Work Text:
Stigma
By Tuesday Stanley was already unable to get out of bed. He was suffering from a severe headache, his limbs were weak, and he was unable to stand. Suddenly Juan pushed the door open, kicking aside a ball of paper with his shoe, as he came in. He stood next to him and touched his face. "You're burning up," Juan remarked.
He knew he was burning up. The aspirin he took last night had had no effect. He had coughed throughout the whole night, barely sleeping, and measuring his temperature periodically. Just sitting up made him dizzy and nauseated. He couldn't go down, not today. "What should we do?" Juan asked. ”There was nothing that could be done.” Stanley thought silently.
Then Juan reached his hand out to Stanley who leaned against the headboard. Stanley pulled his wallet out from beneath the pillow and felt the thickness of the bills inside. He handed Juan twenty dollars. "Can I use the money to buy fried chicken?" Juan asked. Stanley didn't object. "Do you want me to bring you anything to eat?" Juan asked. "Pizza," Stanley grumbled. An unexpected hunger gripped him as he remembered the scent of food. He then reminded Juan to pick up some medicine from the pharmacy for the pain. Something that was cheap and worked fast, but not aspirin.
Juan took the money. He walked to the window and pulled up the blinds. Morning sunlight streamed into the tiny motel room. Stanley lay in bed watching the dust float in the beam of light.
“Where did the dust come from? He had never opened the window for ventilation.” Stanley thought to himself.
Juan left. Stanley lay in bed, closing his eyes as light passed through his eyelids, turning the world orange. Stanley sighed softly, glad for the sunlight, even though it did little against the motels damp coldness. He slept peacefully for a while undisturbed by coughing. Daytime was always easier to endure than the night.
He woke up again in the afternoon, having not eaten for almost a day, but still hardly hungry. It was the urgent need to relieve himself that finally forced him to stand. As he tried to get up, he promptly fell on to the floor. He struggled on the ground for a while, unable to remember how to exert force with his legs, eventually managing to lean against the wall to make it to the bathroom. Dizzy, knowing he would faint if he didn't sit down immediately, Stanley sat on the toilet to urinate. His hands and feet trembled. He looked at his hands in surprise, realizing he almost didn’t recognize his own body, feeling himself no longer trustworthy.
He picked up a magazine and slowly walked back to his bed, not even opening it before falling asleep yet again.
It was Juan who woke him up by turning on the bedroom light. The light was too bright, causing him to tear up involuntarily. It was completely dark outside, and he felt cold again.
No pizza. Juan placed two wrapped up beef burgers and a cup of instant coffee on the nightstand and then placed a plastic bag containing several boxes of medicine on the floor. He looked very anxious. “Rico is demanding his money back immediately, and he’s not willing to wait another day,” Juan informed Stan. Stanley coughed once, placing his hand on the mattress as he propped himself up. “What was there to worry about Rico for?” He shrugged silently, but his stiff spine made it less expressive. He had already found a buyer for that batch of goods. Once the contract was signed, he'd get the money and could immediately repay Rico. Stanley wasn't one to run or break his word as he was a man of integrity. “Why… the rush… from Rico?” Stanley asked. Every breath he took started with him puffing out his chest, trying to suck in air with all his might as he spoke. His chest made a ragged, tearing sound at every breath.
Juan handed Stanley the coffee cup from the nightstand, in hopes it would somehow help him. Stanley accepted it, sipping slowly. Juan had made sure coffee was still hot. How considerate.
“Clearly Rico has no faith in you,” Juan whispered. Even though Juan knew that Stanley had indeed found an enthusiastic yet not so smart buyer that was willing to take all of those shoddy towels off of their hands, Rico still didn't trust him.
Talking about his deal somewhat revitalized Stanley. He had negotiated the price of those towels with the buyer for over two nights. The final sale price was still lower than his initial expectation, but at least he would break even. Minus the money owed to Rico. He would still have a surplus. This was undoubtedly an achievement. Remembering his victory lifted his spirits.
If he could sell off these towels, then conquering a minor illness would surely be within his grasp. He detested that the storage fees for those towels was higher than his motel room rent. Once he disposed of this batch, he would be able to afford enough gasoline to leave this tourist town forever. He was growing tired of the pale golden sunlight here. Weary of the South's heat and humidity, too many thugs and avant-garde queer artists. He longed for fresh air.
“The money hasn't arrived yet,” Juan reminded him, biting his nails.
“Well,” Stanley said, “it's simple then”. He'll take more medicine tonight and be better by tomorrow. He'll sign the contract, give the money to Rico and all this annoying hassle will disappear. He can come back and sleep peacefully for three days, and then everything will be better.
“Yes, yes... It's all very simple now.” He felt pleased. Everything was back on track. He would take his medicine and his body would recover by tomorrow. He'd clean up this mess, and then he'd drive away, leaving Rico and the towels behind. A better lifestyle waits him elsewhere.
Juan picked up the plastic bag, taking out some anti-inflammatory and pain relief medication. Still counting the dosage according to the instructions even as Stanley dumped them all into his palm, gathering a pile. He tilted his head back and swallowed them all at once, chasing them down with the now cooled down coffee. He ate the burgers, telling Juan he liked the pickles inside. He ate until he could no longer bear the headache. Then he sent Juan out of the room. He was tired and tomorrow he and Juan would go out together.
Juan left, turning off the light as he went. Stanley lay in bed. The streetlights outside were still on. The motel's neon sign cast red light into his bedroom. Across the street someone was talking in a phone booth. Stanley tilted his head, looking at the neon light behind the dark sky. There were no tall trees here, everything was short and dry. The starry sky was fully visible here. He closed his eyes, imagining himself standing in the desert. The same wind that blew tumbleweeds also blew over him.
In the early hours Stanley woke up to an increasing discomfort in his chest. His nose was blocked, and tears filled his eyes The burgers he had eaten the night before pressed up against his throat, spurting out as he sat up. He covered his mouth, jumped up and, due to his weak limbs, collided with the nightstand. He ran into the bathroom, knelt in front of the toilet, and vomited. He vomited and dry heaved for a long while, unable to breathe while coughing. He clung to the edge of the toilet, forcefully squeezing every last bit of bitter liquid and mucus out of his throat. Only when he felt there was nothing left in his throat did he finally relax. Stanley collapsed on the floor. The toes he previously stubbed on the leg of the nightstand began to throb dully, feeling swollen and red.
He lay there, on the cold white tile floor. The pain in his toes keeping him from falling asleep. After a while he sat up, hugged the toilet, and started vomiting again. Later in the morning Juan shook him awake from the bathroom floor. He could barely open his eyes. With each breath, his lungs made a hissing sound. He couldn't speak, his throat hurt, and breathing was difficult. He could see the toilet bowl was covered with blood he had coughed up. “You couldn't possibly leave the house today,” Juan sighed after watching Stanley for a while and contemplating. “I’ll go alone to get the contract signed,” he added as an afterthought.
Juan asked him where his wallet was and what he wanted to eat. Not getting an answer Juan took him by the arms and pulled him to a sitting position dragging him to an office chair with wheels. Juan was smaller than him, therefore he couldn't carry Stanley to the bed. Juan placed Stanley on the chair, pushing him back into the room. He dragged Stanley up again and laid him onto the bed.
Stanley’s temperature had risen again, nearly baking him dry. His eyes were half-lidded as he looked at Juan confusedly. Stanley had no energy to understand what Juan was saying and doing. Juan placed the medicine in his mouth and covered his nose and mouth with his hand to make him swallow the pills without water. Stanley swallowed painfully. Afraid that Stanley would roll off the bed Juan pushed him to the center of the bed to sleep. Juan took two buckets out of the bathroom and placed them on the floor next to the bed and left. After an indistinguishable time, he returned carrying a large plastic bottle of cola. He placed the cola bottle in Stanley's arms, letting him hold it while he slept. Trying to lower his temperature and to have something to drink when he got thirsty. Then Juan left again, the door lock clicking behind him.
That night Juan was dosing on and off in a chair next to him as Stanley was startled awake by a coughing fit. This happened multiple times and every time he started to retch Juan jumped up grabbing the bucket from the floor and putting it under his face. Stanley was almost unable to sit up now. His condition was worsening every hour. In the early morning Stanley had felt like he might be getting better, but now he knew he couldn't even walk. His body had never betrayed him like this before. He didn't know if he could get better. It felt like his body would continue to deteriorate and he was scared. Juan was scared too.
Juan informed him that he had went looking for the buyer, but the man had refused to sign the contract. The deal was set with Stanley and Stanley owed him. If Stanley went in person, he would apparently sign immediately. So fast in fact that no one could see when he would have picked up the pen. But if it wasn’t Stanley, he wouldn't sign. Then Juan had went to Rico. Rico had said that if they didn't pay back the money immediately, he would have someone sent to their door by tomorrow. But they had no money. Where would it have come from? Juan had apparently looked through Stanley's wallet in desperation, but they didn't even have enough to switch motels and hide from Rico.
Stanley, still lying in bed, listened to Juan ramble on how they couldn't even keep a room in this motel with the peeling wallpaper and broken furniture. With the current weather, how cold the nights were, they couldn't outbid other homeless people. They couldn't sleep in a riverbank either. Wild coyotes roamed everywhere outside and letting Stanley out in his current state would be suicide. Juan didn't know where he would dump Stanley’s body. He was afraid of being caught by the police for illegal possession of a corpse.
Stanley chuckled at his friends’ panicking for a while. He looked at the mold on the ceiling, wondering its patterns. He realized he had exhausted all his options. There was no way out. No chance for a different outcome. Surprisingly he was astonished. It had taken so many years to reach the point where he had no options left. Almost unable to survive. Although he couldn't find any meaning in his existence at this moment. He had always said there would be more opportunities in the future, but now he started to feel like there wouldn't be. Sadly, he still wanted to live.
He flexed his fingers and lifted his arm, showing Juan his wristwatch. The watch was old, the face covered in scratches. But the band was gold. Juan stared at the watch for a while, his gaze moving from the hands to the band. He slowly looked at Stanley’s face as if asking if he really meant to sell it for money. Stanley nodded, understanding the unspoken question. Speaking made his lungs contract, each exhale brought a rush of blood to his mouth. He removed the watch from his wrist and offered it to Juan. “Yes. Sell it.”
Juan took the watch from his hand, slipping it into his pocket. He left for a while, returning with an apple in hand. Juan had bought it from an old woman. The apple was small and tasted a bit sour. “Vitamins are good for you, eat it.” “Think positively, at least with the money Stanley could get his car back.” Juan knew how heartbroken Stanley was when his car was towed. As Stanley chewed Juan comforted him. “There would be more opportunities in the future.” Stanley wanted to laugh, but he was too tired to.
Perhaps because he wasn’t worried about the money anymore, he had a better night. He dreamed a beautiful dream of golden sand without impurities. He crouched down to study it for a while before realizing he wasn't in the desert, but on a beach. He stood on the beautiful beach for a while, enjoying the sunrise. Smelling the scent of homemade meatball sauce from back home. He had been hungry for a long time. Now seemed like a suitable time for a plate of meatballs. But no matter how much he walked he couldn't leave that deserted beach. The sun got hotter, yet he still wandered the beach aimlessly. Something in the sand cut his foot as decayed plants started appearing around him. He was hot, thirsty, and extremely uncomfortable. A noise could be heard circling around him. It sounded like a car tire bursting or something breaking. The noise grew louder until he couldn't stand it anymore and opened his eyes, only to see patches of afternoon sunlight filtering through the blinds.
Juan had returned. He was wearing a mask and was looking at Stanley very nervously. He was searching for something. Stanley lifted his head, trying to call out to Juan, but only a series of coughs came out. Juan saw he was awake, approached him and then immediately stepped back. Apparently, the businessman Stanley had met a fortnight ago, had died at home two days ago. Tuberculosis. It had infected his entire family. No one knew he had had tuberculosis. Not even the man himself. Until he died and his cause of death had been determined. Now because of him, the entire block was being taken to the hospital for examination. Juan's voice came muffled through the mask as he spoke.
He shifted his gaze back to the ceiling from Juan's face. So, it was tuberculosis. He was going to die. Somehow this fact didn't make him too sad. It was the only thing he was certain of lately. He knew he was going to die, even though he hadn't known before. But now that he did find out, it felt like he had always known. The certainty of knowing something was oddly comforting. Accepting his own death should have been hard, but being trapped in such an exhausted body, death seemed like a release. He had no unfinished business. A few dreams he maybe never acted on, so they remained just fantasies, but nothing worth regretting. Besides nearing thirty wasn't exactly dying young in his lifestyle. He had won a few bets already.
He nodded to Juan, signaling he understood. Juan turned away, continuing to search through his belongings. He didn't know what Juan was looking for, nor did he care. He just felt like Juan was being too noisy, disturbing his peace. If he was going to die, he wanted to enjoy his journey to death quietly. After a while, Juan stopped rummaging. He had finally found whatever it was he was looking for. Juan muttered a curse and walked out of Stanley's room.
Stanley turned over, facing the sun. In the living room Stanley could vaguely heard Juan on the phone. Perhaps he was consulting about changing rooms, he thought. The sunlight made his eyes hurt, but he drifted back to sleep anyway.
He slept right through to the next day. He sat up a few times to vomit into the bucket, but he hadn't eaten in so long that hardly anything came out. Juan didn't dare to come in. He just looked at him a few times from the door to see if he was still alive.
During the day, some people came in noisily. They left in a hurry and disgust after seeing Stanley. Making even more noise on their way out. Then other people in masks came and sprayed disinfectant everywhere. they too looked inside Stanleys’ room for a few moments without much emotion, and then talked with Juan for a bit. Juan just kept saying yes.
He found himself back on the beach that he couldn't leave. The golden sand. The air filled with the scent of soda and meatball sauce. He started to feel like he wouldn't find a way out of here, at least not in the dreams he had while still alive. Maybe there were dreams after death, but not now. So, he sat down on the sand, looking around. There were no birds, no definite sun or horizon. Waves washed over his toes, and he started to feel like being alone wasn't so bad.
He had slept for maybe twenty hours. Half-awake, he heard sharp knocking and some brief conversations. The bedroom door creaked open, and someone rushed in. Every step leaving a heavy sound on the wooden floor. The footsteps stopped beside him. A cold hand, like a ghost's, brushed his forehead. The hand stroked a loose strand of his hair back with the rest of his hair.
"Stanley?" the voice asked. Stanley didn't respond to him, nor did he open his eyes. Breaking free from sleep made him realize how painful everything was. He knew it was daytime because the sunlight had broken through the blinds, but it was still cold inside, so it must be morning. The voice evoked unpleasant memories, making this peaceful morning feel unhappy. "Stanley? It's me," the man said again, bending down and lifting the blanket. A hand gently pressed on Stanley's chest, feeling his heartbeat. His face was close to Stanleys’, trying to catch any sound Stanley made. He spoke in a hushed tone, but rapidly, "I'm here. You're sick, let me take you away, okay?" the man paused for a moment, waiting for Stanley's answer. Stanley didn't respond.
The man suddenly stood up straight. "What treatments have you used, when did Stanley last eat?" he heard the man question Juan. After hearing Juan's response, the man cursed angrily. The echo of his voice in the room must have scared Juan, given his shriek was faint and high-pitched. The man ignored Juan. He bent down again. "Come on, Stanley," he coaxed softly; a large hand snaked under his neck. "Come, lean on me, let me take you away." Stanley remained motionless. The hand attempted to slide under him, to lift him from the blanket. This made him unwillingly open his eyes slightly. The sunlight stung his eyes, and his vision was blurry.
He saw some brown hair. The face beneath the hair was ridiculously familiar, making him feel pitiful. His upper body leaned against the bent over man, exerting effort. Wanting to take him away. He made a protesting sound. The man holding him paused. "Stanley, are you awake? Do you need anything?" the man asked urgently as he spoke. Stanley could feel the vibration in his chest. "It's okay, you'll be home soon." The man looked down at him, more for his own comfort than Stanley’s. "Stanley isn't leaving," Juan said. "Was I talking to you?" the man snapped back impatiently.
Stanley's breathing became rapid. If he didn't do something this unknown man was really going to take him away. He sighed heavily, mustering all his strength to pull away from the man's embrace. "No," he croaked, his voice hoarse. This action triggered a coughing fit. Pain shooting through his ribs. He lurched forward. Juan knew what was happening. He placed a bucket beneath Stanleys’ face and then stepped back. Stanley vomited continuously. Nothing but thick saliva and blood froth coming out as his stomach had been empty for a long time.
The unknown man's body remained motionless beside him. After a while, the arm that held Stanley began to gently pat his back in a soothing manner.
"Stanley has things to do, he won't leave Santa Fe. Also, his car is still with Rico," Juan said cautiously when Stanley had stopped coughing. The man didn't even glance at Juan. "Is that so?" He looked down at Stanley." Is it about the car and the money?" Unable to nod due to neck pain, Stanley made a motion that was almost a nod. The reason Juan provided was plausible and acceptable. The man was silent for a moment, then stood up. "I see," he said to no-one in particular. His voice was cold. Then he bent down again, fingers running through Stanley's greasy hair, tidying his messy locks. "Don't worry, I'll promise to be back soon," he whispered to his hair. As if Stanley was waiting for a promise from the man. He gripped Stanley's hand which was limp and unmoving in his grasp. The man waited for no response. He squeezed Stanley's hand a final time and left the room.
Juan followed the man, their footsteps heading to the living room. They talked for some time. After a while Juan came back. He woke Stanley, making him sip some cola. "Your brother is crazy," Juan said. Stanley didn't understand, there were no crazies here, nor brothers. Just the lemon-yellow sunlight and soft coffins. He turned his face away from the sunlight and fell asleep again.
Late at night, the man returned. Entering the bedroom with an unquestionable attitude he began gathering Stanley's belongings. The door opened. The wind from the parking lot blew through the living room all the way to Stanley's bed. Stanley heard the man instructing Juan to pack up Stanleys’ winter clothes. He approached Stanley, and when Stanley didn't respond to his words, he pried Stanley's eyelids open, examining his pupils. The man said something, woke him up, and made him take medicine. "Antibiotics, Stanley. You'll get better soon," he said softly. As Stanley drank the water, the man took his temperature, silently watching.
He picked up Stanley, easily carrying him out of the room. At the door, Stanley's car was there. The back seat door was already open with blankets and a few pillows propped inside. Beside the seats was a bucket and bottle of water. The man helped him into the seat, laying him down. Stanley propped himself with one hand on the backrest, reaching out with the other, grabbing the man's clothes. "Where are you taking me?" he demanded, his voice low and hoarse; barely audible. The man leaned down, holding Stanley’s hand, his thumb soothingly rubbing his palm. He then laid Stanley's hand back down. He began covering him with blankets. "Home," the man answered.
He stepped back, closing the door. After a while, Stanley heard luggage being thrown into the trunk. Someone knocked on the window and Stanley saw Juan standing by the car, waving at him.
"You'll get better bro. Remember to contact me when you do," Juan said. "Don't leave me here alone," he added. This made Stanley chuckle involuntarily.
The man walked past Juan, giving him a glance. His expression indifferent. He opened the driver-side door and sat down. He studied Stanley's car for a while and then started the engine. He adjusted the rearview mirror and Stanley saw the man looking at him through it. The man debated at him. His lips parted slightly, as if he wanted to say something, but not knowing what. So, he just kept looking, hoping Stanley would understand. Stanley looked away. Behind the man, a yellowed photo was stuck next to the rearview mirror. The people in the photo were blurry. He could hardly recognize himself in it anymore.
They sped up on to the highway. Juan's figure got smaller as they drove away. Looking out from the car windows there was nothing in the desert on either side of the road. No cars, no stars, not even animals waiting to be hit. Under the dark night sky only cacti and road signs were visible.
Stanley didn't know where he was being taken, and he was afraid. He kept drifting in and out of sleep in the car. When they stopped at gas stations, the man would wipe his sweat, help him drink water, support him to the restroom, and help him put on a jacket. He was focusing intently on Stanley. Stanley felt increasingly tired. Barely able to comprehend when the man spoke to him.
The next time the man opened the back seat door, Stanley vomited on his shoes. "Stanley?" the man asked. Just looking at Stanley anxiously. Oblivious to the mess at his feet. Stanley's forehead rested against the man's chest, looking down at the man's feet as he continued vomiting. The man supported Stanley's chest with one hand and lifted Stanley's long hair with the other. After a while, the vomiting stopped, and he began coughing. "Are you feeling any better?" the man inquired softly.
Stanley dropped his head heavily, not responding to the man. The man's hands began to tremble as he forcefully, yet delicately, pried open Stanley's eyelids to examine his pupils. "You're going to get better. You'll be fine soon... It's just a small sickness, just a tuberculosis infection, a minor sickness... You'll recover soon," he told Stanley. Or for himself, repeating it like a mantra. The man helped him back on to the car seat. After a moment, he too got into the car. The car door closed with a loud bang. The man started the car again, flooring the gas pedal with sudden urgency.
Stanley didn't know how or when he was moved into the house, nor how he ended up in a bed again, but when he opened his eyes the next time, he found himself lying on a single bed. The air was dry. A heavy cotton blanket was pressing down on him. The ceiling and walls around him were made of wood. He noticed there was a pricking pain in his hand. He lifted his arm and saw a needle in his wrist.
There was someone sitting by his bedside. The man had been watching him, and when their eyes met, the man blinked slowly. "You told every one of your friends that I was dead," he suddenly spoke. Stanley's gaze moved from the clock on the bedside table to Stanford's face.
"Yes," he said. Then he closed his eyes and drifted back to sleep.
He slept for six hours, during which Stanford came in three times to check his IV. After the medication finished, Stanford woke him up. He placed a cup of water and a medicine capsule on the bedside table. He removed the empty IV bag from the stand and replaced it. Holding Stanley's left hand, Stanford inserted the needle back into his wrist. The action caused a sharp prick of pain that made Stanley flinch and instinctively pull his hand back a bit. Stanford paused for a moment. Head bowing a little he held Stanley's hand without moving. They remained silent until Stanley spoke first. "Where am I?" he asked, propping himself up slightly with his other hand. Stanford propped him up with two pillows, helping him sit up. "Home," he answered. Stanley coughed, paused, and asked again. "Where is this?" "Oregon," Stanford actually replied this time. "Oh," Stanley blurted. He blinked, looking at the ceiling. He had nothing to say. There was nothing to say between them.
The house made of wood was chilly, but they didn't have to worry about moisture or insects. Only the cold temperature. He wondered how Stanford had ended up so far North. To wander into a such dark forest of snow was weird to Stan.
Beyond that Stanley didn't care what happened. He didn't care about others nor about himself. He felt like he might not die after all, and he was disappointed. Not being able to control all the variables in his own life made him feel weak. His self-loathing slowly increased, and Stanley closed his eyes.
Beside him, Stanford began to speak, "You're very ill. But tuberculous meningitis is curable."
"I have tuberculosis," Stanley interrupted. "It's meningitis. Those people diagnosed it wrong. They're not professional enough. But don't worry Stanley. I'll take care of you. I know you're in a lot of discomfort now, but you won't have any sequelae after you're cured," Stanford continued. "Is that what the doctor said?" Stanley asked. Stanford shook his head. "I... it's not convenient to bring a doctor to my residence." His tone was meaningful, as if hinting at some story or a secret. "We don't need a doctor. I can examine you. My level won't be worse than the rural doctors here."
Stanley snorted. "But you need to eat more, Stanley. You look very thin and pale. I've never seen you so weak. You must not eat enough fruits and vegetables in your normal diet. But you need more nutritious food, and your immune system needs vitamins," Stanford lectured. Stanley didn't move. "Okay," he said finally.
Stanford looked at him uneasily. Glancing around as if he thought someone else would speak from elsewhere. "How do you feel?” "Better." "Do you have any questions?" Stanford asked.
"No," Stanley replied calmly. Stanford sat beside him for a while, looking at Stanley. While Stanley firmly looked at the ceiling, avoiding Stanford’s eyes. Finally, Stanford stood up. "Sleep, I'll come back with breakfast in the morning," he said softly.
The room door closed with a soft click. Outside the triangular window, white snow swirled in the black night. Stanley missed his gray-yellow tumbleweed. In the morning, Stanford came back with a toolbox and a bowl of chicken noodle soup. His hair was neatly combed, and he was wearing a slightly worn trench coat. He woke Stanley. First Stanford helped him sit up, placing two pillows behind him for comfort. Then he measured Stanley's temperature, took two vials of blood, and inserted an indwelling needle into Stanley's left hand. "This way, we don't have to keep pricking you," he explained. "Is anything uncomfortable?" he asked. "Headache," Stanley said without hesitation, then added, "My neck feels strange. Do you have any painkillers?" Stanford nodded, acknowledging. "Stretch out your hand, then make a fist," he instructed Stanley. He had Stanley stretch his hand, then bend it, and then made him do some more precise movements. He didn't explain why, but he observed Stanley's fingers purposefully while doing so, jotting down notes on a pad. After a while when Stanley lifted his legs and tried to bend his knees but failed, he spoke again, pushing the bowl of soup forward. "All right. The painkiller is in the soup, eat your breakfast first."
The meal was difficult. His arm muscles ached, and his fingers trembled uncontrollably. The pain from the back of his neck was distracting. After spilling the soup on the bed for the third time he cursed in frustration. Stanford watched him throughout the whole ordeal. "Do you want me to feed you?" he asked. "No," Stanley answered without hesitation. The meal took forty minutes, and
Stanford sat beside him for forty minutes. When he was done with the soup, Stanley put the bowl down. "You did well," Stanford murmured. He stood up and without thinking tousled Stanley's unkempt hair. Stanley shivered involuntarily. Stanford didn't notice anything wrong as took the bowl and toolbox and left.
Stanley woke up again in the afternoon. A sliver of sunlight from the window cut through the room's cold air. Offering at least a splash of color. Whatever Stanford had put in his soup had made
Stanley feel somewhat better. Just enough to feel like he could barely maintain human form again.
He wanted to go to the bathroom. With Stanford not in the room, he decided to explore on his own. He pulled the needle out of his hand and tentatively stood up on the floor. Dizzy, he shivered. He was cold, standing barefoot on the chilled wooden floor. He stood there for a while, ensuring he wouldn't fall, then slowly made his way out of the room using the IV stand as a crutch.
It was a large house. He was on the top floor. It took him a long time to slowly walk down the stairs. The house was filled with the hum of machinery and the occasional small, scratching noise of animals from somewhere else. There were no television sounds, no boiling kettle, no food smells, no sign of Stanford. It didn't feel like anyone lived here. Just various containers of water, electrolytes, and formalin with displayed specimens.
The bathroom was on the second floor, just off the hallway. When Stanley pushed the door open, it was empty and clean. He walked past the washbasin to stand in front of the toilet. It had been four or five days since he had walked this far on his own, and his legs were already weak and shaky. After using the toilet, he rested against the wall for a while. He surveyed his surroundings. There was only a razor and a comb on the vanity. There was bathtub in the corner with a bottle of shower gel on the floor. Stanley looked at the bottle of shower gel debatingly.
It had been a week since he last bathed, and the idea of cleaning himself suddenly became very appealing. After filling the bathtub with water, Stanley stripped and submerged himself. The water was hot, and he sighed. He closed his eyes, feeling a sharp pain in his head. His little adventure around the house had exhausted all his strength. Convinced he couldn't walk back, he sighed and decided to rest.
When he opened his eyes, Stanford was kneeling by the bathtub. His shirt sleeves were wet. One hand was on Stanley's shoulder, shaking him awake. He instinctively sat up a bit, covering himself, embarrassed by his nakedness in front of another person. But Stanford seemed oblivious to Stanley or the reason for his discomfort. Instead focusing on adjusting the tap, testing the water temperature. Stanford added more hot water to the tub to heat it up again. It was only when the hot water touched him that Stanley realized he had been cold. His chest was covered in goosebumps, even Stanford's hand on his shoulder felt warm now. Only when the water in the tub finally warmed did Stanford seem to relax.
He shifted his gaze back to Stanley's face. "Are you okay? Do you feel uncomfortable anywhere?" Stanford asked anxiously. Reaching out to check Stanley's temperature. "I searched for a long time before finding you. How long were you unconscious in the tub?" Stanley frowned. "I was just asleep." "I've been trying to wake you for ten minutes. If you're not responding to external stimuli, that's not sleeping, it's unconsciousness. It's dangerous. If you wanted to bathe, you should have told me," Stanford remarked worried. "It's just a bath. You're overreacting." He pushed
Stanford's hand off his shoulder. "I don't see what there is to talk about," Stanley muttered. Stanford sighed. "Just—? Your condition has barely stabilized. I can't even say you're improving. You're still so weak, anything could happen. Have you thought about what would have happened if you had turned face down in the water while you were unconscious?" Stanford emphasized. "I'd have a tombstone that says I died in the world's funniest way, death by bathing. Yes, I get it," Stanley said blandly. "Now, can you leave? I want to finish my bath. My hair's about to knot." "You're still feverish. Do you want my help?" Stanford asked. Stanley stared at Ford unblinking. "What?" he asked dumbfounded. "Let me help you wash your hair. I can do that for you," Stanford insisted.
Stanley laughed. He looked at Ford, who was serious, frowning slightly. His gaze dropped for the first time to the scar on Stanley's chest. He stared sharply at the central wound, distracted by it. "I don't need it," Stanley said. Stanford sighed. "Stanley, there's no need to be stubborn, I'm here, you—" "Enough!" Stanley shouted, Stanford's sincerity finally making him snap. "Can you stop?" Ford's unfinished words sank slowly in the bathroom air. Stanley turned away to cough. "You don't have to pretend in front of me," he turned back, glaring at Stanford. "You're exhausted, I'm exhausted, throw away all your pretense of caring. You don't have to act like you care about me. I'm really not interested in it. Especially when I'm not even dressed!" he added for emphasis.
Stanford looked at him, a range of emotions fleeting across his face. As if he was just now realizing the distance between them. Realizing they were not that close anymore. Realizing that the body is a private matter between individuals. He opened his mouth to defend himself, his gaze drifting for a moment, then his expression hardened into something more familiar to Stanley's perception of him: cold and firm. In the end Stanford said nothing. Stanford stood up. "I—I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable... I'll wait outside," he said hesitantly, scrambling for some dignity. "If you need anything—" "Get out!" Stanley yelled. Stanford left. His boots echoing heavily on the wooden floor. Stanley sank back into the warm water, staring determinedly at his toes. Eventually he still used Stanford's shower gel to wash himself.
The scent was unfamiliar and evoked no emotions. When Stanford returned, he reached out to help Stanley up, but was declined. Thus, Stanford walked beside him, following Stanley's slow pace, carrying the IV stand upstairs.
Speaking up, Stanford first turned to look at him, then after a moment, said softly. "I do care about you." "I don't care what you care about or don't care about," Stanley responded flatly. It was his opinion, not Stanford's, that mattered. Stanford turned his head, looking away helplessly.
That night, Stanford left a bowl of washed berries by Stanley's bed, telling him to eat as much as possible and that he would refill it after. Stanley tried a raspberry. It was sweet. He still slept a lot, or in Stanford's words, was mildly comatose. Stanford left two magazines by his bedside to help him pass the time when awake. This gesture felt more insulting than thoughtful because the brand-new magazines, though crisp to the touch, were titled "This Month's Trendy Disco Moves" with a subtitle, "Special Edition: 99 Fat Mom Jokes."
He flipped through them anyway.
Dinner was a bowl of vegetable soup served in a wooden bowl. This time Stanford ground some pills into powder and mixed them in right in front of Stanley. The soup tasted bland, lacking salt or pepper. With the vegetables turned mushy. They had clumped into small balls, as if reheated, disappointing in taste and mouthfeel. "I didn't know you cook," he said knowing Stanford didn't cook. "I don't," Stanford replied, standing by the window. The bedroom was an unused guest room where Stanford had hung curtains. He stood with his hands behind his back. Watching the outside. "I bought this from the town. How does it taste?" "I don't like it," Stanley told him. "I know you don't like vegetables, but you need vitamins. Bear with it," Stanford scoffed.
Stanley didn't respond. After a brief silence Stanford said, "Or is there something specific you'd like to eat? Maybe the town has it. I could drive there. It's only a fifteen-minute drive, not much there, but the people are honest." Ford was watching him, perhaps waiting for more questions from Stanley. Stanley sighed and downed the soup. "Meat," he answered blandly.
"Solid food could pose a choking hazard," Stanford pointed out. "Do you think I'm a toothless baby? You're not my doctor so stop bossing me around," Stanley grunted. "Stanley, if you knew how to take care of yourself, you wouldn't be lying in this bed. Let me take care of you," Ford argued back. "I can take care of myself—," Stanley tried to say but was cut off. "Taking care," Stanford echoed, pausing, "does not include popping painkillers and drinking moonshine." Stanford turned back to him. "Forgive me for trying to defend your health. But I doubt anyone has done that. Did Juan ensure you got regular check-ups, or did your so-called Puerto Rican gangster buddy get you a personal doctor? Has anyone made an effort towards your health? Do you even care about your own health? Because I do!" Stanford spat.
Stanley clenched his teeth, setting the bowl down and burrowing into the blankets silently. He turned away from Stanford's gaze. The warm soup filled his stomach, bland but at least warming him up, stopping his shivers. He closed his eyes, the heavy water sloshing in his belly. Regretting that he might throw it up again at night.
Ford's pajamas were old, worn at the edges, comfortable yet unsettling. In the South, he rested in minimal clothing, usually just worn-out t-shirts and boxers. The hot weather and unventilated rooms didn't allow for more. He wasn't used to pajamas with collars, feeling trapped and stifled.
Stanford stopped talking, moving around the room. Looking for books he had placed here. Tidying the place up a bit. Stanley could hear the snow, crisper than rain, mixed with the sound of breaking branches. He could tell how the snow piled on the branches until they snapped, falling to the ground, then getting covered in snow again.
The moonlight reflected off of the snow, casting a hazy glow over the cabin. His head still ached, but the prospect of sleep as an escape from the pain was somewhat comforting. Ford's cologne lingered, mixed with the scent of wool. He was sure this time he’d fall asleep. Still semi-awake he felt too hot. he was resting his arms above the covers until someone covered him again. The footsteps ceased, all sounds stopped.
At first, he didn't dream. Then, the beach returned to him. He felt a familiar helplessness, for the beach was inescapable. His body heat soared, baking him alive. He was half-awake, feeling insanely hot. He tossed on the bed, pressing his face against the cool blankets until even the bed felt scorching. Barely opening his eyes, tormented by an urgent need to get water, he saw the cup of water by the bedside. Reaching for it his knee extended beyond the edge of the mattress. He lost balance and fell to the floor tangled into the blanket. Half a cup of water spilled on to his face and the rest spilled to the floor as the glass rolled away.
The wooden floor was cold, offering the tiniest bit of relief. He pressed his face against the floor, feeling the wood draw away his excess heat until his body cooled and became heavy. He slept again.
The heat dyed everything yellow in his vision. It was the dizzying orange-yellow that took him back to a Sunday afternoon. Seeing his mother lying on the bay window, smoking while on the phone. She smoked those long, thin cigarettes. The ashtray always needed emptying.
In his childhood, everyone on their street aspired to decency. The political section of the newspaper was a dozen pages thick, and every middle-aged man discussed the economy. More people visited the pawnshop, each fantasizing about a good deal, but his father's prices always left them disappointed. Still, they always submitted. His father had a sharp eye. Claiming the secret to social interaction was a keen mind. And he believed his father.
The Sunday dinners were always the most elaborate. As evening approached, his father would take the list and lead them to the store for groceries. It was a rare father-son moment. Although sometimes he opted not to go, choosing instead to stay behind, lying on the couch. He never shared Ford's enthusiasm for shopping with their father. He never admitted it, but sometimes staying beside his mother felt more comforting. The TV shows weren't interesting enough to keep his attention, but he wasn't bored either. Life was mundane, accompanied by his mother's indirect sarcasm over the phone. He often thought his mother had a remarkable mouth.
So, his mother would sit by that neon-lit bay window, legs crossed. Under her feet was the wool carpet. She smoked her cigarettes, her hands jingling with expensive jewelry that was always abundant in their home. She wore an expression of indifference, yet she always loved him. Seeing his mother made him feel vulnerable for the first time in a long while. Having felt mostly hungry and uncomfortable since falling ill. He couldn't even breathe properly since getting sick, as if even the air had begun to reject him.
His mother looked at him, but he couldn't make out what she said. The heat tormented his body. Scattering his thoughts and preventing him from focusing. He wanted to get closer to his mother, to feel even a trace of home. That's when a cold hand reached out, touching his face briefly before pulling away. Realizing it was a real touch, Stanley grabbed it. The hand paused, then pulled away forcefully. He murmured something, and as the ghostly touch disappeared, Stanley became agitated. He began moving restlessly in bed, his words dissipating into the night. His voice and body were powerless. He couldn't open his eyes to step into the waking world. All he could do was surrender to his feelings and cry.
The hand came back. Stanley reached out, gripping it tightly. Desperate for the cool relief it brought. The hand ceased struggling, gently caressing Stanley's cheek and hair, as his mother might have done. He had forgotten it in nine years. After a while, a voice muttered something, and the hands tried to pull him elsewhere. This sparked his resistance. He didn't want to leave. No one likes to move when sick. He didn't want to stand or to go elsewhere. To be exiled. He just wanted to lie down, whether on the floor or in a grave. But he didn't want to move. His eyes remained tearful. The evaporating tears leaving salt behind, stinging him. He writhed, desperately trying to free himself and lie back down to rest. Eventually, the hands gave up. They left Stanley alone.
After a while, another blanket was laid over him. The hands dragged him onto a rug and wrapped him snugly in the blanket. Someone cradled him in their embrace. The blanket was soft. His struggles ceased and movements stopped. He coughed, then sighed contentedly. His face pressed against another's chest, firm and warm. The fabric rubbing against his face. Someone was breathing, making his chest rise and fall, as if he were sleeping on the waves. The heavy night retreated, reality solidifying through the steady heartbeat of another. One hand rested on Stanley's chest, counting his heartbeats. He smelled pine and returned to his beach.
He woke before Ford. Opening his eyes, he found himself in Ford's embrace. Ford's hand holding him tight, Ford's face buried in his hair, making a slight snoring sound. Stanley pushed Ford away, trying to extricate himself, waking Ford in the process. Ford let go, opening his eyes, blinking, then looking at Stanley, regaining his sharp gaze. "Good morning," he said.
"My head hurts," Stanley said, feeling a chill in the room as he sat up. He flinched. He held his head in one hand, grimacing. "Why does my head hurt so much?" Ford sat up too, the blankets falling from him. "Dehydration," He explained. His voice was soft and tired, as if all of this was just a mundane fact. Ford's hair was a mess, he wore a shirt and jeans. His thigh was pressing warmly against Stanley's." Are You okay?" Ford asked, "I heard you calling for our mom last night... Did you dream about something? How do you feel?" Ford inquired.
Stanley looked around. He was lying on a new blue and yellow striped rug. Ford had pulled pillows and blankets from the bed, along with his own, creating a small nest around them. "Why are we sleeping on the floor?" Stanley complained. "I wanted to get you back to bed, but you wouldn't have it. I couldn't carry you while you were struggling, afraid the IV needle would break in your vein," Ford said. Stanley sighed. "What about you?" After a pause during which only bird calls could be heard from outside, Ford began to realize Stanley was not pleased. He carefully observed his face, not understanding why. "I was concerned you'd get cold," Ford finally said, blinking, confused by Stanley's question. "I don't have any other efficient heating methods, like a heater, at hand. I usually work in the basement, where it's not cold. So, I only bought one electric heater for the bedroom. I've already moved it to your room," Ford tried explaining.
Trying to stand up, but feeling too dizzy, Stanley lay back on the bed. He shifted the topic away from his earlier irritation. "Oh, I see. I thought you were just being cheap." Ford frowned. "Did you feel cold these past few days? Why—do you think I'd intentionally let you freeze while you're sick?" He stood up, taking the clock from the nightstand and placing it in Stanley's hand. "How does it feel?" "Cold." Then, he placed his own hand on Stanley's.
"Cold?" "Cold." Ford left and returned with a cup of warm water for Stanley. "Warm."
Ford sighed. "The room temperature is already at seventy-eight degrees Fahrenheit, but feeling cold is normal under the circumstances. If you feel cold, you should tell me. I can find a way to help you." "Sure," Stanley said nonchalantly. Ford looked at him. "You don't believe me," he realized, appearing somewhat hurt by the revelation. "I never said that." Stanley felt compelled to clarify, "I didn't imply you were intentionally neglecting me. I just thought you had other things to do, I can see you're a busy man." "I am busy, but that doesn't conflict with my taking care of you. My biological research here can wait," Ford sighed. "You are more important than it."
Stanley rolled his eyes. "You say that now but wait until I break your favorite mug or something, then you'll be quick to kick me out." Challenging Ford with his gaze. Ford, in return, frowned, his gaze shifting aside, silent. The slightly relaxed atmosphere dissolved, the space tightening again. The bedroom becoming small and stifling. Perhaps they were both not fully awake earlier, unable to see the world clearly. Forgetting who and where they were. This bedroom, this space, was empty. Just like a hospital room, with a bed and a window but not a home. A shadow of what should be. A deformed infant that makes one grateful for their own normalcy while simultaneously filled with sorrow for its far reach from health. "I should leave," Ford stated. Coming to that conclusion from Stanley's expression.
Lying in bed, Stanley stared at the joke book in his hands, envying Ford's ability to escape when he wanted to. He wished to leave too, wondering if he could set fire to Ford's books before doing so.
The day was tougher than the ones before, primarily because the high fever at night had sapped all his strength, rendering him bedridden. Later, when Ford returned for a routine check-up, Stanley could barely lift his legs. He felt a crushing sense of despair, tied by his fragility, which robbed him of any autonomy. Now, he was dependent on Ford for even the most basic of tasks, using the bathroom or walking. Ford's demeanor during the check-up was as if he had anticipated the results, reassuring Stanley that he would recover soon.
After the check-up, Ford left and returned with a handful of books. He also brought a bowl of vegetable soup, a grilled chicken breast, some berries, a sandwich, and a soft pillow. He placed the pillow on the red armchair, pulling it closer to Stanley's bed with a heavy thud that echoed on the wooden floor. While Stanley slowly worked through the meal on his bed, poking at the wilted spinach and corn with his fork, Ford sat in the armchair, flipping through one of the books he had brought.
Stanley slowly ate the food on his bed. Fiddling with the wrinkled spinach and corn with a fork. The sandwich was Ford's, and the rest belonged to him. Ford didn't demand that he eat everything but expressed a hope that he would eat as much as possible. Ford's sandwich, looking dry and bland with white bread and canned meat, confirmed that Ford had no particular interest in food.
Stanley glanced at his unseasoned grilled chicken breast and surprisingly felt a bit thankful that at least Ford hadn't subjected him to canned food.
After finishing his meal, Stanley placed his plate back on the nightstand and sat blankly on the bed for a while. Typically, Ford would stand up, collect the dishes, and leave until it was time for the next meal or medication. But today, Ford remained seated, engrossed in his book, showing no intention of leaving.
Feeling restless and not the least bit sleepy despite his headache and fatigue, Stanley tried lying down again but he couldn’t sleep—a first in many days. He sat up, straightening himself on the bed, and flipped through the magazines Ford had brought, already too familiar with the jokes within. Struggling as flipping with just one hand made it difficult to turn the pages, and eventually, he gave up and set the magazine aside.
His actions caught Ford's attention, who looked up from his book. "Is something wrong? Are the fluids too cold?" Stanley shook his head. "No, just a bit... bored. Why haven’t you left?"
"To be here in case you need me. After last night's incident where you almost spent the night on the floor, risking hypothermia and shock, we can't let that happen again. I've decided to stay here for the next few days. It's for the best. I'll bring my work up here," he stated decisively. "If you're bored, we could talk." "I don’t want to interrupt your work," Stan noted.
Ford considered for a moment. "What about a TV? I have a set in my study; I could bring it up." He offered after a while. "No, that would be too much trouble," Stan declined.
"Are you sure? You're going to be here for a while, Stanley. Don't you want to make your stay as comfortable as possible?" "Yeah..." Stanley looked away, rubbing his neck awkwardly. "About that, Ford, I think I'll be leaving in a few days. I’ll repay you for the expenses during my stay. I remember you drove my car here, right? Where is it now?"
"You're leaving?" Ford seemed surprised, closing his book. "But you're not yet recovered. You can hardly walk for ten minutes on your own. Why would you leave?" "Driving doesn’t require walking; I'll be fine sitting in a car seat," Stan said.
"It’s illogical for you to rush leaving, Stanley. You should stay here, rest more. You’re still very weak," Stanford objected. "I know, but I have things to take care of," Stanley deflected.
"What things?" Ford frowned, then his expression softened as he recalled something. "Are you talking about your debt with that Puerto Rican? I've taken care of that." Stan blinked. "What do you mean you've taken care of it?" "I've paid off your debt for you," Ford said smiling pleasantly. "He wouldn’t have just let you pay it off. What did you do?" Stan demanded. "It was nothing," Ford shrugged, "a minor matter." "I don’t understand," Stanley said. "Why would you do that? It wasn’t a small amount." "Indeed, it wasn’t small. But it’s nothing to worry about, Stanley. Don’t think too much about it." Ford’s tone carried a hint of condescension, as if Stanley’s troubles were less significant than others.
Stanley’s life seemed complex from his perspective, but to Ford, it was as if he was amused by a child trapped in a drawn chalk cage, showing a patronizing tolerance. "I could have paid it back. I just needed a bit more time to turn things around. Selling my stock would have settled it. It’s normal in business," Stan said. "Yes, I know about your absorbent towels. I appreciate your understanding and guidance business with that hotel manager. He wanted to buy your towels at a reduced price for cleaning rags, and I've taken care of that as well." "What?" Stanley's eyes widened in disbelief. "Yes, your friend Juan mentioned that all was left was to sign the contract, so I went in your place and signed it. They didn't realize I wasn't you," Ford replied. "You met with that man," Stanley repeated slowly, "pretended to be me, sat down, and signed the contract." "Yes," Ford affirmed.
Stanley closed his eyes, rubbing his temples where the tension built. This specific targeted irritation towards Ford had cropped up late in his life and now almost always colored his mood whenever Ford was mentioned. "You think you can just swoop in one afternoon and solve my work issues? Business isn't just about signing a contract. There's follow-up work to be done. They don't get the goods; I don't get paid. I need to get back as soon as possible. The longer the storage fees accumulate, the more expensive it gets," He explained, frustration seeping into his voice.
"Juan is your business partner; he should be able to handle this minor issue," Ford offered. "Juan is a part-time accountant; he's not cut out for this," Stan answered.
"It seems Juan isn't cut out for much," Ford scoffed.
Stanley sighed heavily. "Listen. Your rural way of living here is quaint, I suppose. But I can't just drop everything to sit around reading newspapers here, can I? I have my own life to live. Back in
New Mexico." "I've said before, if you're bored, I can bring the TV up here. And about New Mexico, what's so good about it anyway? You were planning to leave, weren't you? Why not come up north for a change of scenery? New Mexico isn't worth missing. Its landscapes are mediocre at best, and the people are nothing to write home about,” Ford said.
“When I went to see that hotel manager, he..." Ford hesitated for a moment, "he was inappropriate with me. Your acquaintances are not the best of characters." Stanley raised an eyebrow.
"Inappropriate? What do you mean?" Stan inquired. "While we were in the lobby, he seemed very friendly, but once we got into his office," Ford paused, "he touched my……backside." Stanley laughed. Ford looked serious and uncomfortable, clearly not used to such encounters. "You don't seem surprised," Ford observed. "No, no. I'm surprised. Surprised that even a nerd like you gets groped. You must have never encountered something like this." Ford's gaze lingered on Stanley's face before slowly saying, "You're not surprised, because you're used to this sort of thing." "Why should I be surprised? Or are you one of those men who are offended by a bit of harmless gay flirtation? There's no shame in being gay for money." Stanley chuckled. Ford looked away.
"That's not what I meant," he said after a pause. "He was your client. That's not normal."
"It's perfectly normal," Stanley shrugged, "Part of sales is enduring overly friendly hands if it means selling your product. It's not a big deal. Do you know how many salesmen would love to be 'harassed' like that?" Stan chuckled. "That is a big deal. It's sexual harassment." Ford argued. Stanley shrugged again. "It just proves my point, Stanley. Your work environment is poor, your friends are questionable, and your living conditions are subpar. Even I can see you hardly sleep or eat well. This break is an opportunity for you to stay. To get a job here. After all, your car and clothes are already here," Ford argued. "I don't see any problem with my life. I think it's your lifestyle that's problematic. It's cold and damp here, you live in the middle of a forest with no human contact, and you think that's normal?" Stan defended.
Ford frowned. "You see," Stanley said, poking Ford's shoulder, "I can pick apart your life too, Ford. Don't think your fancy rural mansion gives you the right to criticize mine. You're not my father." "Stanley, I'm merely stating facts," Ford said slowly. "It has nothing to do with any economic disparity between us. I don't look down on you for not having money. I don't care about that."
"I never said you looked down on me. I'm doing just fine. I'm saying you look down on my friends, my life, and that pisses me off," Stan remarked. "Your home is a bedroom in a motel, and your so-called friends. Are they even worthy of respect? You're surrounded by third-rate thugs pretending to be Italians and some well-off scumbags. And then there's Juan. What even is Juan? Did you
know he stole the watch dad gave you?" Ford spat.
"Juan didn't steal my watch. He's my friend, went to New Mexico for business, and he told me the market was good there, so I went too. Unfortunately, his company kept delaying his salary, so he had no money. I lived in a separate room in the motel he rented, sharing the rent with him. Juan is a good person, he would think of me when there was business, and he also helped me buy food," Stan answered. "So, Juan called you over to New Mexico just to share the rent with you. You think that makes him a good person?" Ford asked. "His company didn't pay him; what could he do? It's not his fault," Stan said almost irrationally, just to see the defeated expression on Stanford's face.
Stanford closed his eyes, silent for a moment, as if communicating with Stanley was exhausting. "You're just too good-natured to the point of being foolish," he said, pulling out the watch from his coat pocket. "I got your watch back for you." Stanley frowned at the watch in Stanford's hand. He reached out to take it back, and since it had been in Stanford's clothing, it wasn't cold. Rico, knowing he had tuberculosis, would have had no henchmen willing to come for the debt. No one pressed for the debt, so Juan didn't pawn it. "Juan didn't steal my watch. It was a gift from me to him. Why do you have my watch?" Stanley's tone was a mix of confusion and accusation. "I saw this watch in the living room and recognized it as the one dad gave you. So, I took it back for you,"
Ford explained, holding the watch out to Stanley. "So, you stole Juan's watch. Maybe you owe Juan an apology," Stan said.
Ford looked puzzled. "You're upset because I took back the watch you gave him? Is he worth this much to you?" Ford asked. "Why are you so prejudiced against him? Juan took care of me when I was sick, and he bought medicine for me," Stan noted. "With money he took from your pocket," Ford grumbled. "He bought me coffee and even went to talk to Rico for me," Stan said. "And when he thought you had tuberculosis, he abandoned you. But I didn't give up on you!" Ford said angrily. "It's normal to be scared of dying. I never asked Juan to stay. You know you're not going to die, so you're not afraid, and hence it doesn’t count for much."
"He left you!" Ford's frustration burst forth, his voice rising. "Do you know that when he called me, his first words were to ask me to collect your body! How am I supposed to be nice to him after that? When I got there, they had warnings posted outside the motel. They thought that you were the source of contagion, and no one wanted to touch you. Those people were so ignorant. Juan thought you had tuberculosis and that it would kill him, why do you still defend him? He just left you like that!" Ford yelled. "You think you’re so noble? He didn't leave me. I never asked Juan to stay. It was you who closed the blinds. I asked you to stay. The one who left me was you!" Stan shouted back, grabbing the damn magazine. "It was you!" In a swift movement, fueled by anger, Stanley swung his arm, and the IV needle was yanked from his vein, spraying medication everywhere. The magazine hitting Ford squarely in the face. "It’s always been you!"
And there it was, out in the open. The words finally spoken aloud. Those unresolved thoughts, filling the air, now pressing heavily on reality. Speaking them out loud admits their existence, summoning them into reality. Once acknowledged, they can no longer be ignored. As he speaks, it feels like being cut by a knife, the pain and blood formulating the facts. Ford's composed demeanor shatters, and the expression that surfaces on his face is more akin to helplessness than embarrassment. Eyes wide, eyebrows downturned, lips parting then closing. Ford removed his askew glasses and wiped them in a disheveled manner. He looks pitiable, as if deeply wounded by the truths Stanley laid bare. Stanley had never seen such an expression on his face, witnessing such emotion. Scientists don't fear facts, nor do they run from them.
"You abandoned me because I'm different. I'm not smart enough, not hardworking enough. I'm not the child dad wanted, nor the brother you desired. I'm a burden to you," Stan states like it’s an irrefutable fact. Ford stands up, approaching Stanley, his expression indistinct. Stanley instinctively tenses, but Ford suddenly kneels. When Ford's cold hands grasp his, Stanley looks down, realizing he's bleeding. The wetness of blood flowing over the back of his hand feels alien, the initial pain of the needle insertion forgotten. Ford presses firmly on the round wound, halting the blood flow.
"I'm a tumor, or a contagion," he says, looking down at Ford. Without any resentment in his voice, it trembles at the end more of astonishment than anger. As if only now allowing himself to think, he understands. As if saying, “after numerous experiments, we know,” or “it will be cold tomorrow.” Just a statement of facts.
"No, it's not like that," Ford shakes his head, appearing dazed. Kneeling by his bed. Ford seems diminished, his firm hand over Stanley's wound as if invisibility could negate injury. He looks up at Stanley with almost a pleading tone. "Dad and mom didn't think so, we always loved you." "Why lie? You never loved me, you hated me," Stan says quietly. The weight of these words feels right, carrying a significant heft. Forcing Ford to admit he never loved him feels like self-harm, yet Ford appears far more tormented. Although Ford's agony isn't an admission of guilt, it still brings Stanley a sense of vengeful victory. "For ten years. Did you even think of me once?" Stanley asks. Ford looks at him, breathing short and fast, chest heaving. "I did love you," he finally says. "Really?" "Really." "Why didn't you contact me after I was exiled, then?" Stanley closes his eyes, the past life forming in shades of gray, weaving into intricate scenes. For a moment, he sees too much to articulate.
"It's been ten years," he says, overwhelmed by the gravity of his own words. Ford opens his mouth but remains silent. Stanley opens his eyes and smiles. "You hated me that much." "I just thought separation was best for us," Ford says, pallid. "Dad was wrong. You're a good liar too," Stan mumbles. "You weren't expelled for being inadequate; you weren't the monster of the family, I was. I'm the sick one. I—" Ford quiets down. Stan understands there's no further justification from Ford. "Enough." "I'm sorry," Ford says, then repeats, "I'm sorry."
Although this was once what he desired, crafting Ford's apology in countless sleepless nights as if it was some spell to mend the broken. The reality of its occurrence clarifies everything: nothing can be undone. Ford's hands holding his, grounding reality with an uncomfortable weight. The friction of breathing, the texture of the blanket, the sharpness of lunch lodged in his throat, unbearable. "Are you asking for my forgiveness?" he asks, disappointed.
”No," Ford says slowly, regaining the steadiness in his voice, never more certain, "I don't want your forgiveness."
Stanley turns to him, scrutinizing Ford's face inch by inch, finally meeting his eyes. “Hate me.” Ford must think, with his beautiful crown of thorns. They once shared the same eyes. In his youth, what he saw in Ford's face mirrored in his own reflection. Then, as they grew, they became different creatures, marked randomly by reality as they navigated the wilderness. Ford now looks like a stranger, his childhood appearance forgotten. In that moment, he believes he no longer cares about family, betrayal, or Ford. He believes he was born naked and alone like Adam, believes it wasn't Ford who abandoned him. They were never meant to be together, their conflict merely a surgery separating conjoined twins into two healthy individuals, devoid of shame, fear, and disease. He withdraws the hand that was touching Ford's face. His blood trails between his fingers, leaving marks on Ford's cheekbone. "I don't care," he tells Ford.
That night, Ford comes late. The TV that was moved up during Stanley's nap, endlessly replays "Jeopardy". Ford stays. He checks Stanley's temperature and sets a new IV. He'd brought books intending to stay, but now, he takes them away. The magazine Stanley threw remains by the red armchair; Ford leaves it and picks up only the book from the armrest. He doesn't stay, but he doesn't leave either. Light in the next room stays on, footsteps occasionally heard. Every hour, Ford checks in, standing at the doorway when there's nothing to do. At night, Ford's presence is almost silent. Stanley watches the long shadow come and go. Ford stands motionless, never entering.
The fever that night seems to burn away the virus. Each day brings more vigor until Stanley can stand by the window, looking at a landscape marked by occasional raccoon visits to the trash. His car sits in the yard, splattered with fresh mud, causing him to frown. In the afternoon, as Ford finally removes the IV, he says, "your temperature is stable now, you won't need more fluids, just continue with the medication." Stanley glances at him.
"Yes, you can leave," Ford looks down, "if tonight your temperature remains stable. You're not fully recovered, but careful attention should suffice." "I'll pay you back," Stanley states. He knows Ford doesn't need the money, but it's more than that. Accepting Ford's financial help would be acknowledging more than just failure. Ford doesn't respond.
Dinner is meatball sauce with neatly chopped vegetables, raw noodles, canned soup, and unseasoned meatballs. Familiar yet irritating. "What's this?" Stanley asks. "Meatball sauce,"
Ford says matter-of-factly. "I know it's meatball sauce. I'm asking what you are doing," Stan scoffs. Sitting beside him, Ford smiles gently. "Mom used to make this for us when we were sick, said it was Grandma's secret recipe, claimed it would make us better quickly," Ford offers as an explanation, like it’s obvious. "Why did you make this?" Ford blinks, offering a forced smile, trying to lighten the mood.
"That night, when you were dreaming—"
"It's absurd." Stanley almost can't believe it, "You can't be that desperate."
"Yes," Ford says and stops smiling.
Ford's tone becomes calm. He admits it so smoothly that Stanley only realizes what Ford confessed after a pause.
Ford quietly watches him. Stanley watched him back.
Stanford hadn't used hair gel for the past few days. His hair was curly and disheveled. It always ended up like this if he didn't meticulously style it in front of a mirror. Underneath his eyes, there were dark circles that had accumulated over the years, and although his shirt was clean, it was wrinkled. Without that sharp, self-assured confidence in his eyes, Stanford truly looked worn out, as if he hadn't rested well in a long time.
After growing up, Stanford never showed any personal flaws in front of Stanley; he had never seen Stanford this openly powerless. Stanford was never outdone by Stanley in any aspect. Maybe during their youth, Stanley might have outperformed him in physical strength and social interactions, but he never admitted defeat. Stanford was always the bigger, smarter, more obedient Pine, while Stanley was fortunate because he had a perfect brother who was always patient and willing to guide him. "Stay," Ford asks softly. "Ford, I don't need you anymore," Stan says. "I know," Stanford answers, closing his eyes, "but I need you."
Stanley remains still.
"When we were in our last year of school, you met that girl, Ashley. In the library because you were both detained. She liked drawing just like you. Initially, when you were detained and I couldn't wait for you, you would leave with her. Later, you told me that I didn't need to wait for you anymore because you would always leave with her if you were detained. Her parents were alcoholics and didn't care much about her, so she always had a lot of time to spend with you. For a while, you both would often play at the beach. I didn't say anything, but eventually, you noticed I was upset about it. That weekend, you told me in our room that you would never abandon me. You didn't cut ties with Ashley, but you never went to the beach with her again after that," Stanford said and continued, "That wasn't healthy. It was I who couldn't accept the separation; I couldn't stand being away from you. Even back then, I knew if we were to have a healthy future, we needed to be apart. I was scared. But I chose the worst way to handle it, and I ended up hurting you," he finished with a tone of despair. "I don't hate you. I think about you every day, Stanley, I love you."
Stanford looked up at him. His expression turned weary. Admitting this seemed to make him look like a completely defeated person. Overcome by something he had always fought against. Like being in pain.
A single sentence shouldn't have this much power, but Ford's way of saying it suggested more. "That's...," Stanley started slowly, contemplating Ford's confession. "Disgusting."
Ford's expression did not worsen. He had not embarked on this journey without being prepared; he knew what Stanley's response would be before he even spoke. If anything, his expression regained a bit of determination, like someone steadying themselves against the railing amidst turbulent seas.
He had likely pondered over these issues for a long time, because once he started speaking, it seemed impossible for him to stop. "I should have fought back that day, I should have found a way to keep you. If anyone had to leave, it should have been me. I let you bear too much, but what I really should have done was admit the truth. You were never wrong, none of this should have happened to you, you deserved a normal family. But what you got was me, a Freak. I think about this every day, but no matter how much I try, I still— I am still—"
Ford couldn't continue. He lowered his head, removed his glasses, and covered his face with his hand. He breathed deeply, his hand beginning to tremble. He didn't cry. But he didn't remove his hand either.
Suddenly, the smell of wood, the fatigue at his brow, or perhaps just the fact that the snow outside, inevitably fell due to gravity. Everything became so unbearable that it felt almost impossible to breathe. "I hate you," Stanley said, a new burning sensation in his chest, as if, after vomiting to the point where nothing but stomach acid scorched the esophagus, bringing pain. Ford's body stiffened, his grip on his glasses tightened. "I hate you," he repeated. "I hate you." Ford put down the glasses and turned to hug Stanley tightly. Stanley didn't dodge. "I hate you," he told him, tears streaming down his face this time.
Two weeks later, with winter approaching, Stanley sat on the backyard sofa, eating a raspberry pie. The first time he went to town, the young bakery owner took a liking to him. Whenever he drove to town, she would make something just for him. Though her cooking wasn't great, the pie tasted good, and he liked her smile.
In the yard, Stanford was chopping wood in preparation for winter. He had taken off his glasses, wearing a white tank top, jeans, and suede boots, looking ordinary. Much like the lumberjacks of Ohio. The axe seemed heavy, and it was surprising that Stanford could even wield it. A gnome with a pointy brown-red hat stole a few pinecones from the corner, unnoticed by Stanford. It appeared triumphant, starting to dance a silly victory dance before it had even reached a safe distance. Stanley watched the gnome hop and skip back into the depths of the forest, following its journey home.
The End