All of Us. A. F. Carter
him.
“That works for us,” I say.
“Excellent. Now, you were late today, and I understand why. But I can’t have you perpetually late or skipping sessions altogether. And I must become acquainted with each of your identities, including Eleni and”—he glances at his notes—“and Tina, the young one. You’ve said that individual identities can’t be ordered to appear and I believe you. But I’m hoping you can work on it.”
“We’ll do what we can, Victoria and I.”
“Excellent.” Halberstam looks down at his watch. “Well, we got a late start and our session is at an end. But there is one other thing and I’m going to put the matter bluntly. I only found out this morning, but your father will be paroled in less than a week.”
I can’t process the information at first, and I stammer, “What, what, what?”
“You were ten years old when Henry Grand was sentenced to thirty years in prison for what he did to you and many others. He’s now served twenty-seven. I don’t have any details, not yet, but he obviously convinced a parole board that he no longer poses a significant threat to the community. In any event, there’s nothing you or I can do except deal with it in the course of your therapy.” He gestures at the door. “I’ll reach out to the parole board for more details tomorrow morning. More than likely, some kind of restraining order will be issued. Now, if you’ll be so kind.”
As the door closes behind me, I hear Eleni’s voice in my ear. “Thanks,” she says, “for standin’ up for me.”
CHAPTER FIVE
KIRK
I roll out of bed at three o’clock, in sole possession of the body, everyone else asleep. Yea, team. I yank on my usual costume, gray sweats, top and bottom, and a navy watch cap to cover my too-long hair. Then I’m out the door.
I don’t get much time with the body and tonight I need to make the most of it. That’s because I’m convinced that Halberstam is more than an asshole therapist. The scumbag’s running a game and I can’t see us sitting on our collective butts until we know what it is. That sick-ass look in his eye when he told Martha about our father’s parole? Behind the glasses, underneath the gleam, I saw a little boy, a happy, happy little boy.
A long-term psychiatric hospital is little more than a prison. The biggest difference? There’s no definite sentence, no time to be served after which you must be released. You can be held for a month or for the rest of your miserable, shitty life. Any stumble is your own fault because you are, by definition, your own worst enemy. Else why the fuck would you be here?
Bottom line, you’re doin’ it to yourself and you need to stop. Or maybe submit to a twice-daily dose of Clozapine and spend the hours with drool runnin’ down your chin, your heart rate so fast you think your chest’s about to explode.
Eleni’s on my side, Serena, too. But not the prunes, Victoria and Martha. If they knew what I was doing, they’d try to stop me. Just like they’re doin’ everything they can to get rid of me. Maybe they’re afraid I’ll grow a cock and leave them, for a change, the odd girls out. Just like I’ve been the odd boy out for years and years and years. My rare lovers confined to lesbians who think I’m a woman.
I leave the apartment, cross the hallway and knock on Marshal’s door. It takes a few minutes but he finally answers, bleary eyed. He’s wearing royal-blue boxers and a Sex Pistols T-shirt with GOD SAVE THE QUEEN written across Queen Elizabeth’s face. No socks, no shoes.
“Hey, Kirk, wha’sup?”
“Need a few minutes, man.”
“Cool.” He steps back to let me pass, then follows me inside. Marshal knows all about us, from me and from Eleni, who’s hauled his ashes a few times. He doesn’t care. Simple as that. Marshal may be a loser, but he’s also the most accepting human being on the planet.
“Sorry to get in your business this late,” I tell him as I find a seat between the lumps on his couch. “But I don’t get around much anymore.”
“Yeah, Duke Ellington.”
“Huh.”
“‘Don’t Get Around Much Anymore.’ Duke Ellington wrote the tune. Back in the day.”
I’m supposed to recognize Duke Ellington’s name. Marshal’s tone makes that much clear. Everyone’s supposed to recognize Duke Ellington’s name. But I don’t.
“You want a beer? You wanna hit the bong?” Marshal asks. “Both maybe?”
Actually, what I really want to do is run over to a club I know on West Twenty-Eighth Street, a lezzie hangout where I pass for a dyke.
“Let’s have a hit on the bong.”
“A hit or ten.” Marshal’s thirty years old, still young, but his scraggly beard is already turning gray. “Why limit your future before it happens?”
I lean back in the couch as Marshal prepares the bong. I don’t have to guess about the quality of his weed because it’s always the same, good but not great. Marshal’s been selling ganja for more than a decade and he’s got enough loyal customers to keep a roof over his head, food in the refrigerator, clothes on his back. So what if there’s nothing left at the end of the month? Marshal once told me that he doesn’t let himself want anything he doesn’t already have.
Marshal loads the bong and passes it to me, along with a little torch. Five minutes later, I’m blissed out.
“Hey, Marshal, you once told me about your business.” I gesture to the bong. “Where you buy, remember? Somethin’ about the dark web?”
“Yeah, so what—”
“Well, I’m not prying, bro. I got a reason for asking, so if you’d refresh my memory …”
Marshal pauses long enough to hit the bong. He holds the smoke in his lungs for a minute, then blows it toward the ceiling.
“Hey, man, this bit about the dark web, which is actually the deep web? That shit is way over the top. Like, it’s just a lot of websites that haven’t been indexed, so they can’t be found by a search engine. Mostly, the sites belong to private clubs or managers in a large company. Just for example, VPs at Exxon don’t use the public website, the one you can find with a Google search, to communicate. They have a web address that’s not indexed. So, what I’m saying is that most of the deep web is legit. Only a small percentage of sites operate illegally.”
I smile. “And that’s where you come in?”
“What could I say, Kirk? I send an email that can’t be traced back to me because it’s encrypted at least three times by a virtual private network. I send it to a computer that might be anywhere on the planet and two days later I get a delivery, usually from a man or woman I’ve never seen before. No guns, no threats, no fucking paranoia. It’s the new way.”
Marshal’s nodding happily because he’s found the sweet spot. If his suppliers get busted and turn snitch, they have to rat up the ladder, not down to him. As for his own customers, he sells them half ounces in a city where a half ounce isn’t even a misdemeanor. No, the only thing Marshal really fears is legalization. Which is on the way.
“So, Kirk, what’s up? I know you’re here for somethin’ specific, so spit it out. If I can help …”
I describe what I need as best I can. On my own, when it comes to computers, I can barely get online. Victoria’s pretty good, but my siblings and I don’t necessarily share memories. For example, Martha is a great cook, but Eleni has trouble boiling water. We don’t know why this is true, but there it is, another stacked card in a stacked deck.
“Acquirin’ what you want, my man, is not gonna be your biggest problem,” Marshal finally says. “The problem’s gonna be installing the