One Last Lie (2 page)

Jonathan tried to keep him focused on the subject at hand — their impending dinner guest: a woman he’d never even heard of, until Philip mentioned a few minutes earlier that she was on her way from New York to eat dinner with them. He glanced at the stove’s digital clock: 6:00. In fifteen minutes, the “square” would be ringing their doorbell.

“Are you kidding me? You hung out with a square all through college? How come I never heard about her?”

Philip sliced through the avocados with ease, his adept hands creating perfect halves to expose the pit. He held the pitted half in one hand and the knife in the other, tapping the pit with the long edge of the knife, wedging it deep enough to twist out the pit. They called this the “pit twist,” but before Philip came along Jonathan didn’t even know avocados had pits. He loved watching the pit twist, right up to the moment when Philip unhitched the pit from the knife by slamming it on the edge of the sink, splattering avocado gunk around the room.

“I actually met her at the Boston Common on the first nice day after the longest winter ever. Exams were driving me nuts and I had to get away from campus for awhile. I spread a blanket and some books out on the grass, took my shirt off, and soaked in the sun.”

The sweet smell of cilantro wafted through the air. Jonathan took a deep breath, and saliva filled his mouth. In a few minutes he’d be testing the guacamole.

“I fell asleep, and when I woke up a giant shadow loomed over me. It was Angela blocking the sun like the sail of a ship. At first I thought it was a dream.”

Half-listening to Philip’s story, Jonathan drummed his fingertips on the black granite. He wanted the kitchen cleaned before Angela arrived, but Philip was taking his time. Not good. He forced himself to take a deep, cleansing breath and marshal his mental forces. A mess in the kitchen did not mean the end of the world. It only meant discomfort: an “irritated state of being” as his therapist, Dr. Crowley called it.

The thought conjured up a mental image of Dr. Crowley, holding his pipe and pontificating at their final session together: “This irritated state of being is the root cause of your troubles, Jonathan.” The doctor spoke with all the compassion of an executioner at the gallows. “And you’ll need to work at keeping it under control for the rest of your life.” Miffed because Jonathan had decided to end the expensive therapy, the doctor’s words were a last-ditch attempt to convince Jonathan he should continue the sessions for the rest of his life. And with each sentence he spoke, Jonathan slumped deeper into the chair.
Maybe he’s right… maybe just a few more sessions… maybe…

Jonathan forced his spine straight and sat tall in the chair. He’d almost succumbed to the doctor’s cunning logic, but a surge of strength — the same one that helped him originally decide to end therapy — warned him he must start handling the daily issues of life on his own. He leapt to his feet, slid on his sunglasses, and left the gaping doctor slouched in his vintage leather wingback chair.

Outside the office, Jonathan felt an emerging freedom that escalated with each step he took away from the doctor’s frigid, air-conditioned room into the intense humidity of the mid-July day. The sun clawed through his tee shirt, heating his chest and working through his jeans — a sensation so opposite the arctic environment of Crowley’s building that goose bumps covered his entire body. The warmth and sun enlivened him, exciting an optimism he rarely experienced.
This is a good omen.
The words rang in his head,
sunshine… not rain… a whole new day.
He pulled his shoulders back and strutted down Rices Lane, proud and ready for the fight ahead. And he knew it would be a fight — a constant battle against his “irritated state of being” and everything it entailed — such as today’s obsessive thoughts of maintaining a spotless kitchen while Philip expressed himself as a cook.

Jonathan cleared his throat. “Okay, so this square is standing in front of you. Then what?”

Philip tossed the chopped garlic, onions, jalapeno and cilantro into the bowl of mashed avocado. He slid in a pile of diced tomatoes from the cutting board, gave the mixture a few good squeezes of lime juice, and stirred everything together with a whisk. “Well, she told me if I wasn’t careful I’d get sunburned. I asked her jokingly if she was a doctor. She told me she was studying to be a nurse. Then I asked her if she wanted to sit with me. She hesitated at first, I guess because it was hard for her to squat, but somehow she made it down.” He laughed and tossed his head back to push the hair from his eyes. “Anyway, we talked for two more hours. She was also going to BU and actually working at a sperm bank in Boston to help pay for college.”

Jonathan’s stomach tightened: here it was again. “The same sperm bank where you made your donations?”

Philip dropped the whisk, its handle clanking against the metal bowl. Jonathan wiggled on the stool to hide his jittery reaction.

“For the hundredth time Jonny, I only did it twice… just
two
times. And it was only for extra cash. Doesn’t matter anyway, the sperm was probably dead.” He grabbed the whisk and with deep strokes began remixing the ingredients, this time without speaking.

Philip’s mood change hovered in the air between them; a heavy fog holding fear and death. The mess created by his innuendo was much worse than the mess on the kitchen floor.

“That was before the cancer, Philip. Your sperm wasn’t always dead. The fucking radiation did it.” Jonathan wasn’t sure if these were the words Philip wanted to hear, but they were the only ones that came to mind. What were people supposed to say about cancer? He had no idea.

*

“You have testicular cancer,” Dr. Jacobs had said, holding the papers in his hand while flipping through the pile of reports on his desk. “But this type can be very curable. I’ve seen cases where…”

“But he’s only thirty-two,” Jonathan interrupted. Philip squeezed his knee and when Jonathan looked up, he caught the deep red encircling Philip’s eyelids: the first sign he was on the verge of tears.

“You know age has nothing to do with this, Jonny.” Philip’s voice trembled.

Jonathan knew his words didn’t make sense, but the reference to age had less to do with the cancer than it did with the unimaginable thought that Philip could leave him.

Although the cancer was diagnosed and treated five years ago, it still felt like a bad dream from last night — doctors in scrub suits, CT scans, dark hospital corridors, sizzling fluorescent overhead lights, and trite expressions of sympathy from nine-to-five hospital workers.

The train rides to Grand Central Station were bathed in silence: Philip unable to discuss the prognosis, numb from the fear of an imminent death; Jonathan terrified of a life without Philip, the one person he’d given himself to and received ten-fold of love in return.

They went through the motions, week in and week out, after awhile recognizing the taxi drivers who transported them from Grand Central to Sloan Kettering. On days when Philip felt too weak and nauseous from the radiation treatments to get on a train, they’d make last minute reservations at a nearby hotel on Madison. Before every treatment, Philip asked Jonathan to drive the Beemer into the city, but Jonathan refused. He’d done the research and would rather have Philip suffer for an hour on the train than force him to endure two or three hours of traffic on the I-95 corridor. Jonathan brought every one of their activities down to a science, making sure Philip didn’t face any more discomfort than absolutely necessary. Too weak to argue, Philip acquiesced and followed the schedule, knowing Jonathan had one goal in mind: to keep him alive.

Six months after treatment began, the cloud lifted. In an office with papers and folders now piled from floor to window, Dr. Jacobs declared Philip cancer-free.

“There are no signs of malignancy and all the blood tests are clean.” Dr. Jacobs glanced at each of them and paused. “I haven’t mentioned the sperm count, because I didn’t know if it was relevant in your situation.”

Jonathan clenched his teeth and took a deep breath, the noise from his mouth sounding like a blocked vacuum cleaner hose. He leaned forward and placed his hand on the edge of the doctor’s desk, preparing to announce their relationship was not a “situation,” but a lifelong commitment of love, just like a “normal” couple. Before he could explode, Philip touched his knee with a calming hand.

Dr. Jacobs studied the back of his hands for a moment, avoiding Jonathan’s eyes. “If you were planning to have children, that won’t be possible, I’m afraid. The radiation and other treatment drastically lowered your sperm count — your healthy sperm count, that is.” Philip pulled in a breath and Jonathan instinctively reacted by grabbing Philip’s hand. Looking at him would have been too painful for them both.

Before Philip’s diagnosis, they’d talked about having a family. Philip did constant research on insemination, surrogates, and child-rearing; absorbing the information like a daddy-sponge and relating all the facts to Jonathan every night in bed. Philip’s excitement quickly spread to Jonathan and they’d fantasize a child lying in bed between them. “We’re using your sperm,” Jonathan said one night. “The last thing we need is another Jonathan Beckett running around.” He gently traced his finger along the blond wave of hair that fell on Philip’s forehead. “But a little Phillip Stone would be perfect… just like you.”

That once-cherished scenario crashed down on them as Dr. Jacobs leaned back in his chair and clasped his hands over his chest. “Yes, Philip, you’re infertile, but you’re cancer-free. Be happy with the compromise: you might have lost a dream, but you didn’t lose your life.”

But what is life without dreams, you idiot?
Jonathan kept his mouth shut.

Dr. Jacobs continued, “It’s been a privilege knowing you, Philip. I admire your strength.” He finally looked at Jonathan and forced a smile. “And you too, Jonathan. I wish you both well and plan on seeing you in three months for your follow-up.”

With that, he stood and reached for Philip’s hand, but Jonathan already held it and wouldn’t let go.

*

Since that day, neither of them mentioned having a family. And now was definitely not the time, Jonathan thought, as he looked at his watch: three minutes until their guest arrived. He decided to avoid the cancer conversation and get back to Angela.

“We have about three minutes until she gets here, Philip. Give me a quick rundown of what she’s like so I have an idea how to talk to her.”

Philip dipped a small tortilla chip in the guacamole and brought it to Jonathan’s lips. Jonathan devoured it, letting the silky guacamole fill his mouth with a perfect blend of spices and chili heat.

“Exquisite, as usual!” Jonathan licked the salt from his lips and reached for another chip.

“Hands off!” Philip folded the guacamole into a serving dish, wiped the rim of the platter with precision, and placed it on the island. He opened the oven door to check the empanadas again. “I hope she eats pork,” he whispered.

“From what you told me so far, it sounds like she’ll eat anything.” Jonathan eyed the guacamole. “Now hurry up, tell me more.”

Philip glanced at the clock on the stove. It was now 6:15. “I wonder if she had a problem getting a cab. She took the 5:07 and should have arrived at Westport at six. I should’ve picked her up… it
is
rush hour.”

“What?” asked Jonathan, “Why are you shaking your head?”

“Well, she’s either late or it’s like the old days when she would just change her mind and not show up.” Philip rinsed his hands and peered out the kitchen window.

“This isn’t a good sign.” Jonathan threw Philip the dishtowel sitting on the island so he could dry his hands.

“Angela was the best and worst friend I had in those days. She’d help me study for midterms and finals. She invited me over for meals so I wouldn’t eat frozen dinners every night. She got me hooked up at the sperm bank where she worked so I could make a few extra bucks. We had good times together and she helped me out a lot. But other times, she’d turn into someone else, like she wasn’t Angela anymore.”

Jonathan squirmed on the stool, uneasy with the tone of Philip’s voice.

“Are you telling me we have Sybil coming over for dinner? How many personalities does she have?”

“Don’t be an ass, Jonny. She had one personality… okay, two… alright, maybe three.” Philip exposed his white teeth, displaying the unnerving grin Jonathan had fallen in love with the day they met twelve years earlier. “Sometimes she’d get depressed and angry — like the goodness of her soul had left, just flown away, and nastiness took its place.” Philip moved the curtain away from the kitchen window, searching for signs of a taxi within the looming dusk. Except for the bulging hydrangea blooms and umbrella pines, the long, narrow driveway was empty. “I think it was the whole weight thing. When she sat alone and thought about it, she got angry. She didn’t have a lot of friends; just her coworkers at the sperm bank and one or two other nursing students. Sometimes I’d be sitting with her and say the most innocuous thing and she’d start screaming — or crying. Her face would contort and she’d look at me with disgust.”

“Like Regan from the Exorcist?” Jonathan asked, trying to lighten the mood.

“Not far from it. I almost expected to see her head twist three hundred and sixty degrees.” Philip threw the dishtowel onto the island countertop and scanned the kitchen as though trying to think of any detail he might have forgotten. For him, work in the kitchen was done. For Jonathan, it was just beginning. He still had a mess to clean up, and disorder lurked in every nook and cranny.

“And when I told her I was gay? Don’t even ask. She didn’t speak to me for weeks. The next time I saw her after that, she must’ve gained twenty pounds. A friend of hers called and said Angela really liked me, you know, in
that
kind of way. And when she found out it was never going to happen, she kinda flipped. After awhile she learned to deal with it and we still hung out, but things were never really the same. I always felt she thought something was going to happen with us. Between that and her multiple personalities, I really couldn’t deal with the situation any more. A few months before graduation, we gradually lost touch. And I haven’t seen her since.” Philip looked out the window again; headlights swept along the asphalt driveway, glints of stone sparkling from within the Belgium blocks. “Until tonight.” He wiped his hands on his pants. “She’s here.”