Let me hear your voice.

“Hi Brian.”

Hi. When did you talk to Evan last?

Saturday, maybe? I texted him yesterday but I haven't heard back. Why?

He hasn't been to work in a few days. Think he's sick.

Justin sat up. What kind of sick?

I don't know.

Okay. I'll call him. It took under the time to answer three emails before he called me back. “Can you hear me?” he said. There are some people in his studio building who work with power tools, and of course Justin has no idea it's going on until he's choking on the dust.

Yeah, what's the verdict?

“He wouldn't pick up his phone, but he texted me. He said it's just a cold. But he wouldn't miss work for a cold. And why wouldn't he pick up the phone?”

I pressed the button to light up Emily's desk. Because he doesn't want you to see him and worry.

“Yeah, exactly.” He paused. “Brian, I think—”

No.

“His roommates are jerks, he needs someone to check on him.”

We had an agreement, remember? You're not going up there.

He watched me.

You will get sick, I said. You will get sick a week before your show, and we know exactly what a cold will do to your lungs and a fever will do to your seizures. No. We knew this would happen, this was a condition of it. Have some soup sent to his place, that's all you can do.

“Okay,” Justin said softly.

Emily came in, and I told Justin, I have to go. Get back to work. I beckoned Emily over. How would you like an assignment?

What the fuck do you think I do all day, sit around twiddling my thumbs?

Yes, but this is a special assignment.

She cocked an eyebrow.

So Evan—oh, come on, what, I said, when she rolled her eyes.

I'm just wondering when my salary is going to start reflecting all the babysitting I do for that boy.

Honestly, I understood her frustration. Emily's a college-educated, talented, white-collar-as-shit executive assistant to two of the partners of the firm. She keeps this place running. And ever since Evan started working here, on top of all her actual duties she was constantly getting called down to the art department to deal with...well. Those problems Alice had mentioned earlier.

He's making me look bad, Emily said. Sheldon asked me if I needed him to write an email for me. Sheldon!

Yikes.

Jesus, he's a moron, he's the last person I'd ask for help if I needed it, which I do not. Who the fuck does he think writes all of Cynthia's emails? 'Cause it's not Cynthia.

I hear you, I said. I do. I'm going to talk to them about using you to be a Deaf interpreter, okay? And look, just say no when they ask you for shit. Make up some task you have to do for me. I'll back you up.

Okay. Thank you.

I paused. Now I need you to go to Manhattan and check on him.

Manhattan? In the daytime? No, I think not.

He's sick, I said. Someone needs to at least scope out the situation.

I can't be around sick people! I have a newborn!

Well, I can't either, I have a Justin.

She gave me a look. If you get sick, you keep your distance from Justin for a few days. I'm sure he'll be very understanding. If I get sick, what's the plan? Are you going to breastfeed our daughter?

Is that a challenge?

You're really not as cute as you think you are.

Well, that's just patently untrue.

Emily checked her phone. Cynthia wants me. Actual work to do! Ask Derek to go or something.

Yeah, right. As if there was any mystery how this little standoff was going to end. An hour after work ended I was outside Evan's door ringing his doorbell.

It took a while, but after a long wait the door opened and there was Evan looking like absolute warmed-over shit, shirtless and sweaty in ancient stained sweatpants. He squinted at me like he didn't quite recognize me, then sighed.

“This is really sweet and everything, but I'm fine.”

You look great. I waited. Well...?

Um...thank you for coming?

I rolled my eyes and shouldered my way past him. Evan's on the tall side, but I still had an inch and easily forty pounds on him, plus I wasn't swaying around like grass in the breeze.

“I didn't...I haven't cleaned,” he said.

You could say that again. Every surface in this tiny kitchen-slash-living-room-slash-someone's bedroom was covered in clothes, papers, dirty plates, art supplies. This is what Justin would live like if I up and croaked.

Where are all those roommates I keep hearing about?

Two of them work nights, two of them are out of town, one's in his room. He wobbled into the kitchen, muffling a seriously ugly cough into his elbow, and started working through the massive pile of dishes in the sink.

Have you been to the doctor? I asked.

He nodded. Just a virus. He thinks I'll fight it off fine.

Good. Leave the dishes, I'll do them later. Though he didn't have a fucking dishwasher. I am such a saint.

Anyway, he snorted. You're not doing my dishes.

You have a thermometer?

No.

That's okay, I'm good at this. I lay my palm over his forehead. Hundred two and a half. You shouldn't be up.

He sighed and turned to me, arms crossed.

I don't get it, I say. Aren't you the one who bursts in all Florence Nightingale if Justin has so much as a stomachache?

Yeah, because that's what Justin likes, he said. I am not Justin.

I know that, I said, but honestly, did I? Yeah, so maybe I'd expected to walk in here and for Evan to flop down on his bed and moan until I took care of everything. I mean sue me, they're young, they're sick, they clearly like each other, so yeah, I expect them to behave pretty similarly, and it's been a while since I played nurse to anyone other than Justin.

But, okay, hey, it's not like I couldn't relate to someone who was resistant to admit he needed some help. Ringing any bells? I came over to the sink and helped him wash dishes, biding my time until he admitted he needed to sit down, but I got distracted by his medalert bracelet sliding around his wrist. All it had was his name and that he was Deaf and HIV positive. That left a lot of extra space. Trust me, I know exactly how much those bracelets can fit from playing the exciting game of which of Justin's allergies earns a slot.

You don't have an emergency number on that? I said.

“I think people know 911.”

You don't have a friend? Roommate?

“My friends are Deaf, and my roommates are...not my friends.”

Parents?

“No,” he said. He took a shaky breath, coughed a little, and turned to me. “Look, Brian...”

I'm not leaving. You're sick and you're running yourself ragged.

“What, doing dishes? I stayed home from work. I'm resting.”

Look, I know this game, okay? I said. I got a ball removed and fried with radiation and I fought Justin tooth and nail when he tried to take care of me until—

Can I guess? he said.

I shrugged.

Until you were talked into believing that it doesn't make you less of a man to need help every once in a while, and even though it never felt natural, you accepted that you needed help and it would have been stupid to reject it based on your pride.

Well.

That's not the situation, he said, with a small shrug. I'm not turning down help that I need. I'm not in denial, and I'm not ashamed, and I'm not embarrassed. I just really prefer to deal with shit on my own.

You're doing dishes.

Well, yeah, I'm embarrassed about my shitty apartment. I'm not embarrassed about being sick. He walked back to the living room and sat down on the mattress on the floor. I'm not a nut you need to crack. I've been sick for a long time, I know what I like. And I like my space.

I raised an eyebrow. You think I can't not hover?

I've seen you with Justin.

Yeah, Justin likes hovering. Doesn't mean it's my only mode.

He leaned back against the couch. I really don't need anything.

Yeah, but if I go back home after being here for twenty minutes, Justin's going to march his ass uptown all unsatisfied and before we know it he'll have some colony of whatever this thing you're growing living in his chest.

He watched me skeptically. “You think you can sit here and watch TV with me and not bother me?”

You'll be amazed.

He shrugged and fished the remote out of a crack between his mattress—this was where he fucking slept, it hit me, this mattress on the floor of his living room—and turned on the TV. Let's see you try.

**

Yeeeah, so it was a little harder than I anticipated, because Christ, he was sick, the kind of sick that would freak out Justin if he were going through it. And I know that's not a fair statement, really, that you can't compare these things directly to each other, because Evan would obviously be freaked out by a seizure that Justin would barely notice nowadays, but Evan was coughing and shivering and making the kinds of noises when he breathes that mean Justin needs to be swept off to Urgent Care, and he just blew his nose and bundled up a blanket and looked unconcerned.

All of that paled in comparison to the strangeness of watching TV without subtitles.

Can you hear that? I asked him. I knew he had some hearing. More than Justin, anyway, who really has just about nothing left.

He shook his head.

You can turn on captions. I'm pretty used to them.

My roommates hate them, so I never think to do it, he said. And I can't read that fast anyway.

So you just...don't know what's going on.

He shrugged. Pretty used to it.

I don't get it, I said. You didn't grow up signing, right?

No. The speech therapist at school would use a few, but I wasn't fluent or anything.

So all you had was English. So why the fuck wasn't he more comfortable with it?

He shrugged. I didn't really have anything. I kind of just grew up without a language. I can speak English fine, and I can lipread it, but if you ask me to really think about it or about grammar rules or whatever...I don't understand any of that. I can't, like...sit down and read a book. I don't get all the descriptions or the subtext or whatever. I can tell you what the sentences mean, but not...just like the meanings of the words.

I thought about Justin's mystery novels, and...I don't know, between the sickness and the Deafness, maybe this was when it occurred to me how much of how I see the world, at this goddamn point in my life, is filtered through Justin and his experiences. Deaf is Justin, sick is Justin, born in the '80s is Justin...it doesn't matter that I'm close to half a dozen people who fit several of those criteria. They're all just variations on Justin.

It's an embarrassing thing to realize, but probably not as embarrassing as it should be.

So how'd you learn to sign? I said.

He coughed for a long time, then finally got up and got himself some water. Youtube videos, he said, wheezing as he sat back down. And then after I dropped out I hitchhiked out here and met up with some Deaf people I'd met online. I lived with them for a while but then we got evicted and we squatted in this fucking...I think maybe it used to be a clothing factory? Up in the Bronx. There were rats like this big. He showed me with his hands.

What about your family?

They found out I was gay, he said.

I propped my elbow on the couch and watched him.

So that's probably when I got it, I don't know, I said. I was already pretty sick by the time I found out, so I don't...I don't know when exactly it was. But when I was living in the factory there was a lot of...well.

Sex?

I was going to say heroin, but yeah, there was also sex.

I balked at him. Seriously?

You really think I'm this sweet kid who hasn't seen shit, he said. Why, because I'm smiley? I don't think that I can take care of myself because I have some bullshit agenda I'm trying to prove. I know that I can because I've done it for a fucking long time at this point. I know how to make myself comfortable. Nobody else does.

I think you're a sweet kid because Justin's a sweet kid, I said, because what the fuck, why not try for some honesty, if he was gonna talk about heroin I could talk about my damn boyfriend. Everything bad that's ever happened to Justin came at him out of nowhere, just fucking plowed him down like a truck. But he came from out of a fucking picture book.

He rested his head back against the couch. Not everyone is Justin.

I don't have a lot of experience with non-Justins, I admitted.

He watched me. You're doing fine.

You know you've got to get out of this fucking apartment, I told him. I pointed to a leak in the ceiling. It's going to make you sick. If it isn't already.

Did you not hear about the factory? I've survived worse.

How much have you saved up for a new place? You should meet with my money guy, see if—

Okay, remember when I said you were doing fine? Never mind.

God forbid you have a place you can bring your boyfriend back to where you don't sleep on the goddamn floor.

I don't need to be rescued, he said. I mean, do you not hear how my life is going here? I have health insurance, I have a boyfriend, I have a job, I have a place to live with a front door that locks. Do you think anyone was there to hold my hand when I was diagnosed? My friends who weren't fucking dead already weren't...no. I did it myself and I pulled myself out if it just like I taught myself sign language and got a voice. I do it myself. I didn't have anyone to visit me at the hospital, I didn't have anyone telling me not to just give up and stop going to doctors and stop trying to get better when nobody else in the whole world cared if I did. I did it myself. And now everything's getting better and I did it without handouts. I can do this myself.

You can't, actually, because you're not going to have a job for long because if you keep pissing off Alice and not following office protocol, you're going to get fired, and I can't save you from that.

So, what, I'm going to get fired for being sick?

You're going to get fired for just not coming in instead of calling in sick.

I don't know how all this shit works, he said, and I realized that there was a good chance his big old welcome packet went not understood.

That's my point, I said. Look, I'm not trying to take away credit for getting yourself where you have. It's impressive as shit. But this is a new environment full of all kinds of bullshit rules and tasks that people expect you to know. So you need a little fucking instructing right now.

He watched me.

You don't have to like it, I said. You don't have to have any big revelations about how being taken care of actually isn't that bad. I get it, you like to handle your own shit. But you need some help right now.

With work, he said, curling up on the mattress and pulling his sheet around him. Nothing else.

Okay.

I'm going to sleep now.

Good.

Are you staying?

Sure am.

He rolled his eyes and pulled the sheet up over his head.

**

So I stayed, while Evan coughed and coughed and shivered and soaked his sheets in sweat, and kept my distance and watched him and worried. I stayed while his roommates traipsed in and out like he wasn't even sick, like he wasn't even there, turning on the lights and talking loud enough for him to hear and stomping around by his fucking bed and acting like they couldn't see any either of us. And I was still there, dozing on the couch sometime in the middle of the night, when I woke up to his roommates' stupid loud voices over by the bathroom door. A bunch of them were crowded by the cracked bathroom door, bitching that they had to pee or calling in asking Evan if he was okay, like he could fucking hear them. ”Move,” I said, and they did, with a few “who the fuck is he”s for good measure, and I squeezed into the tiny bathroom where Evan was engaged in the most violent goddamn vomiting I've ever seen, and I live with Justin of migraine fame.

I wet a vaguely clean-looking washcloth and sat down behind him, sponging off his forehead and the back of his neck. Evan gasped and choked for a while and finally said, “I'm okay, I'm okay.”

I know you are.

He flushed the toilet and leaned back against the wall.

Come here. I tugged him gently into me.

“No, I don't—”

I know you don't like it. It's going to help. Come here. I tucked his hot forehead against my shoulder and blew cool air on the back of his neck. He let out a sob, and I said, “Shh, I know,” and put my arms around him.

In that moment he felt so goddamn much like Justin, and the fact that he didn't let go of the tension in the shoulders and cling to me, let himself be comforted...God, I know it's not about me, but it was fucking excruciating.

But he did stop fighting me, and that was good enough for tonight.

“Can I have some water?” he whispered after a while, and I kissed the top of his head.

**

I got back home around eight, when Evan's fever was a little lower and he was sleeping soundly on his mattress. I took a shower first thing and then crawled in bed next to a still-sleeping Justin, who stirred a little and was all over me immediately, sexy and stretchy, asking me questions about Evan and kissing me before I could answer them.

Can I just hold you for a minute? I asked.

Yeah, what's up with you?

I need you to stay safe, okay? I said, and I buried my face in his hair and I swear to God I thought I'd never let go of him.

**

Evan got well and came back to work. He came to my office and we went over the forms he'd signed without understanding, and he got along better with Alice. They kept bothering Emily, and she complained to me.

I'll talk to them about not bothering you, I said.

Thank you.

I paused. Fuck it. But Emily? He hasn't had the advantages you have. He didn't get your education. He hasn't had your opportunities.

She watched me.

It's just something to think about, I said, and she nodded a little.

**

I showed up on Evan's doorstep again a few weeks later. You know I'm fine, right? he said.

I got you a present. Don't be a little bitch about it. I handed him a medalert bracelet. The same as his old one, but with an had an additional line of text.

Evan Murdoch

Deaf, HIV

and my phone number.

He looked at it, then up at me, skepticism in his eyes.

Come on, is this really the worst thing in the world? I said. Someone calls me and tells me you fucking died, what do you care? You'll be dead.

You can't save me, he said.

I'm not trying to. Christ. It's a bracelet. And Justin says I overreact.

All right. He took off his old bracelet and put his new one on. But this doesn't mean I belong to anyone now, or something. I'm still a lone wolf.

Yeah, well, here's the thing about being a lone wolf, I said.

He raised an eyebrow.

I shrugged. It's better in a pack.

And he smiled.