chapter 17

You seem to be holding your own,” the doctor said dryly. She was standing in the doorway. We'd been lying there, just sort of dozing, for quite a while. I had been feeling Michael's chills through his blankets. They had come and gone in waves. When I sat up, I was a little dizzy. I scooted to the edge of the bed, but I was still in contact with Michael, still feeling the tremors.

“He should be here in another half hour or so,” the doctor said. Michael sighed. “Your parents are waiting for him in my office. We'll all come down here together. He's only a human being, Michael.”

Michael was silent.

“I know everything about him,” she reminded him. “You told me everything the first night. And you survived it.”

“I had drugs,” Michael said.

“How's that drip?” she asked.

“Terrible,” he said, his voice now very clear. “Totally insufficient.”

“You want me to turn it back up?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“You honestly want me to do that?” she asked.

There was a silence. “No,” he said.

“Good,” she said, looking pleased. She turned to me. “It's about time for you to go home.”

“You want me to go?” I asked Michael, the cowardly half of me hoping he'd make me go.

“This is not going to be easy,” she warned. “And it's really none of your business.”

“Stay,” Michael said.

I found the other half of me willing. “Your mother won't like it,” I told him.

He said, “My mother may design her own hell. This is mine.”

“Good,” the doctor said, pleased again. “Now watch what you say to him,” she told me. “If you're going to stay here, keep him strong. An hour and a half, and this will be over.”

Great. It only took seventeen seconds for an earthquake to flatten San Francisco.

“This can be your emancipation,” she said to him. “Remember that, in reality, this has very little to do with Russell. This is about you. What you're going to believe. What you're going to accept. You can choose to be free. Or you can choose to remain enslaved. This is your night.”

Michael shifted himself on the bed, but said nothing.

“All right then,” she said. “We'll be in here soon.” And with that, she was gone.

I slid off of the bed and walked around to the window. It was dark outside. It was getting dark earlier now.

I was watching a tiny figure move back and forth across a lighted window in the building over the way, thinking I had just put myself in the middle of a very scary situation. Among the other things that bother me, I really dislike confrontations.

“Thank you,” Michael said, speaking much more clearly now. “But you shouldn't stay.”

“Why?” I asked without looking at him. “Are you embarrassed because I'm seeing you when you're afraid? Well—you're not the only one who's scared.” On second thought, it was kind of early to be so dark. Storm clouds, maybe. “I'm a coward, remember? I hate this kind of thing. I'd just as soon leave, actually.”

“Commitment,” he said, his voice uncharacteristically sharp.

“That's the point,” I said. “I want to go home. There's nothing scary going on there—”

“Then go.”

“—but you need me,” I finished, “so I'm staying.” I leaned back against the wall, my hands tucked in behind me. “There's something I want to know,” I said. Someone passed the doorway, walking down the hall, a lady with a little boy. It gave me a small start. “Why did you let your brother do this to you?”

“Let him?” Michael asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “These last four or five years. Why didn't you just—decide to stop it? You're strong. You could have done something, couldn't you?”

He made no answer.

“I've thought about this a lot, and it seems to me that after a point, you're as responsible for this as your parents are. I know I don't understand the situation. But you're a smart person, Michael. Smart and strong. You should have told him to kiss off a long time ago. Russell isn't God.”

“You're right,” he said. “You don't understand.”

“Excuse me.” A young, cheerful faced guy was leaning in at the doorway. I knew him. I knew the face. But I couldn't think what class I had with him. It was a nightmare time for somebody to suddenly think of dropping in.

“Do you know where room one ten is?” he asked. He pushed a lock of hair out of his eyes. He was really good looking.

“This is one ten,” I answered, still trying to figure it out. I didn't even feel the ground begin to shake.

He looked at the bed. “Sure it is,” he said. “How ya doin', Schmitt, old man?” And he came on into the room. He was wearing jeans and a light blue tailored shirt and a Columbia jacket. Michael had gone dead white.

“I came as soon as I heard,” the young man said. Russell said. Obviously, it was Russell. Obvious when you looked at Michael's Smitty face. “Gone off the deep end, finally, huh?” That's why I knew him. I'd seen him often enough in that portrait they had hanging in the dining room. He looked over at me. “You must be a friend of his?”

I nodded. This had taken me totally by surprise.

He smiled at me, an open, very easy smile. “Then that makes two of us,” he said, and he leaned across the bed and put his hand out for me. This could not be the monster, Russell. I shook his hand before I knew what I was doing. Now I realized—I'd thought he was good looking because he looked so much like Michael. “I'm Russell,” he said.

“Virginia,” I answered, realizing only later that I'd given him my distance name. The doctor had warned us in the beginning; all the Russell stories, all that information had been based on Smitty's perceptions of reality. Smitty's maybe-not-so-objective perceptions. This person was not the person I had expected.

“I didn't know Smitty had such pretty friends,” Russell said. He looked down at Michael and patted his knee, affectionately. “It's been a long time since I've seen my old buddy, here. Long time. Too bad about this.” He looked around the room. “It could be worse though, couldn't it.”

Michael's breathing had gone pinched. He definitely wasn't as good as he used to be at setting his face in stone.

“Well,” Russell said. “I'm glad you're here. I've always wanted the best for you. It's time you let somebody take care of you.”

“I should go tell them you're here,” I said.

He smiled at me. “Sure,” he said. But I didn't go. I didn't like to leave Michael.

Russell leaned over and he picked up Michael's hand. “I just thought I'd pop in here before the family stuff starts. I just wanted to tell you, I've got a job offer—they tell you that? A good one. My little Christine, she's excited about that. It's real important to me. It'll take me out of state, and I'll probably never see you again, old Schmitt, sad as that seems. Be outta your hair.”

It was only then that I saw what he was doing to Michael's hand. It was the odd angle that caught my eye, and when I looked closer, I could see the white marks around the places where Russell's fingers were pressed. When I saw it, I knew he'd taken me for a ride, just like he'd done everybody else, all those years. I felt like I'd betrayed my friend in those few moments, and now a terrible rage washed through me.

“Don't,” I nearly shouted, and before I knew what I was doing, I'd moved forward, threatening.

Russell looked up at me, innocent surprise on his face. He released Michael's hand, looking oh-so reasonable and kind of hurt. But now I could see right through it. “I'm sorry,” he said as though he couldn't understand why I had taken offense. “I just thought he'd want to get caught up.” He patted Michael's hand briefly. “Don't forget,” he said. “I love you, Smitty-boy. I just hate to think what could happen to you in here.” And then he left the room.

I collapsed back against the wall. I was flushed hot with guilt. I hadn't even heard the monitors screaming at me. I pushed away from the wall and leaned over Michael who was lying there as if he were dead.

“That is exactly what I mean,” I hissed. “Why did you let him do that? Why didn't you just rip your hand away from him. Look at you. Why don't you just hit him? I would. Before I let anybody do this to me, I'd hit him with a chair.”

His jaw went rigid. The truth was, I was angry at him because I'd just stood there and let it happen. “You're worth more than this,” I told him. “You're a hundred times the human being he is. And you're not helping him out any, letting him think he's God.” I clamped my teeth shut and pushed air out through them.

Michael was breathing hard, but he didn't say a thing.

I went back around the bed and dropped into my chair. My hands were shaking like crazy, but now I was mad. And a little surprised at myself. I felt very fierce, and I wasn't used to that. I kind of liked it, actually. I certainly wasn't nervous anymore. And I was almost eager to get them in here and get this whole stupid thing over with.

Those last few minutes took a very long time, and Michael didn't say another word until we heard the voices down the hall. Then he said to me, “Don't leave.” Like he really thought I would. I took hold of the bars of his bed, knowing the hardest thing coming up for me was going to be keeping my mouth shut.

“They'll believe him,” Michael said then, all in a desperate rush. “You saw. I'm dead.” He shut his eyes and put his hand over them.

“Didn't you listen to the doctor?” I whispered as they came in. “It's not about what they believe. The only power he has is what you give him.”

They came through the door in a line, the doctor first. She came over to the bed. “Let's get you up here where you can participate,” she said, and she ran the head of the bed up so that Michael was sitting up, forced to face the rest of them. He had two bright, flushed spots in the middle of his cheeks. He looked vulnerable, sitting there in his sweats and blankets.

Michael's parents were sort of milling around, trying to settle on what, exactly, they wanted to do. His mother caught sight of me and flicked a put-out sort of look at the doctor, then she came over to the bedside and patted Michael's hand. He didn't move. Mr. Tibbs had picked up a chair and was trying to figure out where to put it. Russell was standing in the doorway, watching it all. “We need more chairs,” he said helpfully.

“The next room down is empty,” the doctor said.

It was all so casual and normal.

Russell went down the hall and got the chairs. The doctor took hers and set it down by the window, out of the way. From there, she could watch them all and keep an eye on Michael and his monitor.

Russell ended up sitting with his back to the far wall, facing the bed and the two chairs his father had set up in the middle of the room. Michael's parents were half turned away from the bed, facing Russell. They all sat down and arranged themselves and a silence settled in the room. Michael closed his eyes.

“Michael. Your family wants to start,” the doctor said.

“Michael, is it, now?” Russell said.

“Not really,” his mother said, looking around at the doctor. I was looking at the doctor now too. Michael's eyes had come open.

“Well, he's a big boy now,” Russell said. “He has a right to a real name.” He cocked his head and launched himself out of the chair and across the room toward the bed. “I haven't said 'hi' to you yet, Michael. Hey, Mom. He looks pretty good. How've you been, kid?” It was over the top. It was weird.

“Sit down, Russell,” the father rumbled.

“Honey,” Mrs. Tibbs said, sotto voce, “at least let him be nice to Smitty.” She looked up as Russell made his way back to his chair. “Call him Smitty, darling,” she said. “Let's not make this any stranger than it already is.”

“Fine, Mom,” Russell said, slipping into his chair. He leaned back in it, put his feet out and crossed them. “How's Uncle Burt?” he asked.

“Oh, he's doing better,” Mrs. Tibbs said. “He's much—”

“Maggy,” Mr. Tibbs said. She looked at him and her chin came up. Then she straightened her shoulders and dropped her eyes. “Thank you for asking, Russell,” she said.

“I just wondered,” he said. And then he looked up at the clock and pulled himself up straight. His parents stirred slightly in their chairs. There was not a flicker from Michael. “I guess we'd better begin,” Russell said. “But I have to tell you, I'm really not sure I understand what this is all about.”

“I told you on the phone—” his father started, but Russell cut him off.

“I know what you told me. I just don't understand the part I'm supposed to be playing here. We all know Smitty's problems. It's been obvious for over a decade that he's got brain damage. Why are we suddenly laying all of this at my door?”

“Russell—” his mother started.

He held up one hand. His mother stopped. “This really hurts me, Mom.” Poor boy, he was suffering. “This started long before I was old enough to know what was going on. Why do you think I had anything to do with it?”

“Russell, we didn't—” his mother started again.

“I mean, I'm glad to see that some progress is being made. But gotta be straight with you—the whole time I was growing up—you—” he indicated both parents with a flick of his hand “—had your work, and your committees and your clubs, and I was the nursemaid—”

“Please don't make it sound like I was gone all the time, Russell,” Mrs. Tibbs said.

“But you were,” he said, looking surprised.

“There were things I had to do outside of our home, yes. But I was home—”

“You were gone a lot,” he stated, and he didn't wait for her to answer. “And I took care of the kid for you. It just—” he looked away for a moment, his eyes glittering, “—really about kills me that you'd come after me like this. It just seems so—politically correct. Sorry to be emotional. But this is very upsetting to me.”

“Russell,” his father said. “Smitty told us these things himself.” So polite, his parents were being with him, so respectful. Are you stupid? I wanted to shout. You're supposed to be parents. Take control.

“And isn't that tremendous?” Russell went on. “That he's finally able to communicate. I think that's wonderful. I really do. But—” he gave them a hard, righteous look, “—please remember, I was the one who had to tell him 'no.' I was the one pulling him out of trouble. Of course he's going to remember me as the mean guy who didn't let him just have his own way. Even so, Smitty got away with a whole lot more than most kids—”

Smitty's mother looked over at her husband. This was making sense to her. I couldn't believe she could be so stupid.

“We have just heard one side of it,” she whispered.

“I don't think we need to hear any more of Russell's side,” Mr. Tibbs said.

“Just a minute,” she said, her cheeks gone flush. “What do you mean, you don't need to hear it?”

“Don't you think we've heard enough?” he asked, staring at her. “After all these years, I think I've heard enough.”

Her mouth dropped open. “You've heard enough? You've never heard anything. You've never listened. You never listen. Maybe if you had ever taken any interest in Russell from the beginning…”

Michael's eyes closed. There were little beads of sweat all over his face.

“Mother,” Russell said, sounding almost genuinely gentle. She turned from Mr. Tibbs to Russell. She subsided. She lifted her chin again and took an even breath. “So, you're saying,” she said to Russell, almost as though the last few moments had never happened, “that these things your father told you about never actually happened.”

“Oh, I'm sure, in Smitty's mind, that was the way it seemed.”

“The doctor doesn't think it's quite that simple,” Mr. Tibbs began.

“Well,” Russell said, an ironic twist at one corner of his mouth. He shifted in his chair and spoke with his head slightly to the side, as though he were speaking only for his parents. “Exactly how much is all this setting you back, Dad?”

Dr. Woodhouse and I made eye contact. Mr. Tibbs's face was growing darker by the minute. Good, I thought. Finally. You don't have to convince Russell to see the truth—he knows the truth. He is the truth.

“Your mother and I,” Mr. Tibbs said, and now it seemed like he was holding himself in, “would like you to stay here for a while and work with your brother, and see if we can get this thing straightened around.”

Russell's face took on a very intent, thoughtful look. “Well,” he said, “I know you'd like me to do that. And I did a lot of running around yesterday, to see if I could arrange it. But—” he spread his hands—"you have to remember—I'm in the middle of a semester. If I leave school now, I'm going to lose the credit.”

“We'd really like you to,” his father said again. It was beginning to sound like a warning.

“Dad,” Russell said. “I understand. But please understand. I can't.”

“I'm not asking you,” his father said finally. “I'm telling you.”

“John,” Mrs. Tibbs said, looking at her husband with wide, offended eyes.

Russell looked away, seemed to be gathering in his patience. When he spoke again, his voice had a little more edge to it. “Christy and I are getting married at Christmas. I'm supposed to be graduating in the spring. I have a very good job offer—”

“You didn't tell us,” his mother said. “What kind of offer?”

But Russell went right on. “…so I cannot stay.”

The Tibbses were looking at each other. There was definitely a struggle going on between them. Russell shifted in his chair impatiently. “Two sons,” Mr. Tibbs said to her. I barely heard it. The look held between them for a minute longer. When Mrs. Tibbs finally spoke, it was without breaking that connection with her husband.

“Russell,” she said carefully. “We understand all that. But we feel this may be more important.”

“More important?” He looked at her, his face unbelieving. “More important than my life? “ Russell dropped back in the chair, his face gone a few shades paler—and then came outrage. “All my life, all you ever cared about was him.” Wounded innocence mixed with genuine anger. I recognized the tone. I'd used it myself a time or two. “This kid is not going to ruin the rest of my life.”

“Russell—” his mother said, pitifully putting her hand out. Russell was just turning his face tragically away, when someone behind me spoke.

“What about my life?”

Everyone stopped and turned and stared. The words hung in the room, quiet, but surprisingly clear.

Michael had spoken.

The hot spots still burned high in his cheeks. His eyes were steady. Only the doctor, who had her eye on the monitor, and I, who could feel the rhythms of Michael's fear through the bars of the bed, suspected what those words had cost him.

It stopped Russell only for a moment. He collected himself and gave Michael a long, cool, almost amused once over.

“Well, he can talk,” Russell said. “Congratulations.” The parents turned slowly back to him. Russell pursed his lips, his eyes on Michael. “Well, I'm real sorry about your life, Mikey,” he said. “But it's not my problem.”

“How can you say that?” I asked. It just kind of burst out of me.

So Russell was looking at me now. Even more surprised and amused. “There will come a time,” he said, making it clear that he was choosing, for the moment, to be patient with me, “when you become mature enough to realize that you're not responsible for the whole world.”

“He's your brother,” I pointed out. “It was your fault.”

“He would have been my brother,” Russell said. “If he'd been normal.”

“Well, we believe he may be normal. At least…” Mrs. Tibbs began.

“Oh, please,” Russell cut in. “Look at him. Look where we are.”

“I'm not,” Michael agreed, still quietly, his eyes on Russell's. “But I'm not a liar.” The monitors were all at peak, and the doctor was sitting slightly forward.

“Well, neither am I,” Russell said, spitting out every syllable.

“Really,” I said.

“Excuse me,” he said, turning a very nasty pair of eyes on me. “Who is this girl, Mother? Some part of our family?”

“Well, actually—” Mrs. Tibbs started, turning around to me, definitely annoyed.

“My friend,” Michael said. And he slipped one cold hand down through the bars to cover mine.

Russell leered. “So,” he said, “the retarded kid's got a little girl friend? That's kind of kinky.” He turned to his parents. “I'm not staying,” he said.

“And what about your little Christy?” Michael said softly. “Does she know why you're here? Or was she supposed to take my place?”

Russell started up out of his chair, fists clenched, teeth bared— then he caught himself, sinking immediately back down into the chair, erasing everything that had been on his face.

Too late. We'd all seen it—the intent, and the change. If Michael's facial control had been good, now we knew where he'd learned it.

“Oh, Russell,” his mother breathed.

“He'd drive anybody nuts,” Russell spat. “I don't have to take this from any of you.” He stood up, shoving his chair back.

“There won't be any more money until after this is fixed,” his father said quietly.

Russell went still. “You don't mean that,” he said.

Mr. Tibbs stood up. “I've had enough,” he said. “For your mother's sake, I've let this go. Years and years, I've let this go, God forgive me. But, this is the end. You have no choice, Russell. If we have to bring charges against you—we'll do it. This has gone on long enough. It's over.”

“What are you going to tell your friends?” Russell turned to his mother. “Because if you lock me up here, you're going to have to tell them something. And they're going to talk.”

“I know,” she said brokenly.

But his father had finally decided.

Russell turned his face on Michael. “I warned you,” he said. “Just remember that I warned you.”

The doctor stood up. “If you all would please join me in my office—”

Russell kept his eyes on Michael until his father turned him around and propelled him out into the hall. Mrs. Tibbs followed him out, but her husband lingered. He didn't come near the bed, but stood awkwardly facing it. “I just want you to know,” he said, not quite looking at his son. “We're sorry. I can't tell you how sorry.”

Michael just looked at him.

His father nodded. He didn't seem to have expected an answer. He too left the room.

The doctor blew out a long breath. She looked at Michael, lips pursed. Then she walked over and studied the monitors.

“You realize what you just did?” she asked after the voices had all faded from the room.

But he was still not talking.

“You just fired him as God of your life. You can see him now—a nasty, warped, sad little human being. And you know nothing he ever told you was true. Congratulations. That took a lot of character.

“Now—where do you go from here? Because you get to choose. There's a big, wide world out there.”

She patted him on the shoulder. He didn't flinch very much at all.

She nodded at me. “You did okay,” she said.

“Can he go home now?” I asked her.

She smiled, and I got the impression I had just asked a very naïve question. “He's got a little way to go here yet,” she said. “Especially after this.” But she had said it kindly. Then she left the room, trotting after Michael's family.

“Well, personally, I think you should start by taking karate,” I said to him.

He was staring at the doorway.

I looked at the clock. The whole thing had only taken about forty minutes.

Suddenly the bed began to shake. I looked down. Michael had started to shiver, very hard.

“Oh-oh,” I said, and found the controls, so I could flatten the bed out again.

He pulled his fists up and crossed them over his chest, shaking like he had some kind of palsy. His teeth were even chattering.

“Am I dying?” he managed to ask.

I started tucking the blankets in around him. “I think it's just reaction,” I said, almost sure I knew what I was talking about. The amazing thing was, I wasn't feeling any reaction at all. Except maybe this odd, unbelievable lightness of being. I had conquered the world. I had been brilliant. I felt like singing really, really loud.

A few minutes later, an orderly came in. “Doctor Woodhouse said you'd probably need these,” he said, covering Michael with a couple of heated blankets.

“Thank you so much,” I said, because Michael couldn't get any words past his teeth.

“It'll pass,” the orderly told us, unconcerned.

And after a while, it did.

 

“You were very brave,” Michael said some time after all of this. He was lying on his back, staring at the ceiling. I was sitting in the chair, after several minutes of bouncing around the room.

“Yes, I was,” I said. “Who woulda guessed? I am very, very brave.”

“And I am very tired,” Michael whispered.

“You, yourself, were incredibly brave,” I told him.

“Yes,” he said wonderingly. “But why?”

“Because you are—” I sang, “—you are the defender of truth and—truth.”

He began to pull the blankets loose, throwing them to the side and struggling to get himself upright.

“You want me to raise the bed?” I asked, sifting through the sheets for the controls.

“No, no, no,” he said almost crossly. “Just need to sit up.” He dropped his legs over the side of the bed, then braced his elbows on his knees and put his face into his hands. “Exhausted,” he said, the word muffled by his fingers.

“And no wonder,” I said. I was ebullient. I'm not sure why, but I was.

“I don't suppose he could be dead now?” Michael said, still into his hands.

“He might as well be,” I said. “At least, he is no longer immortal.”

“Good,” he said. And raised his head. “I'm hungry.” He looked thoughtful. “I want pizza,” he said. “Do you want pizza?” He looked at the clock and then straight down at me. “Look how late,” he said. “Your date.”

“I don't have one,” I said. “I told you that before.”

“Caulder told me—”

“I did have one, but I don't now,” I said.

He looked at me, thinking that over.

“Why?” he said.

But I wasn't ready to answer that.

“Are you so anxious to get rid of me?” I asked, flirting away from the point.

“No,” he said. “But why?”

“Why what?” I asked him innocently.

His eyes narrowed slightly. “Why, the date?” he asked again. “You've been so—lit up.”

My ebullience had started to ebb.

“Now you're the one asking questions,” I said to him.

He flinched as if I had flicked something into his face.

“It's all right,” I said, even though it really wasn't. Not just then. “But now you understand why Caulder does it.”

“But it is all right?” he asked. “My asking?”

“Y-e-sss,” I said.

“Then why?”

I growled at him. “I canceled it,” I said. “I didn't want to go.”

“But—” he started.

“I didn't feel like going,” I said, trying to make that sound final. But he had a lot to learn about conversational hints.

“You were happy,” he said. “You like him.”

“I don't know him,” I reminded Michael. “I don't know if I like him.”

Again he stopped, thinking it over.

“I don't like him,” he said carefully, not looking quite at me. Then, “The mystery is over. Now you know everything. You're finished here—

“Or do you want pizza? We could order one. I could order one. I could—call. I could call.”

“I think that's a great idea,” I said, ignoring the question behind the offer.

But then he made a disappointed sound.

“What?” I asked warily.

“No money,” he said. Then he brightened, and when he looked at me, there was something very much like mischief in his eyes. “I could probably make Russell pay for it,” he said.

“Perfect, Machiavelli,” I said, rising from my chair. “You want me to go get him?”

It was mean of me, of course. When he closed his eyes, I felt awful. But they didn't stay closed long. “N-ooo,” he said carefully. “I don't think so.”

Then we were smiling at each other.

“I think,” he said thoughtfully, “I might feel happy. Almost happy. But still exhausted.”

“I know what you mean,” I said, even though I suspected I really didn't.

And then, out of the blue, he said, “You want to sit up here?” And he patted the bed next to him. I dropped back down into my chair.

“N-ooo,” I said.

“No?” he said.

“No,” I said firmly.

“You were just up here,” he said.

“You were sick and drugged at the time,” I pointed out. “And you didn't have that look in your eye.”

“What look?” he asked me. As if he didn't know.

“Like you might be thinking about Marti Avery,” I said.

He blinked. “I wasn't,” he said. “I was thinking about you.”

“I know,” I said.

“But I shouldn't?” he asked me. The mischief had gone.

I didn't have an answer.

He sighed and looked around the room. “I wish we had cards,” he sighed. And then he looked at me. “You have been—valiant,” he said. “Caulder too. But you—very kind to me. Especially kind. Are we friends?”

“Yes,” I said. “We are.”

“And after this?”

“You have a lot to learn, Michael,” I said, serious now. “Actually living around people is so different than just reading about them. It's a lot of work. People are very complicated. Maybe, when you know a little more, you won't even want to be around me.”

He studied my face.

“I'm not stupid,” he said at last. “I never was. I always observed. I do know things. Not about interaction. But about goodness. And honor. I know what I respect.

“I saw you the first day. I have been listening to you for days and weeks and months. I went to the movie that time, with Hally and Caulder. So you wouldn't cry, Ginny. But also—because I wanted to.

“I always liked your talk. Like an open window. Leaf smoke on the air. Autumn. My heart—” He closed his eyes and pressed his hand over his chest as if there were a pain there. I held on to my chair. “You make it impossible,” he said, his eyes still closed.

Then he opened them. “But I understand,” he said sadly.

“Oh,” I said, and I just started to cry. I didn't even know I was going to do it. “Michael,” I said. “Just shut up.” I dashed the tears out of my eyes with the backs of my hands and then glanced at him embarrassed. He was looking down at me helplessly. The word “aghast” popped into my mind. “It's all right,” I said to him, fanning at my eyes and laughing a little. “I don't know what to do with you.”

He slipped awkwardly off the bed and settled himself on the floor beside my chair. Then he gently, deliberately, picked up my hands, one in each of his. After that, he pulled about the lowest trick in the book—he kissed them. My hands. One at a time. It wasn't stupid or sloppy or too much either. It was a perfect gesture. Unnervingly perfect.

“Don't love me,” he said, looking up at me.

“I told you,” I said, “I wasn't sure about that.”

“Shh-sh-sh,” he said. “It isn't important.” He still had my hands. “But care for me? A little while?” He brought his shoulder up. A shrug. A good one. “Just a little while. And I'll care for you. And we'll see.”

“Oh, Michael,” I said again.

“Come down here,” he suggested, now patting the carpet. Then soberly, “I'll write a poem for you.”

“That's a bribe,” I said, swiping at my nose.

“Yes,” he said.

So how could I not?