How Father Tam Ruined Ash Wednesday for Everybody
part 7, Listening to It Rain in the Living Room
I inflated maybe 50 balloons that morning. Pop one and I swear the scent of fried catfish would explode around you like a delicious hand grenade. That smell was so strong in Blessed John Henry Newman Hall, you could almost see it in the air. I inhaled that aroma through my nose as deeply as I could, and then exhaled it into balloon after balloon after balloon. My mouth was so dry that I'd gone through half of a 32 ounce bottle of water in 10 minutes; my stomach was about to bust but my tongue wanted more hydration.
Obie was partly to credit for the aroma, he and two parishioners he introduced as Julia and Molly. The other associate pastor of the parish, Father Frederick, ‘supervised’ the preparations for the Welcome Back from the Hospital Party. The word is in quotes for a reason. All his ‘supervision’ consisted of was darting around giving everybody orders but not, from my vantage point, doing much else. His default mode seemed to be set to frantic. It bordered on comedy, his fluttery zigzagging, especially next to Obie’s slow fluid motions. Do you know people who tell you do to something and say ‘please’ but by the tone of their voice you know they aren’t really being polite? That was Father Frederick; he barked instructions as if he were an overly busy, put-upon matre d' but he always said ‘please.’ Only it meant ‘and for God’s sake get the lead out.' From my gray folding chair in the large meeting area, I watched Obie and Julia do most of the work. Molly was there to chat with Obie. Worrying and being bossy seemed to be Father Frederick’s only job.
My goal was to support Obie by blowing up a bunch of multicolored balloons. Or that was my immediate goal. My other goal was just to stay busy doing something. It was the only way to stay sane; Cage quarantined himself for another bipolar episode and I hadn’t seen him for almost 3 days. His previous sequesters were less than 24 hours; today it was going on 36. I agreed to leave him alone, per his insistence, but only on the condition that he contact me every day to let me know he was all right. Yesterday and the evening before he’d called me at 6pm but I could hear in his voice that the weight of his depression wasn’t easing, and my God, but it tore out a chunk of my heart. The impulse to be there and to hover around him nervously was irresistible if I left my mind idle for any amount of time, but I told him I’d stay away until he gave me thumbs up. At work, keeping busy, that pot-full of worry simmered low enough to let me think about it semi rationally. At home in the evening, though, I had nothing but TV crime dramas or internet porn to occupy my mind, and the worry boiled over until it overwhelmed me. So I volunteered to help out with Father Tam’s welcome home party.
It was a hero’s welcome. The newspaper was going to pick up the story as well as (maybe) one of the local TV stations. Just that morning the bishop approved it all, and even encouraged Father Tam to allow the media to use his picture. Obie explained the ecclesiastical code-meaning of the term ‘encouraged’ – it meant ‘requested,’ and ‘requested’ meant ‘ordered’. His Holiness figured that with all the recent bad press over pedophiles in the Church, it would go a long way to show a priest doing something extraordinary. Phyllis, my garrulous co-inflater of balloons, was in awe.
“Goes to show you should never judge a book by its book jacket, because you never know what people have in ‘em, till the rubber hits the road,” she observed. “Father Joseph was always such a quiet guy and all, very gentle and …” She struggled with the word. “… unseeming.”
“Unassuming?” I suggested, failing to make a viable knot in the stem of my balloon.
“Yes, exactly. It's amazing how unassuming he is. One of the nicest, sweetest people in the world, not shy exactly but kinda reserved and all. Then he jumps right in and saves that girl’s life." She shook her head in awe. "The whole church was fuh-loored. Oh, not floored that he would put himself in danger to help somebody and all -- that wasn’t surprising. But that he got the jump on that attacker and kicked. His. Butt. The first thing I said to Jim my husband was that God must’ve protecting him, that’s the only way that scumbag didn’t kill him and all, since he was probably hopped up on marajuana or heroin or something. But Jim said that Father Joseph made God’s job a little bit easier by dropping him with a few good Karate moves before the dude came after him with a rock and nearly cracked his head open.” She puffed up a bright orange balloon. She wasn’t a large woman at all but she must have had the lungs of an opera singer because she could pack like a square foot of air into a balloon with two breaths. All of hers were considerably bigger than mine: balloon envy?
“Father Tam knows Karate?” I picked up a dark purple one and blew.
“That’s what Jim heard, yes. Or was it the other one? Tai bo? Whichever one is Korean. I don’t remember, one of the martial arts. Nobody had an idea that sweet unassuming Father Joseph could kick ass like a Chuck Norris ninja, lawdy lawdy Miss Clawdy. It’s all they talked about at the Knights of Columbus meeting, according to Jim, and do you know August Frey? He’s a deacon here and all, a little bit uppity but not too bad, and he works for the newspaper. He saw the whole police report, how Father Joseph kept fighting him off, even with his head cracked open, until the cops came and the dude ran off. They didn’t find him but he remembered every detail of the guy’s face, even with massive head trauma, and they sent an artist.”
“An artist? For … oh, a sketch artist.” After some fumbling, I tied off my balloon that I’d fattened way past my own comfort zone.
“Yes, a sketch artist that recreated his face and all.”
I picked out a new balloon and it went from dark dull burgundy to shiny magenta as I pushed its rubbery limits. Again I fumbled to seal it with a knot. “Here, let me do it,” Phyllis said and my balloon allowed her fingers to tie it off with a neat snap.
“Well, let’s say some novenas that they catch him,” I said. “I wonder who the patron saint of catching criminals is.” I was immediately contrite. Who’s the patron saint of flipness, I scolded myself, taking an orange balloon and blowing.
Phyllis might have been as homespun as a macramé welcome mat, but she wasn’t stupid. She laughed and poked my arm. “We got patron saints for everything else, right? Oh, they’ll catch him, don’t you worry. The daughter of an ex-congressman? Huh. They won’t need too much help from the saints after they put the secret service on that jerk’s ass, excuse my language, and I’d hate to be him when they do. Gimme.” She took my balloon and again snapped a quick knot in it. “Those balloons are giving you fits, aren’t they? How about you focus on what you do best. You just blow and I’ll tie mine and yours both.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.” I picked a pink one and did what I do best. “Yes. The secret service is …” I gave it two more deep exhales and handed it to her.
“The secret service is one bunch of dudes you do not wanna mess with.” She lowered her voice as if the hall was bugged. “They invented waterboards and a kind of electrocution that hurts like a mamma jamma but doesn’t kill you. Interrogation techniques and all. They have cameras in satellites that can see through your walls like they weren’t even there. They can zoom in on you so close that they can see what kind of soap you’re using in the shower, and everything you take a picture of with your cell phone? Goes right to the CIA and the liberal media. Jim gets embarrassed when I say that because he says it makes me sound paranoid and all, but there is too much stuff about it on the internet. And where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Using two breaths, she filled a tannish balloon so full I was amazed when it didn’t pop like a firecracker in her hand.
“Yes, the internet is full of information, but it’s open to both saints and sinners, honest people and liars, so ...” I said carefully and cheerfully.
“There’s even a saint for the internet!” She hooted and poked me again. “The pope pulled out one of the old saints and gave him that … ability. Well, not ability, but you know.”
“His job description.”
“Yeah. Maybe that’s what the Vatican calls other duties as assigned. Ah hah hah hah hah!” She did have a great laugh and I right then decided she was cool, the Mad Tea Party crap notwithstanding.
“What his name?”
“That saint? I don’t remember. One of those old guys nobody picks for their confirmation name.” She almost filled a purple balloon with the first blow.
“You read that on the internet?”
“No,” she said. (“No, smart alec” was what her inflection said.) “Father Novak told us that in a homily.”
“Is that Father Frederick’s last name?”
“Huh? No, Father Frederick’s last name is Frederick,” she said and giggled. “He’s kinda backwards; he has a first name for a last name, and a last name for a first name.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Fointleroy.” She gave her balloon one more seam splitting gust and tied it off so quickly I couldn’t see her fingers move.
“His name is Fointleroy Frederick? You’re kidding.” I got a dark blue balloon and gave it my the depth and length of my lungs. It wasn’t halfway full.
“Yeah, I’m kidding. It's Anders, which I think is either German or Swedish. But he acts like a Fointleroy.” She pursed her lips, rolled her eyes, and made flitting movements with her hands.
“He’s gay?” My balloon slipped out of my fingers and flew right at Phyllis, landing in her lap.
She squinted, aimed, and snapped it back at me like a slingshot. “No, no, not gay. I got excellent [quote fingers] 'gaydar'. I can spot gays and lesbians a mile away. He’s just prissy and pissy. Not that it matters, gay or straight, because when you’re celibate and all, you can’t have sex with whichever gender you're into. He’s just so persnickity and serious all the time. Father Joseph and Father Novak are warm and they smile at you, but especially Father Joseph. Ask anybody in the parish and it’s no secret – Father Joseph is everybody’s favorite, and even Father Novak knows it.”
“So who’s Father Novak?”
“He’s the pastor. The head honcho of the parish. His first name is Gerald. Or Jarrod, maybe. I’m not sure. We all call him Father Novak. Father Joseph and Father Frederick are associate pastors under him.”
“So you call Father Novak and Father Frederick by their last names, but you call Father Joseph by his first name?”
Clearly she had never noticed that before. “Yeah. I guess so. Everybody does.” She held a white balloon on her lap and stretched it out with two slow tugs. It was the same two motions Cage uses on his dick after he pees, to make sure nothing drips into his underwear. My chest felt flooded with anxiety and hollow at the same time. I blushed.
“Whoa, it’s later than I thought,” I said to my watch. “I gotta go see a man about a horse.”
“Fine. Just leave me here with 2 more packages of balloons. I’m kidding. Good luck with your horse and it was nice of you to lend a hand.”
“Or a lung? It was nice to meet you, Miss Phyllis.”
“You too, Mr Carl. Have a blessed day. You’ll be at the party tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. I’ll save you a chair next to Jim and me. I’d love for you to meet him.”
“Why?” I asked before I had a chance to not ask.
“I dunno,” she said. “I think he’d really like you. Something about you reminds me of him and that’s a high compliment and all because he is the finest man I ever met.” Her eyes went soft. “I always tell people how I'm the luckiest lady in the world.”
Medium alert lights flash in my mind whenever somebody tells me that I remind them of their straight male friend/family member. Of course it could be something as innocent as my build, my comportment, the way I puff out my cheeks when I inflate small balloons, but if it was the je ne sais quoi of sexuality I’d prefer to stay out of it. “I think Jim is pretty lucky himself.”
She flapped her hand and me and snickered. “Oh don’t you flirt with me, or I'll tell him.”
I smiled and almost said something flip, but caught it in time and went with sincere: "Miss Phyllis, you are quite all right, and all."
She smiled and ripped apart a new bag of multicolored balloons. "You have a good rest of the day and all, and go see about that horse of yours," she said.
I grabbed my half full water bottle, and took a quick swig even though my stomach was daring me to swallow another drop. I went to the kitchen to tell Obie I was leaving.
He was running hot water into a large pot, and I emptied my water bottle into the sink.
"I got the update on the attack in Karitz Park," I said over the water rushing into the huge resounding pot.
"Uh huh," he said, his face as placid as a marble Buddha's. "Word has it that Father Tam used tai bo to keep him away from an ex-congressman’s daughter, kicked ass like Chuck Norris, plus retained a photographic memory even with massive head trauma. And now the secret service, who can see what kind of soap he uses, is hot on his trail, ready for waterboarding.”
Affection shone in Obie's eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like Phyllis."
“Coming through, please,” said Father Frederick. I stepped out of his way.
Molly had been hovering nearby. “Ugh. Has Phyllis been bending your ear off?” she said, smiling at Obie.
Julia heard the conversation and joined us. “Whatever Phyllis tells you, take it with a grain of salt," she said.
"Or a ten pound bag of it," Molly said.
"Phyllis is good as gold, give you the coat off her back," Julia said. "But her relationship with reality gets a little strained sometimes, if you know what I mean. And whatever you do, don't tell her anything because not only will it be all over the parish, all the facts will be completely wrong,” she saiid. “Don’t you hate gossips?”
“Yes, I really do,” I said.
“How’s Cage?” Obie asked.
I froze, a kneejerk reaction to mentioning my boyfriend in the company of religious heterosexuals. But Molly and Julia were oblivious as Obie walked me toward the back of the kitchen. He opened a refrigerator and tossed me a bottle of water.
"Thanks, man, but I couldn't," I said holding my sloshing stomach. "I just drank...."
"Bring it with you," he said. "In case you need it later. How's Cage?"
“I’m worried,” I said. “It’s been three days. He keeps saying he’s really okay and I promised I’d leave him alone unless he asked for help. But what if he’s getting worse? What if he doesn’t know how bad it is? Should I keep my promise and stay away until he gives me the go-ahead? Or go over there and make sure he's all right? Obie, I'm lost here. I am not usually ambivalent about things and it’s driving me nuts.”
The way he looked at me felt like he had grasped me by the shoulders. “Saying he’s okay isn’t the same as saying he doesn't need help,” he said. “Especially in his state of mind. Depression can totally beat you and crush you down hard. I went through something like that when I left home. Thank God my friends didn’t leave me alone when I asked them to.”
I pulled him in close for a quick hug and he kissed the top of my head. He was right, of course. I just needed to hear another person say it. He did that thing where he smiled without changing anything on his face.
“I’m going there now,” I said. I heard a commotion behind me and Father Frederick came barreling through.
“Excuse me please,” he said. With a single paper plate in his hand, he blasted by and pointed at a beat up cardboard box on a shelf. “Obie, can you please get one of those knife sharpener things out of there?”
“Give him my love,” Obie said and I was out the back door and in my car.
The shards of at least three broken plates littered Cage’s kitchen floor. It was the first thing I noticed walking in and the only thing at a glance that was unusual. The rest of his house was neat, if a little pale with dust, but that was normal for him. But I heard something odd: the drone of rain on a metal roof and distant tumbling of thunder, even though the day was clear and it hadn’t rained in months. It came from the living room and that’s where I found Cage lying very still on his futon that he set up as a sofa. The brown and amber afghan his mother knitted for him covered his feet in a wad. Starting in my stomach and moving outward, terror froze me.
I exhaled when he said in a faint and thin voice “Hey, beebee.” He moved his head toward me. I walked calmly over to him, trying to hide my panic and my relief, but of course it jangled though my voice like an old fashioned wind up alarm clock going off. “Aw, boyo. How’re you doing?”
He opened his eyes slowly and saw in them what I dreaded most: nothing. No sadness, no anger, no understanding, no nothing. Worst of all, there was no shame. No matter how much anybody assured him, he was always deeply ashamed of his bipolar episodes, especially of his depression. To allow me to see him like this without even his default embarrassment meant this was serious. He looked like he’d been sleeping a lot, but not well, and he'd shaved off his beard and now had an un-pluckable quarter inch or so of stubble. “I’m okay.”
“You are not,” I said. “It’s three days now. It’s time to call Dr. Foley.”
“No,” he said closing his eyes again. “I’m all right. I will be. All right.”
I sat next to him on the futon and kissed him lightly on the lips. They were dry and his breath was horrendous and even though that freaked me out beyond all telling, I kept my voice low and calm. “Baby, when’s the last time you ate something or had a drink of water?”
He scowled to concentrate but didn’t open his eyes. “Dunno. I think it was… Dunno.” His house is pier and beam so every time you walk across the floor it is to some degree audible; I forced myself to go slowly to his kitchen so my footsteps sounded calm. At the sink I kicked aside the fragments of plates on the floor. Cage has five drinking vessels to his name, all old plastic stadium cups with the remains of various peeling New Orleans Saints logos on them. All five were in the sink, dirty, and apparently had been for a while. I tiptoed to the front door, then, running faster than I have in years, I zoomed to my car and got the bottled water Obie gave me, dialing 911 as I went. When an almost mechanical sounding voice asked me what my emergency was, I gave her the short version but emphasized the word ‘dehydrated.’
When I walked back through his front door, again it chilled me to see him lying so still with his face all splotchy and those dark circles under his eyes, and the sound of a phantom thunderstorm filling up his dusty, airless room made it all the eerier. “Here, sugarman. Have a drink.” I held the water out to him. He opened his eyes then closed them again and didn’t move. “Cage. You are going to drink water now.”
You could tell it took enormous effort to talk. “No. 'M not thirsty.”
“That wasn’t a request.” My voice was still calm and soft, even when I said “Take it and drink or I’ll pour it down your throat.
“Lemme sleep.”
“After you drink this.” He still wasn’t moving so I propped him up against the back of the futon; as I mentioned, Cage is a big boy and he was all dead weight. I had no idea how to get the water into him. Placing his hands on the bottle didn't work and neither did putting it up to his lips. Not knowing what else to do, I wet my finger with water and rubbed it on his lips. He licked them and his eyes opened. Holding himself up, he took the bottle and swallowed a huge gulp. I put my hand over his and told him to start with small sips. He ignored me of course, but with each swallow more life came into his face. At first he looked confused as if his body was drinking instinctually, and his conscious mind wasn’t sure what water was. “More,” he said when he’d drained the bottle. Instead I found a can of low sodium beef broth in the wasteland of his pantry and poured it into a reasonably clean plastic Land O Lakes margarine container. After I microwaved it for one minute, he drank it all quickly and I didn’t try to moderate his gulps; if he threw it up, I’d clean it and find something else for him to sip.
“What’s with the broken plates all over the kitchen floor?” I asked. He gave me the empty margarine tub.
“What?” Again his forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I must have … I don't remember.”
"You were mad about something?"
He squinted. "I don't. I don't think so. I think ... the quiet was getting to me and I needed noise. I needed some noise. So I pretended they were Frisbies.
“Francis Eloy LeJeune the Fourth. Plates are for eating with, not disk golfing with.”
Consciousness seeped back into his eyes little by little. “That was … I think two days ago. I was hyper, frustrated and confused. Chinet disk golf seemed like a good idea at the time. More water, please.”
I went to refill the water bottle and while I was in the kitchen the doorbell chimed twice. A woman’s voice came through the front door: “EMS.” As I walked past him to the door, Cage waved madly and whispered “No, no, no.”
Letting them in motivated him to stand up, I guess, to look as healthy as possible. I explained the situation briefly to the EMTs over his protestations that he was “fine, really”. He griped the whole time they took his blood pressure and listened to his lungs, whining “I can’t believe you told 911 on me.” He refused to go the hospital and the EMT said he was a little dehydrated but nothing serious. With reassuring animation he insisted that he was as healthy as two horses and had eaten and taken his meds recently although he didn’t remember when. In the end he promised to call Dr. Foley and to let me stay overnight. They gave him a bottle of electrolytes and left.
He wouldn’t look at me. “You ratted me out to EMS,” he grumbled and flopped back down onto the futon.
I crossed my arms and tried to loom over him with all my towering five feet and eight inches. “Yep, I did. And if you’re mad at me about that, then good, because at least you’re alive and still able to experience stuff like anger. I can live with that, so be as pissed off as you wanna be.”
Then and there, Merriam-Webster would’ve paid six figures to have a picture of Cage’s expression by the entry for the word ‘sheepish’ in their next edition. “I’m not mad, beebee. I’m embarrassed when I get this way. I get so disgusted with myself.”
Based on what little he told me about his past, I have no doubt that his bipolar incidents got a lot of momentum from shame and disgust. He grew up in a time when kids’ bipolar disorder and ADD was assumed to be spoiled brattiness. In school they labeled him a trouble maker and worst of all, his dad, Francis III, had an abiding abhorrence to ‘misbehaving’ children. Francis IV, to his dad’s point of view, was lazy, rebellious, moody, and self indulgent and he was determined to straighten him up with a belt and constant verbal humiliation. I don’t think number III was a bad person, but stuff like ADHD, and bipolar disorder are inherited so I think Cage’s father was continuing a cycle of abuse that started many generations before. Besides, think about it: what makes you angrier than seeing in other people what you hate most about yourself?
“I know, boyo. And you know that there’s nothing to be ashamed about. It’s natural to feel disgusted about the disease, but it’s a condition, something that happens to you, a separate thing. It’s not who you are,” I said.
He looked up at me with a weak smile. “You must get tired saying that to me every time. Then I’m ashamed because I piss and moan so much.”
That wobbly smile gave me such relief that I sprawled out next to him. I shoved him over and scooped him up into my arms. Up close the sweaty smell of his unwashed hair was almost as bad as his dehydration breath so after a few minutes of nuzzling I suggest a shower.
“Come with me?” he asked.
“Okay, but there will be no coming involved. Washing, rinsing, and repeating only,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t couldn't get it up anyway.”
Thinking that a little stimulation might help his mood, I made the shower a little cooler than tepid. He complained that it was cold but I explained it was bracing, not cold. I scrubbed his back, furry butt, and legs lightly but briskly with his loofah while he shampooed his hair. When he looked at me from under the spray with water raining down on him, running over his face and down his furry chest, he again smiled something like his normal crooked smile. He was so unspeakably beautiful and sweet that I thought if Phyllis was the luckiest lady in the world, I was the luckiest bear.
“You know, I noticed something,” I said rubbing soap into his chest hair. “When you have a bipolar episode, you don’t pepper your speech with Cajunisms. It’s all English.”
“Busted,” he said, looking weary. "It's something I do to stand out in the crowd, I guess."
I was not shocked. “I know, but it’s not all fake, is it?”
“No, beebee. Not fake, just playful. And when I get this way I don’t have it in me to be playful.” He shook his floppy dick and shrugged. “See? No playfulness. Damn Father Tam’s mama.” Seeing her slap me had triggered his episode; dropping Cage to the floor with an open palm slap was another of his father’s tools for dealing with "bratty kids". (This explained something I’d noticed before; holding hands and watching a movie, if an actor slapped somebody, his palms would immediately get sweaty and warm.)
I got out of the shower and dried off but he wanted to stay. I went to the land line in his bedroom: 11 missed calls and 5 messages. Two of them were from Bluebonnet Mall asking where he was and why he missed work. The next was the same voice apologizing but slightly angry, telling him that he was terminated from his security guard job for not showing up and not calling.
It was my version of a prayer: Really God? Do you in your infinite wisdom think he needs something else to stress about right now? If you’re as omnipotent and extant as Obie thinks you are, then it’ll be easy for you to give him a break, so please. Consider it. Um, through Christ our Lord, amen.
A fourth message was from Dr. Foley. Apparently he had called her yesterday, but she didn’t understand the message he left and was he asking for a refill on his medication? The last call was his brother Rich calling from Louisiana. Apparently Cage had called him too yesterday but didn’t leave a message and he was worried. He was the only one of Cage’s 3 siblings that knew about his bipolar condition and trichotillomania.
I heard him turn off the shower. he had had stripped his bed (except for his pillow cases)so I looked for clean sheets. The dirty clothes hamper was empty except for his pair of flying toaster underwear. I checked the washing machine in the utility room and it had a strong odor of mildew and an agitator full of damp clothes and linens. I threw in some soap and restarted it. He walked up behind me and put his arms around my chest.
“Don’t worry about that, beebee,” he said, leaning his full 210 lbs into me. I sniffed and smelled something horrendous; on his fresh, clean body, he had his ancient terrycloth robe that smelled almost as bad as he did before he showered. “I’ll do all that tomorrow.”
“Excellent. So if you're thinking about tomorrow does that mean we're out of the woods?” Signs of life skittered around his face, but there was still something blank about it.
He stood next to me, leaned back on the washing machine and put his hands in his robe’s pockets. “Yeah, definitely. Probably.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Maybe, I dunno. But I’m a lot better since you got here.”
“It was the beef broth.”
He shook his head. “It was my beefy bear.”
“Let’s put on some pants and go for a walk around the block.”
“Naw. I’m done with the physical activity for today,” he said. “Walking to the den is all I’m going to do for now.” I followed him.
“You take that side, beebee,” he said and gripped one end of the futon. I took the opposite end and with a few clicks and a thud we changed it from a sofa to a bed. He tossed his robe onto his coffee table (4x3 pane of Lucite on four legs from an old desk) and sprawled out. His old CD player gray with dust sat on the floor in the corner, producing the sound of a thunderstorm. I gave him that CD of rain storms last year when the drought refused to break and he mentioned that the one thing he didn’t like about Austin was the summertime weather. He missed his gulf showers and grandiose thunderstorms that rumbled through almost weekly and slashed the air and boomed around like a hammy actor.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. There were still a few almost bald patches under his jaw line. He patted the space next to him so I got in and used his arm as a pillow. He sighed. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to stop eating or drinking anything.”
“I know, boyo.”
“It’s weird when I get like this one of the main things I worry about is that you might think I’m doing it on purpose. It’s not self destructive or anything like that. I know it sounds weird as fuck-all, but when it gets this bad I just ... forget. I forget to eat and drink. It’s like my mind is so involved with the bipolar thing that hungry and thirsty don’t register.”
“I know it’s not on purpose. I just wish you wouldn’t isolate yourself. I wish you’d let me help.”
“You always help, beebee. You’re always in my mind, even when it’s fuzzy. But when I’m manic I’m so sad I feel like I’m gonna bust, and what makes it worse is, there’s nothing specific for me to be sad at. There’s no object for it, so it goes everywhere. It's like I’m in this huge endless sea of sloshy anquish and the nicest thing I can do for the whole human race is to hide inside my house, and not inflict it on the world. Like my dad did. When he was hurting he wanted to make everybody around him hurt too, and I always swore I wouldn’t ever be like that. Then when I’m depressed, all I feel is that I'm turning into him and there's nothing I can do about it.”
“Don't underestimate me or how stubborn I can be when I love somebody like I love you. I’m pretty sure I could handle it.” His closed eyes didn’t even flutter; it looked like he was talking in his sleep.
“I know you could, beebee. I don’t wanna sound like I doubt you. But me, myself, I couldn’t handle it if I ever inflicted that on you. Because I ... love you ... so much...” His voice was getting quieter and his speech was slowing. I moved in closer and pulled his arm across my shoulders. In his dusty, dry living room, the middle of city in a seven year drought, we listened to a downpour of rain and let its wet drone soothe us.
After a minute he said groggily, “People want good weather, but years and years of it is bad. A sky that’s always clear is not good, right? The world needs the air to be disturbed, for the clouds to build up and get mad, and the rain to make everything muddy for a little while. I must have a weird seasonal affective disease. You know, where people get depressed if they don’t get enough sunlight. I think I have the opposite. If there’s a constant good weather, constantly a hot blue sky, I start feeling smothered. Trapped. Claustropobic. Too much good weather makes you a desert.”
“You’re right, boyo,” I said. I stood up and kissed him on the forehead.
“At least it's still February and not hot yet. You gotta go home already?” Had he already forgotten I was staying the night with him?
“No, I’m here.” I pulled his afghan up over him. “Right now I’m going to Central Market to pick up some stuff for you, something you can eat that won’t upset your stomach. Soup?”
He opened his groggy eyes. If he’d have been in a better frame of mind, he’d have been smirking. “Yeah, ‘soup’. Try and find me some Cream of Yankee Bear Cub.”
“Horndogginess, the first sign of recovery. Soup or no soup is the question on the floor,” I said.
“Yeah, soup. Whatever they have, just something without noodles or rice in it.”
I kissed him again and brushed my beard against his cheek, a gesture he always liked.
“Get me some crackers and chocolate milk, too. The kind without salt.”
“Chocolate milk without salt, got it.” That got no response. “Love you, boyo. I’ll be right back so sit tight.” To the back of my head he said sleepily, “Bye,” one small syllable that so massively broke my heart I cried all the way to Central Market and walking down the aisle with wet red eyes I’m sure half the people in there thought I was crazy or 'hopped up on marajuana or heroin.'
He was asleep when I got back so instead of waking him, I went to his bedroom. As it happens Cage’s bed with no Cage in it is a hard place to sleep in. It was empty, vast and the only thing I could smell was the cheapo detergent he uses. I dozed on and off and in a wee hour he crawled in next to me slowly, as if not to rouse me: unnecessary, because his size 12 footsteps on his hardwood floor woke me up the minute he got off the futon. But I pretended to be out cold and rolled over as though throwing my arm across his chest was sleepy instinct. With the smell of him, his warmth and weight against me, the soft sound of his breathing: that’s when I slept.
I woke up to the pop-bang of the futon being switched from bed to sofa. Then, he laughed. His unmistakable, regular, non-depressed laugh that starts in second tenor and ends in bass. I jumped out of bed and shot to the living room; he was on his cell.
“You laughed,” I said as my eyes adjusted to the light.
I scrambled up next to him and kissed him in loud pecks all over his prickly stubbly face. “It felt so good to hear,” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, Carl is up. Of course he’s naked! He’s Carl!” he said into his phone. He pointed to it and mouthed ‘Justin.’ “That’s my [i]mignon[/i]** little nudist hus-bear.”
I went to the kitchen to look for breakfast. No coffee, no cereal, no eggs; the only food there was what I brought in last night, chocolate milk, crackers, and one of his quick and easy favorites, sardines packed in mustard. I heard him say, “Okay, I’ll tell him. You too. [i]Voir soi plus tard[/i]**, bro.”
I stood in the wide kitchen/hall entrance. “We’re going to Kirby Lane Café for breakfast, unless you want chocolate milk and mustard sardines.”
He didn’t respond except to give me that look that said I had his full attention. Standing up and depositing his robe in a heap on the floor.
When the massiveness of his depression sets in, the desire for sex, like hunger and thirst, gets quashed; and when he got his land legs back, it returned -- tripled. I gulped. The considerable hair on my arms was prickling and I expected to see bolts of electricity arcing between us like electrodes in a mad scientist’s lab. He walked toward me, pure, loving, lechery percolating from his eyes. When he was so close to me that my forehead could feel the breath from his nose, I felt I should say something, but my mind was blank with love and lust. “What did Mr. Kamoski want?” I have no idea why I called him that instead of 'Justin.' It was all I could think to say.
“He has some news, but never mind that now,” he said. “What I’m wondering is what Mr. Brown wants.”
Our bodies was resonating like two tines on a tuning fork. and it was inconceivable that the all glass in the house wasn't shattering into shrapnel. The hair on my neck and scalp joined the standing ovation my dick had starting.
“I want …” I didn’t have enough breath in my lungs to complete the sentence, so, deep breath and start again: “I want the rest of that lick and promise you made me three days ago.” I grabbed his head and lunged toward his mouth but he stopped me. He ran the back of his fingers across my cheek, petting my beard unbearably lightly, then kissed me just as softly, so softly that every nerve in my body focused like a laser. “Are you sure you’re up for this, boyo?” I panted.
He looked down at our dicks crossed in the ‘en garde’ position. “Oh, I'm way the hell past ready. The question is, are you ready to do some work, bee bee?" he said.
What happened after that was all a blur and a matter for private, not public release, so talk among yourselves for twenty or so minutes.
______________________
* "MEE yahn" Yeah, like the steak. It means cute.
** "VWAH swah ploo TODD", or 'see you later.'
part 7, Listening to It Rain in the Living Room
I inflated maybe 50 balloons that morning. Pop one and I swear the scent of fried catfish would explode around you like a delicious hand grenade. That smell was so strong in Blessed John Henry Newman Hall, you could almost see it in the air. I inhaled that aroma through my nose as deeply as I could, and then exhaled it into balloon after balloon after balloon. My mouth was so dry that I'd gone through half of a 32 ounce bottle of water in 10 minutes; my stomach was about to bust but my tongue wanted more hydration.
Obie was partly to credit for the aroma, he and two parishioners he introduced as Julia and Molly. The other associate pastor of the parish, Father Frederick, ‘supervised’ the preparations for the Welcome Back from the Hospital Party. The word is in quotes for a reason. All his ‘supervision’ consisted of was darting around giving everybody orders but not, from my vantage point, doing much else. His default mode seemed to be set to frantic. It bordered on comedy, his fluttery zigzagging, especially next to Obie’s slow fluid motions. Do you know people who tell you do to something and say ‘please’ but by the tone of their voice you know they aren’t really being polite? That was Father Frederick; he barked instructions as if he were an overly busy, put-upon matre d' but he always said ‘please.’ Only it meant ‘and for God’s sake get the lead out.' From my gray folding chair in the large meeting area, I watched Obie and Julia do most of the work. Molly was there to chat with Obie. Worrying and being bossy seemed to be Father Frederick’s only job.
My goal was to support Obie by blowing up a bunch of multicolored balloons. Or that was my immediate goal. My other goal was just to stay busy doing something. It was the only way to stay sane; Cage quarantined himself for another bipolar episode and I hadn’t seen him for almost 3 days. His previous sequesters were less than 24 hours; today it was going on 36. I agreed to leave him alone, per his insistence, but only on the condition that he contact me every day to let me know he was all right. Yesterday and the evening before he’d called me at 6pm but I could hear in his voice that the weight of his depression wasn’t easing, and my God, but it tore out a chunk of my heart. The impulse to be there and to hover around him nervously was irresistible if I left my mind idle for any amount of time, but I told him I’d stay away until he gave me thumbs up. At work, keeping busy, that pot-full of worry simmered low enough to let me think about it semi rationally. At home in the evening, though, I had nothing but TV crime dramas or internet porn to occupy my mind, and the worry boiled over until it overwhelmed me. So I volunteered to help out with Father Tam’s welcome home party.
It was a hero’s welcome. The newspaper was going to pick up the story as well as (maybe) one of the local TV stations. Just that morning the bishop approved it all, and even encouraged Father Tam to allow the media to use his picture. Obie explained the ecclesiastical code-meaning of the term ‘encouraged’ – it meant ‘requested,’ and ‘requested’ meant ‘ordered’. His Holiness figured that with all the recent bad press over pedophiles in the Church, it would go a long way to show a priest doing something extraordinary. Phyllis, my garrulous co-inflater of balloons, was in awe.
“Goes to show you should never judge a book by its book jacket, because you never know what people have in ‘em, till the rubber hits the road,” she observed. “Father Joseph was always such a quiet guy and all, very gentle and …” She struggled with the word. “… unseeming.”
“Unassuming?” I suggested, failing to make a viable knot in the stem of my balloon.
“Yes, exactly. It's amazing how unassuming he is. One of the nicest, sweetest people in the world, not shy exactly but kinda reserved and all. Then he jumps right in and saves that girl’s life." She shook her head in awe. "The whole church was fuh-loored. Oh, not floored that he would put himself in danger to help somebody and all -- that wasn’t surprising. But that he got the jump on that attacker and kicked. His. Butt. The first thing I said to Jim my husband was that God must’ve protecting him, that’s the only way that scumbag didn’t kill him and all, since he was probably hopped up on marajuana or heroin or something. But Jim said that Father Joseph made God’s job a little bit easier by dropping him with a few good Karate moves before the dude came after him with a rock and nearly cracked his head open.” She puffed up a bright orange balloon. She wasn’t a large woman at all but she must have had the lungs of an opera singer because she could pack like a square foot of air into a balloon with two breaths. All of hers were considerably bigger than mine: balloon envy?
“Father Tam knows Karate?” I picked up a dark purple one and blew.
“That’s what Jim heard, yes. Or was it the other one? Tai bo? Whichever one is Korean. I don’t remember, one of the martial arts. Nobody had an idea that sweet unassuming Father Joseph could kick ass like a Chuck Norris ninja, lawdy lawdy Miss Clawdy. It’s all they talked about at the Knights of Columbus meeting, according to Jim, and do you know August Frey? He’s a deacon here and all, a little bit uppity but not too bad, and he works for the newspaper. He saw the whole police report, how Father Joseph kept fighting him off, even with his head cracked open, until the cops came and the dude ran off. They didn’t find him but he remembered every detail of the guy’s face, even with massive head trauma, and they sent an artist.”
“An artist? For … oh, a sketch artist.” After some fumbling, I tied off my balloon that I’d fattened way past my own comfort zone.
“Yes, a sketch artist that recreated his face and all.”
I picked out a new balloon and it went from dark dull burgundy to shiny magenta as I pushed its rubbery limits. Again I fumbled to seal it with a knot. “Here, let me do it,” Phyllis said and my balloon allowed her fingers to tie it off with a neat snap.
“Well, let’s say some novenas that they catch him,” I said. “I wonder who the patron saint of catching criminals is.” I was immediately contrite. Who’s the patron saint of flipness, I scolded myself, taking an orange balloon and blowing.
Phyllis might have been as homespun as a macramé welcome mat, but she wasn’t stupid. She laughed and poked my arm. “We got patron saints for everything else, right? Oh, they’ll catch him, don’t you worry. The daughter of an ex-congressman? Huh. They won’t need too much help from the saints after they put the secret service on that jerk’s ass, excuse my language, and I’d hate to be him when they do. Gimme.” She took my balloon and again snapped a quick knot in it. “Those balloons are giving you fits, aren’t they? How about you focus on what you do best. You just blow and I’ll tie mine and yours both.”
“That’s the best idea I’ve heard all day.” I picked a pink one and did what I do best. “Yes. The secret service is …” I gave it two more deep exhales and handed it to her.
“The secret service is one bunch of dudes you do not wanna mess with.” She lowered her voice as if the hall was bugged. “They invented waterboards and a kind of electrocution that hurts like a mamma jamma but doesn’t kill you. Interrogation techniques and all. They have cameras in satellites that can see through your walls like they weren’t even there. They can zoom in on you so close that they can see what kind of soap you’re using in the shower, and everything you take a picture of with your cell phone? Goes right to the CIA and the liberal media. Jim gets embarrassed when I say that because he says it makes me sound paranoid and all, but there is too much stuff about it on the internet. And where there’s smoke, there’s fire.” Using two breaths, she filled a tannish balloon so full I was amazed when it didn’t pop like a firecracker in her hand.
“Yes, the internet is full of information, but it’s open to both saints and sinners, honest people and liars, so ...” I said carefully and cheerfully.
“There’s even a saint for the internet!” She hooted and poked me again. “The pope pulled out one of the old saints and gave him that … ability. Well, not ability, but you know.”
“His job description.”
“Yeah. Maybe that’s what the Vatican calls other duties as assigned. Ah hah hah hah hah!” She did have a great laugh and I right then decided she was cool, the Mad Tea Party crap notwithstanding.
“What his name?”
“That saint? I don’t remember. One of those old guys nobody picks for their confirmation name.” She almost filled a purple balloon with the first blow.
“You read that on the internet?”
“No,” she said. (“No, smart alec” was what her inflection said.) “Father Novak told us that in a homily.”
“Is that Father Frederick’s last name?”
“Huh? No, Father Frederick’s last name is Frederick,” she said and giggled. “He’s kinda backwards; he has a first name for a last name, and a last name for a first name.”
“What’s his first name?”
“Fointleroy.” She gave her balloon one more seam splitting gust and tied it off so quickly I couldn’t see her fingers move.
“His name is Fointleroy Frederick? You’re kidding.” I got a dark blue balloon and gave it my the depth and length of my lungs. It wasn’t halfway full.
“Yeah, I’m kidding. It's Anders, which I think is either German or Swedish. But he acts like a Fointleroy.” She pursed her lips, rolled her eyes, and made flitting movements with her hands.
“He’s gay?” My balloon slipped out of my fingers and flew right at Phyllis, landing in her lap.
She squinted, aimed, and snapped it back at me like a slingshot. “No, no, not gay. I got excellent [quote fingers] 'gaydar'. I can spot gays and lesbians a mile away. He’s just prissy and pissy. Not that it matters, gay or straight, because when you’re celibate and all, you can’t have sex with whichever gender you're into. He’s just so persnickity and serious all the time. Father Joseph and Father Novak are warm and they smile at you, but especially Father Joseph. Ask anybody in the parish and it’s no secret – Father Joseph is everybody’s favorite, and even Father Novak knows it.”
“So who’s Father Novak?”
“He’s the pastor. The head honcho of the parish. His first name is Gerald. Or Jarrod, maybe. I’m not sure. We all call him Father Novak. Father Joseph and Father Frederick are associate pastors under him.”
“So you call Father Novak and Father Frederick by their last names, but you call Father Joseph by his first name?”
Clearly she had never noticed that before. “Yeah. I guess so. Everybody does.” She held a white balloon on her lap and stretched it out with two slow tugs. It was the same two motions Cage uses on his dick after he pees, to make sure nothing drips into his underwear. My chest felt flooded with anxiety and hollow at the same time. I blushed.
“Whoa, it’s later than I thought,” I said to my watch. “I gotta go see a man about a horse.”
“Fine. Just leave me here with 2 more packages of balloons. I’m kidding. Good luck with your horse and it was nice of you to lend a hand.”
“Or a lung? It was nice to meet you, Miss Phyllis.”
“You too, Mr Carl. Have a blessed day. You’ll be at the party tonight?”
“I wouldn’t miss it.”
“Good. I’ll save you a chair next to Jim and me. I’d love for you to meet him.”
“Why?” I asked before I had a chance to not ask.
“I dunno,” she said. “I think he’d really like you. Something about you reminds me of him and that’s a high compliment and all because he is the finest man I ever met.” Her eyes went soft. “I always tell people how I'm the luckiest lady in the world.”
Medium alert lights flash in my mind whenever somebody tells me that I remind them of their straight male friend/family member. Of course it could be something as innocent as my build, my comportment, the way I puff out my cheeks when I inflate small balloons, but if it was the je ne sais quoi of sexuality I’d prefer to stay out of it. “I think Jim is pretty lucky himself.”
She flapped her hand and me and snickered. “Oh don’t you flirt with me, or I'll tell him.”
I smiled and almost said something flip, but caught it in time and went with sincere: "Miss Phyllis, you are quite all right, and all."
She smiled and ripped apart a new bag of multicolored balloons. "You have a good rest of the day and all, and go see about that horse of yours," she said.
I grabbed my half full water bottle, and took a quick swig even though my stomach was daring me to swallow another drop. I went to the kitchen to tell Obie I was leaving.
He was running hot water into a large pot, and I emptied my water bottle into the sink.
"I got the update on the attack in Karitz Park," I said over the water rushing into the huge resounding pot.
"Uh huh," he said, his face as placid as a marble Buddha's. "Word has it that Father Tam used tai bo to keep him away from an ex-congressman’s daughter, kicked ass like Chuck Norris, plus retained a photographic memory even with massive head trauma. And now the secret service, who can see what kind of soap he uses, is hot on his trail, ready for waterboarding.”
Affection shone in Obie's eyes. "Yeah, that sounds like Phyllis."
“Coming through, please,” said Father Frederick. I stepped out of his way.
Molly had been hovering nearby. “Ugh. Has Phyllis been bending your ear off?” she said, smiling at Obie.
Julia heard the conversation and joined us. “Whatever Phyllis tells you, take it with a grain of salt," she said.
"Or a ten pound bag of it," Molly said.
"Phyllis is good as gold, give you the coat off her back," Julia said. "But her relationship with reality gets a little strained sometimes, if you know what I mean. And whatever you do, don't tell her anything because not only will it be all over the parish, all the facts will be completely wrong,” she saiid. “Don’t you hate gossips?”
“Yes, I really do,” I said.
“How’s Cage?” Obie asked.
I froze, a kneejerk reaction to mentioning my boyfriend in the company of religious heterosexuals. But Molly and Julia were oblivious as Obie walked me toward the back of the kitchen. He opened a refrigerator and tossed me a bottle of water.
"Thanks, man, but I couldn't," I said holding my sloshing stomach. "I just drank...."
"Bring it with you," he said. "In case you need it later. How's Cage?"
“I’m worried,” I said. “It’s been three days. He keeps saying he’s really okay and I promised I’d leave him alone unless he asked for help. But what if he’s getting worse? What if he doesn’t know how bad it is? Should I keep my promise and stay away until he gives me the go-ahead? Or go over there and make sure he's all right? Obie, I'm lost here. I am not usually ambivalent about things and it’s driving me nuts.”
The way he looked at me felt like he had grasped me by the shoulders. “Saying he’s okay isn’t the same as saying he doesn't need help,” he said. “Especially in his state of mind. Depression can totally beat you and crush you down hard. I went through something like that when I left home. Thank God my friends didn’t leave me alone when I asked them to.”
I pulled him in close for a quick hug and he kissed the top of my head. He was right, of course. I just needed to hear another person say it. He did that thing where he smiled without changing anything on his face.
“I’m going there now,” I said. I heard a commotion behind me and Father Frederick came barreling through.
“Excuse me please,” he said. With a single paper plate in his hand, he blasted by and pointed at a beat up cardboard box on a shelf. “Obie, can you please get one of those knife sharpener things out of there?”
“Give him my love,” Obie said and I was out the back door and in my car.
The shards of at least three broken plates littered Cage’s kitchen floor. It was the first thing I noticed walking in and the only thing at a glance that was unusual. The rest of his house was neat, if a little pale with dust, but that was normal for him. But I heard something odd: the drone of rain on a metal roof and distant tumbling of thunder, even though the day was clear and it hadn’t rained in months. It came from the living room and that’s where I found Cage lying very still on his futon that he set up as a sofa. The brown and amber afghan his mother knitted for him covered his feet in a wad. Starting in my stomach and moving outward, terror froze me.
I exhaled when he said in a faint and thin voice “Hey, beebee.” He moved his head toward me. I walked calmly over to him, trying to hide my panic and my relief, but of course it jangled though my voice like an old fashioned wind up alarm clock going off. “Aw, boyo. How’re you doing?”
He opened his eyes slowly and saw in them what I dreaded most: nothing. No sadness, no anger, no understanding, no nothing. Worst of all, there was no shame. No matter how much anybody assured him, he was always deeply ashamed of his bipolar episodes, especially of his depression. To allow me to see him like this without even his default embarrassment meant this was serious. He looked like he’d been sleeping a lot, but not well, and he'd shaved off his beard and now had an un-pluckable quarter inch or so of stubble. “I’m okay.”
“You are not,” I said. “It’s three days now. It’s time to call Dr. Foley.”
“No,” he said closing his eyes again. “I’m all right. I will be. All right.”
I sat next to him on the futon and kissed him lightly on the lips. They were dry and his breath was horrendous and even though that freaked me out beyond all telling, I kept my voice low and calm. “Baby, when’s the last time you ate something or had a drink of water?”
He scowled to concentrate but didn’t open his eyes. “Dunno. I think it was… Dunno.” His house is pier and beam so every time you walk across the floor it is to some degree audible; I forced myself to go slowly to his kitchen so my footsteps sounded calm. At the sink I kicked aside the fragments of plates on the floor. Cage has five drinking vessels to his name, all old plastic stadium cups with the remains of various peeling New Orleans Saints logos on them. All five were in the sink, dirty, and apparently had been for a while. I tiptoed to the front door, then, running faster than I have in years, I zoomed to my car and got the bottled water Obie gave me, dialing 911 as I went. When an almost mechanical sounding voice asked me what my emergency was, I gave her the short version but emphasized the word ‘dehydrated.’
When I walked back through his front door, again it chilled me to see him lying so still with his face all splotchy and those dark circles under his eyes, and the sound of a phantom thunderstorm filling up his dusty, airless room made it all the eerier. “Here, sugarman. Have a drink.” I held the water out to him. He opened his eyes then closed them again and didn’t move. “Cage. You are going to drink water now.”
You could tell it took enormous effort to talk. “No. 'M not thirsty.”
“That wasn’t a request.” My voice was still calm and soft, even when I said “Take it and drink or I’ll pour it down your throat.
“Lemme sleep.”
“After you drink this.” He still wasn’t moving so I propped him up against the back of the futon; as I mentioned, Cage is a big boy and he was all dead weight. I had no idea how to get the water into him. Placing his hands on the bottle didn't work and neither did putting it up to his lips. Not knowing what else to do, I wet my finger with water and rubbed it on his lips. He licked them and his eyes opened. Holding himself up, he took the bottle and swallowed a huge gulp. I put my hand over his and told him to start with small sips. He ignored me of course, but with each swallow more life came into his face. At first he looked confused as if his body was drinking instinctually, and his conscious mind wasn’t sure what water was. “More,” he said when he’d drained the bottle. Instead I found a can of low sodium beef broth in the wasteland of his pantry and poured it into a reasonably clean plastic Land O Lakes margarine container. After I microwaved it for one minute, he drank it all quickly and I didn’t try to moderate his gulps; if he threw it up, I’d clean it and find something else for him to sip.
“What’s with the broken plates all over the kitchen floor?” I asked. He gave me the empty margarine tub.
“What?” Again his forehead wrinkled in concentration. “I must have … I don't remember.”
"You were mad about something?"
He squinted. "I don't. I don't think so. I think ... the quiet was getting to me and I needed noise. I needed some noise. So I pretended they were Frisbies.
“Francis Eloy LeJeune the Fourth. Plates are for eating with, not disk golfing with.”
Consciousness seeped back into his eyes little by little. “That was … I think two days ago. I was hyper, frustrated and confused. Chinet disk golf seemed like a good idea at the time. More water, please.”
I went to refill the water bottle and while I was in the kitchen the doorbell chimed twice. A woman’s voice came through the front door: “EMS.” As I walked past him to the door, Cage waved madly and whispered “No, no, no.”
Letting them in motivated him to stand up, I guess, to look as healthy as possible. I explained the situation briefly to the EMTs over his protestations that he was “fine, really”. He griped the whole time they took his blood pressure and listened to his lungs, whining “I can’t believe you told 911 on me.” He refused to go the hospital and the EMT said he was a little dehydrated but nothing serious. With reassuring animation he insisted that he was as healthy as two horses and had eaten and taken his meds recently although he didn’t remember when. In the end he promised to call Dr. Foley and to let me stay overnight. They gave him a bottle of electrolytes and left.
He wouldn’t look at me. “You ratted me out to EMS,” he grumbled and flopped back down onto the futon.
I crossed my arms and tried to loom over him with all my towering five feet and eight inches. “Yep, I did. And if you’re mad at me about that, then good, because at least you’re alive and still able to experience stuff like anger. I can live with that, so be as pissed off as you wanna be.”
Then and there, Merriam-Webster would’ve paid six figures to have a picture of Cage’s expression by the entry for the word ‘sheepish’ in their next edition. “I’m not mad, beebee. I’m embarrassed when I get this way. I get so disgusted with myself.”
Based on what little he told me about his past, I have no doubt that his bipolar incidents got a lot of momentum from shame and disgust. He grew up in a time when kids’ bipolar disorder and ADD was assumed to be spoiled brattiness. In school they labeled him a trouble maker and worst of all, his dad, Francis III, had an abiding abhorrence to ‘misbehaving’ children. Francis IV, to his dad’s point of view, was lazy, rebellious, moody, and self indulgent and he was determined to straighten him up with a belt and constant verbal humiliation. I don’t think number III was a bad person, but stuff like ADHD, and bipolar disorder are inherited so I think Cage’s father was continuing a cycle of abuse that started many generations before. Besides, think about it: what makes you angrier than seeing in other people what you hate most about yourself?
“I know, boyo. And you know that there’s nothing to be ashamed about. It’s natural to feel disgusted about the disease, but it’s a condition, something that happens to you, a separate thing. It’s not who you are,” I said.
He looked up at me with a weak smile. “You must get tired saying that to me every time. Then I’m ashamed because I piss and moan so much.”
That wobbly smile gave me such relief that I sprawled out next to him. I shoved him over and scooped him up into my arms. Up close the sweaty smell of his unwashed hair was almost as bad as his dehydration breath so after a few minutes of nuzzling I suggest a shower.
“Come with me?” he asked.
“Okay, but there will be no coming involved. Washing, rinsing, and repeating only,” I said.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “I don’t couldn't get it up anyway.”
Thinking that a little stimulation might help his mood, I made the shower a little cooler than tepid. He complained that it was cold but I explained it was bracing, not cold. I scrubbed his back, furry butt, and legs lightly but briskly with his loofah while he shampooed his hair. When he looked at me from under the spray with water raining down on him, running over his face and down his furry chest, he again smiled something like his normal crooked smile. He was so unspeakably beautiful and sweet that I thought if Phyllis was the luckiest lady in the world, I was the luckiest bear.
“You know, I noticed something,” I said rubbing soap into his chest hair. “When you have a bipolar episode, you don’t pepper your speech with Cajunisms. It’s all English.”
“Busted,” he said, looking weary. "It's something I do to stand out in the crowd, I guess."
I was not shocked. “I know, but it’s not all fake, is it?”
“No, beebee. Not fake, just playful. And when I get this way I don’t have it in me to be playful.” He shook his floppy dick and shrugged. “See? No playfulness. Damn Father Tam’s mama.” Seeing her slap me had triggered his episode; dropping Cage to the floor with an open palm slap was another of his father’s tools for dealing with "bratty kids". (This explained something I’d noticed before; holding hands and watching a movie, if an actor slapped somebody, his palms would immediately get sweaty and warm.)
I got out of the shower and dried off but he wanted to stay. I went to the land line in his bedroom: 11 missed calls and 5 messages. Two of them were from Bluebonnet Mall asking where he was and why he missed work. The next was the same voice apologizing but slightly angry, telling him that he was terminated from his security guard job for not showing up and not calling.
It was my version of a prayer: Really God? Do you in your infinite wisdom think he needs something else to stress about right now? If you’re as omnipotent and extant as Obie thinks you are, then it’ll be easy for you to give him a break, so please. Consider it. Um, through Christ our Lord, amen.
A fourth message was from Dr. Foley. Apparently he had called her yesterday, but she didn’t understand the message he left and was he asking for a refill on his medication? The last call was his brother Rich calling from Louisiana. Apparently Cage had called him too yesterday but didn’t leave a message and he was worried. He was the only one of Cage’s 3 siblings that knew about his bipolar condition and trichotillomania.
I heard him turn off the shower. he had had stripped his bed (except for his pillow cases)so I looked for clean sheets. The dirty clothes hamper was empty except for his pair of flying toaster underwear. I checked the washing machine in the utility room and it had a strong odor of mildew and an agitator full of damp clothes and linens. I threw in some soap and restarted it. He walked up behind me and put his arms around my chest.
“Don’t worry about that, beebee,” he said, leaning his full 210 lbs into me. I sniffed and smelled something horrendous; on his fresh, clean body, he had his ancient terrycloth robe that smelled almost as bad as he did before he showered. “I’ll do all that tomorrow.”
“Excellent. So if you're thinking about tomorrow does that mean we're out of the woods?” Signs of life skittered around his face, but there was still something blank about it.
He stood next to me, leaned back on the washing machine and put his hands in his robe’s pockets. “Yeah, definitely. Probably.” He sighed and ran his fingers through his wet hair. “Maybe, I dunno. But I’m a lot better since you got here.”
“It was the beef broth.”
He shook his head. “It was my beefy bear.”
“Let’s put on some pants and go for a walk around the block.”
“Naw. I’m done with the physical activity for today,” he said. “Walking to the den is all I’m going to do for now.” I followed him.
“You take that side, beebee,” he said and gripped one end of the futon. I took the opposite end and with a few clicks and a thud we changed it from a sofa to a bed. He tossed his robe onto his coffee table (4x3 pane of Lucite on four legs from an old desk) and sprawled out. His old CD player gray with dust sat on the floor in the corner, producing the sound of a thunderstorm. I gave him that CD of rain storms last year when the drought refused to break and he mentioned that the one thing he didn’t like about Austin was the summertime weather. He missed his gulf showers and grandiose thunderstorms that rumbled through almost weekly and slashed the air and boomed around like a hammy actor.
He closed his eyes and leaned his head back. There were still a few almost bald patches under his jaw line. He patted the space next to him so I got in and used his arm as a pillow. He sighed. “I’m sorry if I scared you. I didn’t mean to stop eating or drinking anything.”
“I know, boyo.”
“It’s weird when I get like this one of the main things I worry about is that you might think I’m doing it on purpose. It’s not self destructive or anything like that. I know it sounds weird as fuck-all, but when it gets this bad I just ... forget. I forget to eat and drink. It’s like my mind is so involved with the bipolar thing that hungry and thirsty don’t register.”
“I know it’s not on purpose. I just wish you wouldn’t isolate yourself. I wish you’d let me help.”
“You always help, beebee. You’re always in my mind, even when it’s fuzzy. But when I’m manic I’m so sad I feel like I’m gonna bust, and what makes it worse is, there’s nothing specific for me to be sad at. There’s no object for it, so it goes everywhere. It's like I’m in this huge endless sea of sloshy anquish and the nicest thing I can do for the whole human race is to hide inside my house, and not inflict it on the world. Like my dad did. When he was hurting he wanted to make everybody around him hurt too, and I always swore I wouldn’t ever be like that. Then when I’m depressed, all I feel is that I'm turning into him and there's nothing I can do about it.”
“Don't underestimate me or how stubborn I can be when I love somebody like I love you. I’m pretty sure I could handle it.” His closed eyes didn’t even flutter; it looked like he was talking in his sleep.
“I know you could, beebee. I don’t wanna sound like I doubt you. But me, myself, I couldn’t handle it if I ever inflicted that on you. Because I ... love you ... so much...” His voice was getting quieter and his speech was slowing. I moved in closer and pulled his arm across my shoulders. In his dusty, dry living room, the middle of city in a seven year drought, we listened to a downpour of rain and let its wet drone soothe us.
After a minute he said groggily, “People want good weather, but years and years of it is bad. A sky that’s always clear is not good, right? The world needs the air to be disturbed, for the clouds to build up and get mad, and the rain to make everything muddy for a little while. I must have a weird seasonal affective disease. You know, where people get depressed if they don’t get enough sunlight. I think I have the opposite. If there’s a constant good weather, constantly a hot blue sky, I start feeling smothered. Trapped. Claustropobic. Too much good weather makes you a desert.”
“You’re right, boyo,” I said. I stood up and kissed him on the forehead.
“At least it's still February and not hot yet. You gotta go home already?” Had he already forgotten I was staying the night with him?
“No, I’m here.” I pulled his afghan up over him. “Right now I’m going to Central Market to pick up some stuff for you, something you can eat that won’t upset your stomach. Soup?”
He opened his groggy eyes. If he’d have been in a better frame of mind, he’d have been smirking. “Yeah, ‘soup’. Try and find me some Cream of Yankee Bear Cub.”
“Horndogginess, the first sign of recovery. Soup or no soup is the question on the floor,” I said.
“Yeah, soup. Whatever they have, just something without noodles or rice in it.”
I kissed him again and brushed my beard against his cheek, a gesture he always liked.
“Get me some crackers and chocolate milk, too. The kind without salt.”
“Chocolate milk without salt, got it.” That got no response. “Love you, boyo. I’ll be right back so sit tight.” To the back of my head he said sleepily, “Bye,” one small syllable that so massively broke my heart I cried all the way to Central Market and walking down the aisle with wet red eyes I’m sure half the people in there thought I was crazy or 'hopped up on marajuana or heroin.'
He was asleep when I got back so instead of waking him, I went to his bedroom. As it happens Cage’s bed with no Cage in it is a hard place to sleep in. It was empty, vast and the only thing I could smell was the cheapo detergent he uses. I dozed on and off and in a wee hour he crawled in next to me slowly, as if not to rouse me: unnecessary, because his size 12 footsteps on his hardwood floor woke me up the minute he got off the futon. But I pretended to be out cold and rolled over as though throwing my arm across his chest was sleepy instinct. With the smell of him, his warmth and weight against me, the soft sound of his breathing: that’s when I slept.
I woke up to the pop-bang of the futon being switched from bed to sofa. Then, he laughed. His unmistakable, regular, non-depressed laugh that starts in second tenor and ends in bass. I jumped out of bed and shot to the living room; he was on his cell.
“You laughed,” I said as my eyes adjusted to the light.
I scrambled up next to him and kissed him in loud pecks all over his prickly stubbly face. “It felt so good to hear,” I said.
He laughed. “Yeah, Carl is up. Of course he’s naked! He’s Carl!” he said into his phone. He pointed to it and mouthed ‘Justin.’ “That’s my [i]mignon[/i]** little nudist hus-bear.”
I went to the kitchen to look for breakfast. No coffee, no cereal, no eggs; the only food there was what I brought in last night, chocolate milk, crackers, and one of his quick and easy favorites, sardines packed in mustard. I heard him say, “Okay, I’ll tell him. You too. [i]Voir soi plus tard[/i]**, bro.”
I stood in the wide kitchen/hall entrance. “We’re going to Kirby Lane Café for breakfast, unless you want chocolate milk and mustard sardines.”
He didn’t respond except to give me that look that said I had his full attention. Standing up and depositing his robe in a heap on the floor.
When the massiveness of his depression sets in, the desire for sex, like hunger and thirst, gets quashed; and when he got his land legs back, it returned -- tripled. I gulped. The considerable hair on my arms was prickling and I expected to see bolts of electricity arcing between us like electrodes in a mad scientist’s lab. He walked toward me, pure, loving, lechery percolating from his eyes. When he was so close to me that my forehead could feel the breath from his nose, I felt I should say something, but my mind was blank with love and lust. “What did Mr. Kamoski want?” I have no idea why I called him that instead of 'Justin.' It was all I could think to say.
“He has some news, but never mind that now,” he said. “What I’m wondering is what Mr. Brown wants.”
Our bodies was resonating like two tines on a tuning fork. and it was inconceivable that the all glass in the house wasn't shattering into shrapnel. The hair on my neck and scalp joined the standing ovation my dick had starting.
“I want …” I didn’t have enough breath in my lungs to complete the sentence, so, deep breath and start again: “I want the rest of that lick and promise you made me three days ago.” I grabbed his head and lunged toward his mouth but he stopped me. He ran the back of his fingers across my cheek, petting my beard unbearably lightly, then kissed me just as softly, so softly that every nerve in my body focused like a laser. “Are you sure you’re up for this, boyo?” I panted.
He looked down at our dicks crossed in the ‘en garde’ position. “Oh, I'm way the hell past ready. The question is, are you ready to do some work, bee bee?" he said.
What happened after that was all a blur and a matter for private, not public release, so talk among yourselves for twenty or so minutes.
______________________
* "MEE yahn" Yeah, like the steak. It means cute.
** "VWAH swah ploo TODD", or 'see you later.'
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