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"It's me."
Tim stepped over the threshold of Frances's apartment on Staten Island and set his suitcase on the floor.
"Tim, darling! We were so worried!"
Finding himself in his sister's tight, familiar embrace, Tim slumped and closed his eyes. Frances continued to speak softly, but he couldn't make out the words, reveling in the warmth, strength, and love he'd apparently craved so much.
Frances's husband, Tom, came out at the noise and shook Tim's limp hand, followed by their daughter, Maria Loretta — plump, big-eyed, with her index finger in her mouth.
For some reason, it was the sight of the little girl that made tears flow from Tim's eyes — an endless stream of warm, salty water, even though he'd been sure he'd cried himself dry at the clarinetist's house. Memories of this came flooding back and filled Tim with excruciating shame — not so much for the act itself, but for his lack of restraint. The clarinetist had been skilled — there was no denying it — but Tim hadn't been able to enjoy it.
"My dear," Frances said softly, hugging him by the shoulders and holding him close, "is something wrong?"
Tim looked away and buried his face in her soft shoulder.
"Please tell me how I can help you?"
You can't.
Tim sobbed and rubbed his cheek against the stiff crimplene of her dress. Just recently, Mary had hugged him in exactly the same way, and she had been as soft and round as his sister was now.
"You're happy, baby. Try to stay that way."
"Francy," Tim muttered, "I'm so unhappy."
—
When Tim called and announced his arrival without explanation, Frances sensed something was wrong. She didn't press him over the phone, simply saying she was waiting.
And now this confession — so sudden for a man who had hidden his weaknesses and sorrows for years — made her heart ache.
Frances pulled back to look into his pale, tear-stained face. Tim looked terrible.
"I see." She paused, then, gathering her strength, added in a more matter-of-fact tone, "There's no problem that a hot bath and a cup of tea can't solve."
Then she dragged the weakly resisting Tim into the room that would soon become the second nursery — if it was a boy, as everyone in the family, except Frances herself, hoped.
"We don't have a spare bed, but tomorrow you and Tom can move the sofa here... Timmy, what's wrong?"
Tim was shaking, hugging himself, and Frances thought she'd better ask her husband right then to find someone to help move the sofa. Tim couldn't sleep on the floor.
"You've lost even more weight," she sighed. "Put your suitcase down already. Come here."
On their way to the bathroom, she pulled the terrycloth sheet out of the closet — the one she used to wrap Maria after winter baths — and one of Tom's old pairs of pajamas, probably too big for her brother.
"Here."
"Thank you," Tim whispered, clutching the clean clothes to his chest. He seemed about to say something else, but then changed his mind.
While he was bathing, Frances asked her husband to call a neighbor for help with the sofa. After making it up with fresh, ironed linens, she made tea and some sandwiches.
However, after the bath, Tim refused both food and tea, but agreed to a glass of milk, to which Frances added a spoonful of honey.
"We could pray together," she suggested, but Tim, who had barely spoken a word in the last half hour, began trembling again. Frances quickly took the glass from his hands and frowned. She suddenly realized that now, just as earlier, at the sight of the empty, uninhabited room, Tim was silently laughing.
"I don't want to pray," he said, finally calming down, and sank back against the pillows.
His eyes blinked slowly as he stared blankly into space
Frances spooned the rest of the milk to him, just as she had recently fed Maria Loretta, who had a cold, and as she would undoubtedly do for her second child, and as mothers all over the world did at the bedsides of their sick children.
Frances sat by her brother until he fell asleep, which happened very quickly. She offered another silent prayer and kissed Tim on the forehead, checking his temperature.
She herself had a harder time falling asleep: she got up several times to check on her daughter, her brother, or simply to wander around the apartment, stretching her numb limbs. Her second pregnancy was more difficult than the first and accompanied by swelling and insomnia. Tim's calm, sleeping face, even if gaunt and tired, brought joy to Frances, but only until the morning, when her anxiety returned.
Tim slept almost until evening and probably would not have woken up if Frances hadn't stirred him up. He barely ate at dinner, absentmindedly moving food around his plate, and when talked to, he nodded and smiled weakly, only vaguely resembling his former self.
Frances couldn't help but think of a wind-up doll whose key had been lost, so it was no longer able to walk or talk. She'd recently had to hide one of those in a box on the top shelf of the closet — until Tom could figure something out — because Maria Loretta would get angry at the unresponsive doll and throw it on the floor, breaking it even more.
At least, Frances consoled herself, she'd managed to get Tim to drink a full glass of milk. A sure bet.
The next day everything was the same. But the day after that, Tim got up early and went somewhere without taking his things or letting her know what time to expect him. Or whether she should have expected him at all. By lunchtime, Frances was beside herself with worry and even called their parents to find out if Tim was at their place — which, of course, only scared them.
However, by evening, when it got dark, Tim finally returned. He looked even worse than before — exhausted and broken — but he didn’t explain anything, and Frances didn’t press him, afraid that it would only make things worse.
Looking at him like this, Frances was sure it all had something to do with that man Tim had mentioned in passing, whose cufflinks he wore. She'd long ago guessed what kind of relationship they might have had, but she'd tried not to dwell on it, only praying for Tim's happiness. Now, however, she was almost certain that it had ended in a terrible way. Despite her own strong marriage, Frances could understand when somebody's heart was broken, and that was precisely what had happened to her Timmy, who had remained stubbornly silent, asking only one thing: to stay at her place for a while longer.
"I can't go back to our parents," he explained, lowering his head to avoid her gentle, inquisitive gaze. "I just can't bear it."
Frances understood what he meant: their parents' anxiety and inquiries would break his fragile shell, which was barely functioning — yet still intact.
"You can stay as long as you wish," she assured him, "as long as you need. And if you want to talk, I'm here."
Tim only laughed bitterly, kissed her cheek, and closed his eyes, falling back into his sleep of oblivion.
"I know you're waiting for us to talk, but I just can't talk about it," he muttered after a few seconds. "I have to push it aside and erase it from my memory. I have to cope with it, but I'm so tired..."
"Let's pray together? Let's go to church? Father Byrne..."
Tim suddenly sat up in bed, his shoulders shuddering, and there was an unhealthy glint in his eyes that startled Frances.
"I've lost my faith, Francy," he confessed, forcing the words out. "You may despise me for this, but I have no hope left, and my love has turned to poison. The battle I got into was fought with lies and deceit, and it will inevitably be lost. And the man I loved..." He paused for a moment, then exhaled shakily and continued, "And the man I still love rejected and betrayed me."
"Darling..."
Frances had expected something like this, but the whole confession — feverish and desperate — left her speechless. She distractedly covered her belly with her hands, as if wanting to protect her unborn baby from the horrors of the world her brother had spoken of.
"Forgive me," Tim muttered. The rush of candor seemed to drain the last of his strength. "If you want to pray for me, if it will bring you peace, then pray. Perhaps God will hear you, but my sinful prayers have gone unanswered."
"You're not sinful," Frances countered. "You're simply... in love."
These last words came with difficulty. Frances had had enough time to come to terms with Tim's romantic inclinations, but she still found it hard to imagine him in the arms of a man. A man she had never seen and never would see. The man who gave Tim cufflinks with his initials, thus placing a personal stamp on her brother's tender heart.
"You know," Tim said weakly, "I love him so much, and I can't do anything about it. Honestly, it doesn't matter what he did to me. I feel like I'm falling apart, like a glass shattered by a cobblestone. But every shard still belongs to him."
"You need time," Frances protested passionately. "You'll forget him. And then..." She paused, unsure what to say next. That he'll meet someone else? Another man who won't use him or throw him away? Maybe she should have said something like that, but it was too much for her, and instead Frances dismissed it with a vague, "Everything will be fine."
It seemed Tim didn't wait for her last words. He fell asleep.
—
Hiding what had happened from their parents was now impossible. While Frances had managed to delay the inevitable for a while and keep them away from their son, when they simply showed up on her doorstep, serious and worried, she had no choice but to let them in and, through a combination of evasions and omissions, explain in general terms that Tim had lost his job at the State Department.
Maria Loretta, wandering around the room, had already managed to rip a clump of hair from the new doll — thankfully not a wind-up one — that her grandparents had given her. At any other time, Frances would have scolded her, but now she simply didn't have the energy. Apparently, her parents didn't care what their granddaughter was doing with their expensive gift.
"What about his military service?" Father asked. Mother simply stared at the living room door, as if expecting her little boy to run in, obedient and quiet, never causing any trouble.
"He was fired from there too."
"My God, what did he do? Join the Communist Party? I'll never believe it!"
Frances pressed her lips together, holding back the nervous laughter that was threatening to burst forth.
"It's better if he tells you himself," she replied tactfully, as if she were speaking not to her parents but to Grandma Gaffney. However, it would have been equally terrifying for Grandma if Tim had admitted he was a communist, a Protestant, or a homosexual.
"Will he come out and talk to us?" Mother asked, and Frances's heart sank.
Once before, Rosemary Laughlin would have walked into her son's room without a second thought and tried to find out the truth. But not anymore. Over the past few years, Tim had become distant from the family, surrounding himself with secrets, a veil of alienation, strange behavior, and dubious connections. It seemed his parents recognized the fragility of this entire structure, but were afraid to touch it — not for fear of breaking it and injuring themselves, but for fear that their boy would never escape from the ruins.
"I'll call him," Frances said with another forced smile and left the living room.
Tim must have known his parents were coming, but he didn't come out to greet them. He lay with his face buried in the sofa and pretended to be asleep.
"Talk to our parents, Timmy," Frances urged quietly. "They're in the living room."
Tim only curled up tighter under the covers. If she hadn't known he was hiding under the blanket, she might have thought the bed was empty, just unmade.
"They're worried about you. Don't be cruel."
"I can't," Tim's voice finally muttered. "I don't know what to tell them."
"You don't have to say anything. It wasn't Grandma who showed up, for God's sake!"
"Francy..."
But she didn't listen, instead she dragged him out of bed and forced him to at least tidy himself up a bit.
In front of the living room door, from which no sound came except the twittering of the restless Maria Loretta, Tim stopped and cast a pleading glance at his sister.
"Do it, Timmy. Mom's really going crazy, thinking the worst."
"What could be worse than what I have to tell them?"
"They love you, silly."
Frances lightly hit him on the back of the head and opened the door.
Luckily, the Laughlins didn't jump to their feet. However, Mr. Laughlin had his granddaughter sitting on his lap, and Mrs. Laughlin seemed to feel weak with relief at the sight of her son.
After an awkward greeting, Tim retreated to a corner of the room while Frances ushered her daughter out the door.
"Are you... staying in New York?" Mother finally asked, her voice trembling.
"For a while. I need... to find another job," Tim replied, sounding unnaturally cheerful, completely at odds with his exhausted appearance. Seeing the silent question in his parents' eyes, he explained, "I was discharged from the army."
Their parents waited patiently, not demanding details, but clearly wanting them.
Tim took a deep breath and, looking down at his nervously clenched hands, continued:
"I lied on the registration form. More accurately, on the application. Back when I applied to Fordham. And to be completely honest, right up until the very end, I lied on the documents when I volunteered for the army." He shrugged nervously and added softly, "It's... about homosexual tendencies. I have... them."
For a few moments, an oppressive silence fell over the room. Frances looked closely at her parents' faces and saw no surprise, anger, or shame — only sadness.
Perhaps Rosemary Laughlin was thinking about her unmarried brother. Perhaps she knew more than she was admitting.
"Were you being blackmailed?" Father asked, almost as quietly, as if afraid any sudden sound would scare his son off.
Tim looked up at him in surprise. From the few words Frances managed to coax out of him, it was clear that the very idea that such an insignificant man could be of any importance in that gray world, where everyone had something on someone seemed absurd. Tim had only scratched the surface of it, and he would never be the same again.
"No. No one really knew anything... Almost no one. But one day I realized I couldn't hide it any longer and live a lie," he swallowed and hastened to add, "I know I'm a sinner, and that my sin is mortal. I tried my best to overcome it, but I couldn't."
Of course, Tim was defending that man again, taking the blame, and doing it sincerely. Frances wanted to be angry with him, but she couldn't, realizing that even without Hawkins Fuller's betrayal, her brother would have broken sooner or later, unable to adapt to the harsh political realities in which there was no place for people like him.
"I prayed and fasted and lived like a monk in the army," Tim continued, staring at his trembling fingers again. "But all I waited for and desired every day was to return to Washington, to him."
It was as if he were swinging an axe, slicing into pieces the image of the ideal Catholic, son and citizen of his great homeland.
"But I'm not going back there anymore. I don't know what will happen next or where I'll end up, but it's over with Washington."
He didn't say he'd completely severed all ties with that man, too, but it was clear without words.
Tears glistened in Mother's eyes; she wiped them away furtively and pleaded, her voice hoarse with suppressed emotion:
"Come home with us."
Father said nothing, simply nodded, but Frances had never seen him so dejected. Or perhaps she simply didn't remember Paul Laughlin's most difficult times, being too young then.
Tim didn't answer right away.
"I can't go back," he almost whispered. "There's no place for me in Stuyvesant Town either."
"Let him stay here," Frances intervened. "For as long as necessary."
Her mother glanced at her belly, protruding beneath her clothes, and Frances chuckled.
"A second nursery is an unnecessary luxury."
Tim was looking at her now, too, and for the first time in a long time, something new appeared on his face other than emptiness and suffering. These emotions — shame and fear — made Frances sad.
As they left, their parents awkwardly hugged Tim, who stood there stunned and unable to respond to their kindness. Maybe, Frances thought, he had replayed this confession in his head, engaged in imaginary arguments and defended his right to love so often that now, when all of it had become unnecessary, he simply couldn't accept reality.
"Do you know what I hate most?" he asked a few days later. That morning, he'd gotten out of bed and had breakfast with Frances, Tom and Maria Loretta — if a few sips of milk and a piece of bread could be considered breakfast. Later, he stood for a long time by the window, looking out onto the street with a strange, morbid curiosity, as if it were a dangerous world best observed from a safe distance. Frances noticed his shoulders trembling and threw her knitted cardigan over him. Tim was practically drowning in it, so thin he was.
"I don't know, darling," she said softly, hoping to provoke him into conversation and thereby pull him out of the stupor he seemed to be in almost constantly. "What is it?"
"Waking up in the morning. Returning again to this world and this body, which I lack the courage to destroy. I don't know how to live without him, without thoughts of him, without memories of how close we used to be, and without dreams of how things could have been. I lived all this for almost five years, from our first meeting. I loved him at first sight, before I even knew his name, and I never stopped loving him for a moment. No matter what he did, no matter how he acted, no matter what terrible words he said, I belonged to him from the first sound he uttered. And his first touch destroyed any other love for me, even for God. And how am I supposed to live now?"
Frances felt hot tears streaming down her cheeks. More than anything, she wanted to help Tim, but she didn't know how. If only he could pray with her, lift the burden from his soul, let God in where He belonged! But he couldn't — that was as clear as day.
"I wish this were a dream," Tim muttered. "Because I feel like I'm in one. I keep feeling like the alarm is going to go off, and I'll wake up and run to work in Senator Potter's office. It could be 1953, or even 1954, if only it were one of those times when I was happy... When Hawk let me love him... It's such a strange feeling, Francy."
Frances knew she couldn't pull Tim out of this state; she also knew he wouldn't get out on his own. Their parents, even though they wanted to, were unlikely to be able to help. A person from outside was needed: someone spiritually strong enough to hold Tim back from the brink and steer him away. Without this, Tim would continue to wander in his sleep until until he finally stepped into the void.
On Sunday, Frances stayed after Mass to speak with her parish priest, Father Byrne, an eternal optimist, emaciated by age and trials. She knew that entrusting her brother's story to him was a leap of faith, but looking into his eyes, faded with age and filled with kindness and love, she made up her mind.
Father Byrne listened calmly, without interrupting, groaning, or crossing himself when she mentioned certain nuances of Tim's character and inclinations, which Frances tried to smooth over as best as she could. Perhaps she portrayed her brother more as the victim and Hawkins Fuller more as the villain, but she couldn't help it.
"I need to think and consult with someone," Father Byrne said. "It may take a little time, but I will definitely come to you to speak with Timothy personally. No sin is eternal; God loves His imperfect creations and forgives them."
After these words, Frances's heart felt lighter.
Father Byrne came to see them a few days later, as promised. During this time, Tim seemed to have sunk even deeper into his destructive sleep, but Frances suspected that this was mainly due to his physical weakness and malnutrition.
"I will speak with him privately," Father Byrne said, "but only if he agrees to it."
Tim agreed. He huddled in the corner of the sofa, wrapped in his sister's old cardigan. His unwashed hair and light stubble on his cheeks looked strange — as if a child had put on makeup to look like an old man.
Frances didn't know what he and Father Byrne were talking about: the conversation was quiet, impossible to overhear. Although it didn't last long, Frances was tired of wandering around the apartment, her legs swollen in the last stages of pregnancy.
Leaving the room, Father Byrne smiled at her and sat her down on a chair.
"Timothy will gather his things and come with me. You needn't worry anymore, my child. I've found him a place in a respectable establishment where he will receive the help he needs."
Frances was about to thank him when Father Byrne stopped her with a raised hand.
"You were afraid he had lost his faith. And he was afraid of this, too. But no. He still has faith," the priest looked up and squinted, as if trying to discern God in the heavens. "It may have taken a strange form, but it's still there, in his heart."
After a brief silence, he added:
"While he's getting ready, I'll make us some tea."
Frances tried to protest and ask him not to worry, but her throat was tight with unshed tears that Father Byrne clearly noticed, though he pretended not to. He began fussing awkwardly around the kitchen, pouring water into the kettle and getting out a jar of tea leaves.
"We'll send him to Rhode Island. I've already contacted my old friend. You can visit him there whenever you like and also write letters. Phone calls, however, are limited."
Frances's fingers trembled as she took the cup. It was good that Father Byrne poured her only a small amount to distract and occupy her, because he hadn't overlooked the swelling in her legs.
Half an hour later, Tim came into the kitchen, neatly dressed. He'd also shaved and combed his hair in that time, which — unbelievably — made him look even younger. Frances's heart sank. His suit hung on him, at least two sizes too big. He was carrying the same suitcase he'd brought all those weeks ago, a shy smile was on his lips.
"Say goodbye to each other, and then we'll be off," Father Byrne said. "Tim's staying the night with me; I need some help with our new typewriter. Mrs. Gallagher is still struggling."
Mrs. Gallagher was even older than Father Byrne, so Frances believed him, if only not entirely. Father Byrne probably wanted to give Tim something to do, to make him feel needed.
She hugged her brother carefully, as if afraid to break him. He hugged her back just as tenderly, afraid to press on her belly.
"Write to me, okay? Write more often," she whispered. "And I'll come visit you as soon as you're settled. Agreed?"
Tim nodded.
Watching him go, Frances began to pray, but one thought obscured everything, preventing her from concentrating on the memorized words: Wake up, please — just wake up!