No-Accounts: Dare Mighty Things. Tom Glenn
the feeling Peter was trying to shock him. “Do you believe in statistics?”
Peter raised his eyebrows, extended his hand, palm forward, and examined his fingernails. “Some days I do, some days I don’t.”
“I wouldn’t pay too much attention to statistics if I were you.”
“Don’t patronize me,” Peter spat.
Martin sat back as if slapped. “I had no intention . . . I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to offend—”
Peter’s eyes filled with tears. “I’m having one of my bad days.”
Martin handed him a box of tissues.
“I’m really sorry,” Peter said. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me today.”
He turned on his side, raised his body with his arms, and eased his legs to the floor. “I’m going to the bathroom.” Holding onto the bed with both hands, he shifted his weight forward onto his legs, stood upright, and let go of the bed. He was taller than Martin had realized—six-foot-two or three. He stood, as Michelangelo’s David stood, with his weight on one leg, but Peter was leaner than David. His soiled bathrobe hung straight from his shoulders.
After a deep breath and a cough, he took a step and reeled. Martin stood, but Peter waved him off. “Get the coffee. I take mine black.” He shuffled across the room. “Creamer and sugar in there somewhere.” The bathroom door closed.
When Martin returned with coffee, Peter was on the edge of the bed. “Would you please prop the pillows so I can sit up?”
Wishing he’d remembered to bring latex gloves, Martin leaned the two sweat-stained pillows against the headboard. Peter wrapped his arms around Martin’s neck. “Help me move.” Despite the butterflies in his belly, Martin slid Peter’s body to the head of the bed. At close range, Peter’s stench was overpowering.
“Sorry I mouthed off,” Peter said. “Let’s pretend I didn’t. Go on.”
“How about if I clean up a little?”
Peter’s eyes darted around the room. “I’ve been low on energy and sort of let things go. This place used to be beautiful. I decorated it myself. The carpet’s such a deep blue, you feel like you’re standing on the edge of a lagoon under a midnight sky. The dining room table and chairs are polished teak. And the wing chair—butter yellow. Matches the napkins and place mats.”
In the kitchen, Martin found plastic garbage bags under the sink. He made his way back to the living room, picking up trash as he went.
Peter watched with a frown. “Talk to me while you work.”
“Sure. You know who infected you?”
“I ever figure out who the bastard was, he’s dead meat.” Peter took a slug of coffee. “Why?”
“Maybe he’s asymptomatic and doesn’t even know he’s infected. If we could locate him—”
“I hope the son-of-a-bitch is suffering beyond endurance.”
Martin squatted to clean up an ashtray spill from under the wing chair. “What diseases have you had?”
“You already know. I told Mort all that stuff. It’s on that form.”
“Thought it would be a good idea for you to tell me about it.”
“You a psychiatrist? What’s with the pseudo-psycho lingo? I don’t like being manipulated. I’m not a thing. Don’t treat me like one.”
Martin felt his face flush. “Sorry. Guess I’m trying to do it the way I learned in class.”
“What class?”
“Thanatology. A class at the clinic to train us to help AIDS patients.”
“At least you didn’t say ‘AIDS victims.’ Or ‘PWAs.’ Christ, I hate it when people talk about me like that. I’m a person. I’m me. I’m Peter. I’m not a ‘victim’ or a ‘person with AIDS’ or . . .” he wrinkled his nose “ . . . or a ‘PWA.’” He took a fresh tissue and spat into it. “What does thanatology mean?”
Martin knelt by the bed and gathered used tissues. “Working with people with life-threatening diseases.”
“Another fucking euphemism. You mean ‘people who are dying’. Dying. Say it: ‘dying.’”
Martin looked up.
“Say it,” Peter said through his teeth.
“Dying.”
“Thanatology means the study of death, doesn’t it? Why don’t you tell me that? You think I’m afraid to hear the words ‘death’ and ‘dying’?”
“I’m sorry, Peter.”
Peter threw his head back and laughed. “You, sir, are a klutz.” He sipped his coffee. “In answer to your question, pneumocystis carinii pneumonia. The most recent attack was last Spring.”
“What?”
“You asked about opportunistic diseases. I’ve had pneumocystis twice, plus the usual diarrhea, night sweats, weight loss, and swollen lymph nodes. Some thrush. No Kaposi’s yet. Cross your fingers. No loss of mental acuity. No trouble remembering numbers and words. No coordination problems.”
“If you had pneumocystis, you must have been pretty sick.”
Peter nodded, his hand on his forehead, his little finger extended. “Very fucking sick.”
“How come you didn’t ask the clinic for help sooner?”
“I had someone staying with me.”
Martin stood and emptied the ashtray. “A lover?”
“Guess so.”
“Thought you didn’t have a lover.”
“Telling the truth is not my strong suit.”
“How long were you in the hospital?”
“Three weeks.” All at once, Peter’s face turned serious. “I’m overdue to get sick again. I could die any time without warning. Die, Martin. It won’t be a pretty death. What would you do if I suffocated in front of you? Would you panic? Are you scared?”
Martin clenched. “You scare me.”
“Why are you doing this anyway?”
“Just want to count.”
“What?”
“I want to matter,” Martin said, “to do something important.”
“Taking care of a queer with AIDS is important?”
“Don’t you think so?”
Peter snorted. “One fucking guy who’s going to die anyway? One out of hundreds of thousands?”
“Better than cursing the darkness, Peter.”
“Better than teaching music?”
“Is dancing better than waiting on tables?”
Peter gave Martin a withering sneer and turned to the window. “My dream was to dance with American Ballet Theatre at the Kennedy Center.”
Martin headed to the kitchen with dirty cups and glasses. He wet a dish rag and wiped the coffee table. “I wanted to compose. Haven’t the talent.”
“Maybe nobody ever believed in you or cared about you or encouraged you.”
“Nope. Lack of talent. Anybody ever encourage you?”
“Had to make it on my own.”
“Not even your folks?”
Peter grunted. “My parents? Shit, no. My mom—she