Mos hovered in a corner of the hospital room, quiet and invisible and observant. Much had happened and much needed to be done. Observations to make. Notes to take. Experiences to keep separated. Feelings not to feel.
Nathan Caan was dead. Every time Geno went to sleep, he forgot. He awoke and learned the news all over again. Sleep to forget. Wake to remember. It took a long time for his father’s death to put down roots in the rocky soil of Geno’s short-term memory. It made so little sense. A man receiving shocking news and keeling over worked fine in the movies and on TV. The reality was much harder to accept.
The reality was Nathan’s heart broke. First tested by a fourteen-hour flight with radio silence, while the fate of his missing boys wound like a snake around his aorta. He landed to find the twins were found, but found was a deceitful classification. Found was tragedy cloaked in optimism and relief.
The police found Carlos dead, hung from the shower head in the basement bathroom. They found Geno still cuffed in the bedroom, a two hundred and sixty-pound man fucking him. That guy was dead now. Dispatched from the world by Captain Hook.
Found kept racking up points. Cops searched the Caan house. They found clues in Carlos’ dresser that expanded the story. Pictures. More love notes from Fox. Letters documenting love’s turn to psychological abuse and blackmail. They found out Fox was one nest in an underground hive. He had dozens of baby boys, trapped in honey-slick cells, buzzing for nobody to hear.
They put the pieces together and found out what Carlos was willing to do for love. He posed for the pictures. He let his image be sold, then his body. He kept the secrets. He waited until Nathan was away and then offered up Geno as a gift. All for love.
Then found had the last laugh. Because Fox was on the run. And they couldn’t find him.
Nathan’s heart broke at Geno’s bedside. His wellspring sprang, uncoiled and fell to the floor limp and defeated. He was raced into surgery, where he flatlined. Doctors brought him back, but only for a minute. Literally fifty-eight seconds, then the line went flat again.
And he died.
It will be addressed later, Mos thought, carelessly throwing Nathan on the scrapheap of his life. What was one more tragic scene in this story? You piled pain on top of pain and eventually it plateaued. The only thing to do was not care. When it became clear Geno wasn’t going to die anytime soon, it became clearer never living again was the only way to survive.
Geno slept and woke briefly, then slept again. On one side of the bed stood Vern Kastelhoff, Nathan’s best friend and lawyer. Now he was Geno’s lawyer.
Zoe Caan-Douglas, Nathan’s daughter from his first marriage, sat on the other side. She was nineteen years older than Geno. Her relationship with Nathan’s second family was somewhat strained, Geno assumed because Analisa was the other woman. But he wasn’t sure. He didn’t know Zoe that well.
Did anybody really know anyone well?
While Geno was in emergency surgery at Overlook Medical Center, Vern made a dozen calls, looking for the best colorectal specialist in the tri-state area. Everyone pointed to Miranda Bloom at Mount Sinai. Once Geno was stabilized, he was air-lifted to Manhattan. He slept through the helicopter ride. He slept through much of the first week after his rescue.
He woke from drugged slumber, broken and battered and confused. Nurses touched him gently and labeled his pain. His wrists chafed raw, partially flayed from where he yanked against the handcuffs. A sprained jaw and a torn rotator cuff. Multiple muscles in his back pulled and wrenched and strained. His voice reduced to less than a whisper because he screamed enough to make his vocal cords give up. The doctors said he just needed to rest them. It was temporary, as was the transverse colostomy, which stopped all fecal matter before it could reach his descending colon and rerouted it to a bag outside his body. It would only be necessary a few weeks, the doctors assured him. Enough time to give the injured anal tissue time to heal.
They really did a number on him, Mos thought, rather unprofessionally.
Anal tissue might recover from that kind of thing, but could a man?
Geno didn’t know.
Carlos might have known.
But Carlos was dead.
It’s of no importance, Mos wrote. He was dead to us long ago.
Then Geno remembered Nathan was dead, too. Mos watched as Geno wept into his hands, falling into smaller and smaller pieces. Vern put his arms around Geno and it was terrible. Vern was a big, strong man. He smelled of aftershave and pipe smoke. Masculine scents that only made Geno remember things. He shied from Vern’s arms, twisted out of the embrace. Then he felt terrible and cried harder.
Feeling is illegal in Nos for a reason, Mos thought.
A nurse put morphine in Geno’s IV. The lights in the room dimmed.
“I’ll be right here,” Vern said. He sank wearily in a chair next to the bed, loosening his tie. “You rest now. I’ll take care of everything.”
Geno put his hand against one of the flat bars of the bed rail. Vern put his palm against it, the cool, smooth metal keeping their skin separated.
“I won’t let anyone near,” Vern said. “No one will touch you while you sleep.”
Geno closed his eyes and let Vern’s voice carry him away. Vern was the kvater at Geno’s bris. It was the kvater’s job to take the baby from his mother’s arms and carry him to the mohel. Then carry him back to his mother.
We don’t want him to carry us, Mos thought. We don’t want his arms now. They feel like the things we’re not supposed to feel.
Geno opened his eyes.
“Right here,” Vern said. “You’re safe.” He sniffed once and his jaw trembled.
Poor Vern.
Geno could count on one hand the number of times he saw Vern in casual clothes, and each time, Vern looked weird. He belonged in business attire. He wore expensive, classy suits and pocket squares. In the hospital room, he took off his jacket and rolled up his shirtsleeves, but still looked sharp and shrewd with his suspenders and Rolex watch. His iron-grey hair all combed back from his face.
Good old Vern.
“If you’re ever in jail,” Nathan said to his boys. “Call Vern first. Then call me.”
Now Geno only had Vern to call.
We are the only ones left.
The stars of Nos became one star. Its boundaries loosened, threatening to set Mos adrift toward the border of Geno. Go back inside him, where things felt.
Mos stayed far back from the edge, regarding the regrettable situation and feeling nothing.
It’s unfortunate, but this is how it is.