Stanley lies on an operating table, unconscious. His ribs are splayed open, his lungs exposed, pink and damp and spongy. They inflate and deflate with each breath. Nestled between them, where his heart should be, there’s a model plane with a painted smile. Veins and arteries run in and out of its little cockpit.
The wing is broken. If I don’t fix it, he’ll die. But I realize, with rising panic, that I have no idea what I’m doing. My latex-gloved hands tremble. I’m holding a bloodstained scalpel in one, a tube of superglue in the other. Stanley’s breathing hisses softly through the mask over his mouth and nose. A heart monitor beeps in time with his pulse.
“Well? What the hell are you waiting for?” My head jerks up to see a nurse staring impatiently at me. It’s Ms. Nell, her mouth and nose hidden by a surgical mask. “Patch him up!”
But I can’t move.
The heart monitor lets out a loud, steady beep as he flatlines.
I wake with a start, pajama shirt clinging to sweaty skin. I kick off the covers, stumble over to the light switch, and turn it on. With light, reality reasserts itself. I exhale a shaky breath and flop back onto the couch. A vision of the broken plane flashes behind my closed eyelids.
I broke something precious to him. On my very first visit to his house.
I have to fix it. I have to at least try.
I creep down the hallway, toward his room. Outside his door, I pause. With luck, I can retrieve the plane and slip out without waking him.
I ease the door open a crack and peer in. Stanley has the covers pulled up over his head, so I can only see a bit of blond hair sticking out, and the plane is still sitting on his nightstand, in two pieces. Holding my breath, I tiptoe toward it.
I stop.
He’s breathing oddly—small, hitching, shuddering gasps, not quite muffled by the covers. My eyes strain against the darkness. I can see him moving a little. A nightmare?
He utters a soft moan. His breaths rise and fall, rise and fall, getting faster.
“Stanley,” I say loudly.
He lets out a startled cry. His head emerges from under the blankets. In the faint moonlight from the window, I can just make out his wide eyes, bed-mussed hair, and flushed cheeks. “Alvie! Wh-what the hell—?”
“You were breathing very fast,” I say.
“I— What are you doing in here?”
“I want to fix your plane.”
“Now?” His voice is oddly squeaky. He pulls the covers up to his neck, squirming. He won’t look directly at me.
“What’s wrong.”
“Nothing!”
I stare. The intensity in his voice confirms that it’s not, in fact, nothing.
“Please.” He gulps. “I need a minute. Can you—can you go in the kitchen, or something?”
I think about the breathing, the movement, his flushed face. Something clicks into place inside my head. “You were masturbating.”
He makes a sound like he’s choking. “N-no! I just—”
“Go ahead.” I step out of the room, close the door, and go into the kitchen. Getting back to sleep seems unlikely at this point, so I brew a pot of coffee, pour myself a cup, and sit at the table, waiting.
I hear the shower running, then creaking floorboards. Stanley steps into the kitchen, leaning on his cane, his skin still damp. He’s wearing blue pajama pants, thick socks, and a rumpled, long-sleeved shirt with a Tyrannosaurus rex skeleton on the front. Slowly he lowers himself into a chair, not looking at me.
I sip my coffee. “Did you finish.”
The flush in his cheeks brightens. He hunches over, curling in on himself, as if trying to disappear. “No. I took a cold shower.”
I should have known he’d be embarrassed, but it still strikes me as peculiar. Animals don’t attach any sense of humiliation to sexual pleasure; that would be counterproductive. Why are we the one species that does? “It’s a common activity, you know. Over ninety percent of adult males do it, and the majority of females as well. Even fetuses do it.”
“Really? Fetuses?”
“Ultrasounds have captured images of in-utero masturbation, yes.”
“Huh.” He rubs the back of his neck.
It occurs to me, suddenly, that he might have been fantasizing about me. I study my sock-clad feet.
“You came in because you wanted to fix my plane?” he asks.
“That’s right.”
“In the middle of the night?”
“I couldn’t stop thinking about it.”
“It’s really not that big a deal, you know.”
“Yes,” I say. “It is. Your planes are important to you. And I won’t feel good until it’s in one piece again.”
He looks at me for a few seconds. “I’ll go get it.”
A few minutes later, we’re sitting at the kitchen table, the broken plane between us, along with a tube of glue, another of green paint, and a tiny paintbrush. Stanley sips coffee from a snowman mug as I apply a line of glue to the wing. He seems to have relaxed a little, now.
The plane, I notice, is not as well made as the others. Its wheels are a bit crooked, its paint job clumsy, its brush strokes visible in places. “When did you put this one together.”
“With my dad, when I was eight years old. It was the first one we ever built.”
Of course. It had to be this one that I broke.
My unhappiness must show on my face, because he adds hastily, “It’s okay. Honestly, it is.” He stares into space. “I mean, yeah, this plane is special, but . . . it’s complicated. My dad got this for me as a sort of apology.”
“For what.”
“It doesn’t matter now.”
I attach the wing to the plane and blow on the glue to dry it. Stanley hasn’t said much about his parents. “You said he isn’t around anymore. What happened.”
With one finger, he spins the little propeller on the end of the plane. “He and Mom separated when I was nine. It was pretty ugly.” He fiddles with the tube of glue. His gaze remains fixed on the tabletop. “I wish she hadn’t kicked him out. I mean . . . it’s not like he meant to hurt me.”
The words send a thin chill through me. “What do you mean.”
Stanley’s lips tighten. For almost a minute, he’s silent. “Dad was always a very physical person. That’s how he expressed affection. He liked to roughhouse. Just playing, you know? Sometimes, when he’d had a couple of drinks, he’d forget how strong he was and . . . well, he broke my arm.”
I open my mouth, but nothing comes out.
“It was a bad break,” Stanley said. “I needed surgery. Mom never forgave him. After he moved out, I only really saw him on holidays, and then even that stopped. Maybe he was afraid of hurting me again . . . or maybe he was just using that as an excuse because he didn’t have the guts to stick around. God knows I wasn’t an easy kid to raise. But still, he didn’t have to—” He stops. Takes a breath. “I still talk to him on the phone every once in a while, and he sends me money when I need it. He’s paid for most of my classes and medical expenses. And I’m grateful for that . . . I am. Without it, I don’t know where I’d be right now. But the last time I asked him if he wanted to meet for lunch sometime, he got really quiet. And then he said that it would be better if we didn’t. Better for me.” Stanley’s hand curls slowly into a fist. “He didn’t even show up for Mom’s funeral. He called and apologized afterward—said it was just too painful for him. I had to stand there alone while they lowered her into the ground.”
He picks up the model plane, gently blows on the glue, and puts a few dabs of paint on the wing. When he’s done, he sets the plane on the table. “There. What did I tell you? Good as new.”
A band of dark green paint covers the break. It’s not quite the same shade; it’s obvious that it’s been repaired.
It takes me a few seconds to find my voice. “I’m sorry,” I say. I don’t know if I’m apologizing for the plane, or for everything else.
He smiles. There’s a tightness around the edges, like it hurts. “It’s okay. It could be a lot worse. I’m lucky, really—”
I touch the back of his hand, and he falls silent. For a few minutes, we don’t speak. His eyes shine with unshed tears, and he blinks rapidly, never letting them slip out.
He wipes one sleeve across his eyes and smiles again. It looks a little more natural this time. “You want breakfast? I’ve got eggs.”