At the foot of the bed, his back straight, elbows on his thighs and his two hands holding the book open Ivy read aloud in a clear voice the description of Huck Finn floating down the Mississippi River. His audience, an old man and woman, stared from their separate hospital beds. Their eyes wide and faces expectant. Ivy continued on, a shift in clouds cast diffused light through the window and he slowed to adapt. His senses slightly returned to the world and he could hear the people in the hallway, the nurses and patients. He looked ahead at the sentence, lodged it somewhere in his mind and continued to speak it as he glanced at the clock. He had five more minutes before the aid would return with their lunch and he had to be at another room to read from a different book.
“We’re almost done with the chapter,” Ivy said interrupting his own patterned reading voice, “I’m going to try to finish before the nurse comes. But then I have to leave to make it to the next room.”
“What are you reading there?” the woman asked. Her name was Elizabeth.
“The Picture of Dorian Gray,” Ivy responded.
“Oh that’s nice,” Elizabeth said.
“Now then,” and he continued with the story.
A few minutes later he was interrupted again by the sound of a squeaking wheel as the aid pushed the cart to the doorway. He was early. But as he found he couldn’t speak above the sound of the trays being unloaded and he noticed he had lost their attention Ivy replaced the bookmark and closed the book.
Elizabeth and Jeff were lost now, their attentions on the aid that was serving them lunch. An African-American man with curly hair and black tennis shoes.
“I should be going,” Ivy said as he collected his bag and coat.
“Okay dear,” Elizabeth said. “You have a safe trip home.”
Jeff watched him leave.
In the hallway he almost ran into the cart then sidestepping it he was in the path of a nurse who smiled at him before dodging around his shoulder. A smirk came to his face, more from defeat than entertainment, as he lowered his had and moved onward.
Moments later he was at another room, Greg and Mike’s. Both of them were in their seventies, though with very different bodies and faces. Greg was bald and his body long and thin. Mike was short with a gut that pushed up against the covers. Greg’s face had wrinkles in the corners of his eyes and tight skin but Mike’s sagged and skin around his neck resembled a chicken’s gizzard.
Mike looked up while Greg continued to poke at his mashed potatoes.
“You brought the book?” Mike asked.
“Yes,” Ivy said. He was surprised to find himself smiling and that his shoulders had relaxed.
“Good,” Mike pushed away his tray.
Greg began to methodically mix his corn with the mashed potatoes.
Ivy pulled the chair between the beds and found the book in his open bag.
“Let’s see if it’s as gay as they say,” Mike said with optimism.
Ivy shook his head, unsure if he blushed. Greg, he knew, was a retired preacher. Mike was a retired homosexual. They had become friends in just a few weeks.
“I never got the chance to read it myself,” Mike said.
“I think I did once,” Greg said. “But I stopped in the middle.”
“Too gay,” Mike said with a laugh.
Greg nodded.
Ivy cleared his throat, assumed his reading position and began.
After reading for several hours Ivy walked along the sidewalk recounting the words he had spoken. In the last four months he had read more books that he had in one year of college. Most of them were classics though there were two old women who wanted a romance. Since he couldn’t find it in the hospital’s small library he purchased the book. At first he was embarrassed to read the sex scenes aloud. Shirtless men, bulging shirts and pants, and bare breasts. He read the details in a low conspiratorial voice. The women leaned close. Fortunately they went to their respective homes before he was a third of the way into the book. Out of curiosity and duty he finished the book. He was happy that he didn’t have to read the word “penis” aloud even in the sterile hospital room.
But now as he had moved on to Dorian Gray he felt a new pride even though he was reading a homoerotic tale to a retired preacher.
Ivy looked up from his shuffling feet, ahead was the bus stop, sitting on the bench were several hospital workers, mostly minority and mostly wage earners. He waited with them, one hand on the strap of his bag and his shoulder against the glass window of the bus stop.
The bus, he moved down the aisle to the middle, towards the back and sat in one of the last empty seats. In the seat in front of him were a thirty-year-old woman and her son. A five-year old blonde boy who sat on his knees and talked incessantly about everything. His mother looked to the boy, signaled for him to be quiet. The boy’s arm swept through the air to emphasize his shout, “No!”
Ivy averted his eyes and smiled to himself. He never would have said no when he was a kid. He never would have said a lot of things.
*****
He shared an apartment with his brother and his brother’s wife. They were away at work when he arrived. He dropped his bag by the door and crossed the living room, turned on the television, and then went to the kitchen. On his way he touched the button of the answering machine, no messages.
After making a peanut butter and banana sandwich he retrieved his bag and went to the couch. He opened the bag, found The Picture of Dorian Gray and let the pages part to the bookmark. He wanted to read ahead, to give himself some foreknowledge of the words he would say. The television became a dull sensation in the background, an unnoticed static.
This was life. Simple. He lived in his brother’s office, a cramped space. Slept on the floor in his sleeping bag. He had taken to the sleeping bag in college, after he had been evicted from his first apartment and had to stay at friends’ places. Since then he had one other room of his own but mostly he slept on the couch or the floor in his bag.
He looked up from the book. The glowing television, even the sound emanating from it, and the bookshelf full of DVDs, the quiet corners and the shadows cast by sunlight, the dishes and ambient sound of the refrigerator- he didn’t want any of these, at least not of his own. And perhaps he didn’t want his own reality, didn’t want his own space. Though he should have tried harder, should have tried to get paid for volunteering or turned his part-time job at the bakery into a full-time job. But they didn’t like him at the bakery. At least he suspected they didn’t though they never said anything. Just that he was slow, clumsy when he bussed the tables and washed the dishes. Distracted, always distracted but he didn’t know by what. If he could only find out then perhaps he could fix it. He could fix it. Work full-time. Be a better person.
He read for an hour before he stopped to make dinner. His brother had paid for the almost fresh pasta and canned sauce, Newman’s because Ivy had chosen it.
That night after his brother and his brother’s wife had gone to bed Ivy sat in the living room trying to read. The book was open in his lap. The television was on and at a low volume, David Letterman was beginning his monologue. He couldn’t stop thinking about one night in the first week he had been in town and he was walking with his brother to an art museum.
“Excuse me,” a soft voice said from over his shoulder, somehow just behind his ear. Ivy looked to who had spoken. It was a short, middle-aged woman in a white night gown and light hair that was becoming unfurled by dirt and time. Wrinkles under her eyes. She reminded him of his mother. “Do you have anything to spare?”
Ivy’s mouth opened. He had left himself unarmed for this approach, this confrontation. His brother was moving on, at a steady pace as if nothing had happened. Ivy tried to apologize to her, lifted his shoulders and held out his hands in the emptiness. The woman stared at him. Ivy’s feet kept moving backward, trying to stay with his brother. He knew his brother was back there somewhere. Wanted to catch him. But the woman was so desperate, so much like his mother. Hadn’t he seen her in a similar nightgown one summer night in his childhood? He back-peddled, almost tripped and turned to see his brother was looking back now.
“What is it with you? I never have this problem. It’s as if they sense something about you like that you would give them something,” his brother mocked.
Ivy looked to him. The image of the woman still there, the sense of his mother. What was his mother doing? Could she ever be homeless? He knew his parents struggled. He knew there was a possibility. And his brother turned away, continued on, up the stairs and opened the glass doors. The museum was a new sanctuary from the desperation outside as if all the buildings were at once lifted and there would just be people, hungry and poor.
The book sunk between his thighs. He looked to David Letterman who was interviewing a movie star in a cleavage exposing dress. The book closed, the page lost. But he thought of the woman and his mother. And if he had handed her a dollar she would have felt full for one hour, for one night. If he had handed her a dollar it would have been lost, spent.
He could have been like that woman. He was like that woman, living off the kindness of family. Off of charity. A dependent. His skin felt distant and there was a pain behind his eyes. He knew if someone else was in the room he would have been tempted to cry. It would have been easier to cry and yet he would have tried to stop himself more. But as he sat there alone he knew if he cried then he would feel better. He couldn’t. He tried to. His will fractured.
How was he so defenseless? Especially that night as he walked with his brother. Normally he could think of the world with a distance of apathy but as the woman pleaded that night he was… he was… naked. And somehow if he had been alone he would have seen the woman, ignored her. Instead he was trying to talk to his brother and she punctured their conversation. And his brother kept moving. Why did he think his brother would stop? Caught by the woman, back peddling.
Ivy looked to the screen. He didn’t want to think about the woman anymore. He didn’t want to be alone, so he turned up the volume. He turned up the volume and let his mind rest.
Between Greg and Mike, Ivy read aloud in an almost polished skill. He paused and altered his voice as he thought appropriate, not quite making a female voices for women, a character voice, but something distinct. A tonal shift, a pitch variance. His audience gave him their full attention. Mike with his eyes closed but his shoulder and ears to Ivy. Greg with his lips slightly parted and his hand slightly twitching.
He hadn’t given any other book this attention but as he read now he thought briefly of his kindergarten teacher using he same books and so familiar with each word she could say the story as she held the book open for the class. And now he was like that for these men, for these old people. Though they may not forget they would die soon. Months or years. They would die. What would this have meant?
Ivy breathed deep between chapters, lifted his shoulders. He didn’t want to think about them dying. He didn’t want to think about his wasted efforts. Were they wasted? Did he make something that would last? He didn’t know. But he continued.
He continued until the nurse stopped him, thanked him and told him his time was up. He was slightly relieved but also nervous. The nurse moved to attend to Greg. Mike looked to him, caught his attention and signaled him closer. Thin, dry fingers clasped at Ivy’s forearm.
“Tomorrow?”
Ivy smiled.
“Sorry, I work tomorrow,” he said. “But next week, first thing.”
“Perhaps this weekend?”
The man was desperate.
“I don’t know.” Ivy thought to pull his hand away, thought to back-peddle. He didn’t. Instead, feeling as if he should do more for the man, he said, “Okay, this weekend.”
Mike’s hand retracted. His grip gone but Ivy could still feel where the man had touched him. He could still feel it as slung the bag over his shoulder, as he walked from the room.
The next day work felt like a distraction from his real life. Ordinarily he could persuade himself that he only had hours, minutes to pass on autopilot. But as he worked he thought of leaving, of taking off early or just quitting. To be alone back on the street, at the bus, perhaps at the hospital. When he got off of work he would go there. He didn’t have his book but he would visit. He could work to this goal though he felt he should have just left.
Instead of the bus back to the apartment he had to figure out how to connect to the hospital route. It took an extra thirty minutes in his day to get there.
As he stepped through the automatic doors, as he waited in the elevator everything felt different. He felt different. He was out of place. This world that existed without him, this world that continued on. He was there.
At the doorway he stopped. He saw the curtain was up between the beds. Greg looked up but Mike was hidden.
“Oh hey there,” Greg said.
“Hey,” Ivy replied.
“Mike has some family visiting,” Greg said.
“Oh.” He stepped into the room, moved closer and listened. He could hear voices. A woman and a man.
“His son and daughter-in-law,” Greg said.
“But I thought,” Ivy said and his hand moved to point.
“Oh yeah, well apparently he even had a wife.”
The illusion, the image was broken. When he thought of visiting he thought of sitting between the beds like he had done.
“What did you want?” Greg asked.
“Oh, I just,” Ivy said, “I wanted to tell him that⎯”
“Is that Ivy?” Mike’s voice sounded from the other side of the curtain.
Ivy looked to the blue and white plastic.
“Uh yeah,” he replied.
“Well come over and meet my son and his wife”
Ivy stepped, faltered when he saw a hand grasp at the barrier, but continued. A balding, middle-aged man stood with his hand on the curtain. Ivy could see dark hairs on the man’s hand, dark hairs that led up under his dress-shirt sleeve. And the man’s wife. Well dressed and heavy set with long black hair in a ponytail. She looked up from her chair. The chair Ivy used. Finally he looked to Mike. Mike looked back, a big grin on his face.
“This is the young man I was telling you about. The young man that if I was a few years younger…” His son looked back at him and the daughter-in-law was obviously embarrassed. “Well anyway, he’s the one who reads to all us old people.”
“Good to meet you,” the bald man thrust a hand at him. Ivy met it with his own but hadn’t prepared himself and it was soon lost in the man’s grip. Ivy’s hand returned a moment later and he moved it to his side, to his front pocket.
“So you’re a worker here?”
“No, he’s a volunteer,” Mike said.
“Oh,” the balding man replied. “Well then you’re a college student or something…”
“Something…” Ivy replied.
“Oh,” the balding man said. “Well then what brings you here? Were you supposed to read?”
“Oh no I,”⎯he looked around⎯ “I just…”
The balding man and his wife stared. Mike stared. Even Greg was probably listening from the other side of curtain. Sweat on his neck, his shoulders, even some at the small of his back.
“I just wanted to tell you that I was going to be late Saturday,” Ivy said.
“Oh, well that was very nice of you stop by,” the balding man said, “and let him know. Not many people your age would be so nice.”
Ivy squinted as if to signify that he knew this.
“Not many people take an interest,” the balding man continued, “I myself can’t make it as often as I want to. And my kids, well they have no, no time.”
The balding man winced. This man who wasn’t supposed to be here.
“Well if that’s all.”
“Yeah,” Ivy replied. He began to step away, to turn.
“So when will you come then?”
Ivy looked back, “One-thirty’ish, I’ll see if I can come earlier. But work, you know.” He was certain he was blushing.
“Always work,” Mike said.
“So I’ll be going now,” Ivy said.
“Thanks,” the balding man said.
“Have a nice night,” his wife said.
Ivy turned away, waved awkwardly to Greg as he passed the foot of his bed. He reached the doorway and he had escaped most of an unwanted reality. He just had to slip out of the rest, away on the bus and back to the apartment.
Saturday, Ivy sat looking at the clock. It wasn’t even eleven and he was ready to go to the hospital. His brother and his brother’s wife were away, at a museum. Their lives had picked back up as normal a month after he had been there. And now that it was almost a year he suspected they thought he had a life of his own. That his life of sleeping in the office, of volunteering and part-time work was what he wanted. It was what he wanted. Wasn’t it?
He had told Mike one-thirty. He had his bag, the book, the desire. But he didn’t want to seem desperate. He could lie. He was no good at lies.
Ivy heard the key in the lock and the sound of his brother’s voice. As an impulsive reaction he lifted his bag and made for the door. His brother was caught off-guard and he slipped past his shoulders muttering an apology as his brother stood his ground.
“Where you going?”
“The hospital,” Ivy replied over his shoulder. He looked back, stumbled down the last two steps. “Sorry about the, the door but I have to catch the bus.”
Soon enough the apartment was out of range, lost amongst the other parts of reality that continued without him. He pushed on to the reality of which he wanted to be a part.
It was easy enough. He sat among the day laborers on the bus, he waited among the visitors in the elevator. And he finally entered the room. Mike and Greg in their respective beds and the television on.
“You’re early,” Greg said.
“Yeah I uh, they didn’t need me.”
“Well that was nice of them to let you off.”
“So, should we continue?”
Greg looked at the clock.
“Not right now,” he said. “I have to do some testing. Though Mike might want to continue without me.”
“Oh I couldn’t, not unless Ivy had to be somewhere.”
“No, no I…”
“Good then,” Mike said. “How long will the test take?”
“I don’t know. How long does it take for a man to put his finger up your ass.” Greg looked at Mike then very quickly said, “I don’t want to know.”
Mike laughed. Ivy laughed.
Soon Greg was gone and Mike and Ivy the only people in the room. A day-time movie played on the television, something with Kevin Costner, but neither of them were watching it.
“Would you do me a favor?” Mike asked.
Ivy looked to him expectantly. The man could ask anything of him and he would do it. Almost. But even if it were something weird, he might feel compelled. Even if it were say, standing in his underwear at the foot of the bed.
“Would you get me something from the vending machine, a candy bar? And get yourself something. There’s five-dollars in the drawer there. My son left it.”
“Okay,” Ivy said.
He took the money. He moved his feet. Minutes later he stood in front of the vending machine looking for the proper candy bar. He decided on a Twix. And for himself? He caught a glimpse of his reflection and looked back at it. Beside his ear was the reflection of a window and leaves of a tree.
Inside his shape was all the mass-produced items of his country. They were all meaningless, just as he was meaningless. Just as existence didn’t matter. He fed change back into the machine and selected a candy bar for himself.
Why did he think such things? Why had he wondered if Mike would ask of him what he had thought? Why could he find no meaning? Except perhaps God. And God was no comfort now.
Mike took the candy bar and ripped the wrapper open.
“You look sad.”
“I, I just… was thinking.”
“I used to get caught doing that. Not so much anymore.”\
Mike laughed.
Ivy smiled.
He didn’t make it back to the apartment until after dinner. An aid snuck him an extra meal but he felt a little hungry as he pushed open the door. His brother and his brother’s wife sat watching television, watching a movie. Glasses of wine on the coffee table between them. Ivy smiled and waved as he moved past them to the office. Once there he stripped of his clothing and pulled the covers around him as he leaned into the corner made by the desk and the wall.
All day Sunday Ivy didn’t leave the apartment. This was normal for him. But as he thought of the week to come he worried that he had finished reading Greg and Mike the novel and they had not chosen a new one. He wondered what it would be. Would it be something for Mike or something for Greg?
For some reason he was worried. He couldn’t think why. But he was so worried that he didn’t want to confront them again so soon. He didn’t want to be at the hospital or in any of the rooms.
So he moved from sofa cushion to sofa cushion, watched DVD after DVD and tried not to think about it.
The next morning as he awoke it was all he could think about. He had finished another book just like the others he had read. He had given them his time, his energy. He wanted something else, something different. But he couldn’t think of what. His skin felt distant, a sensation occupied part of his brain just behind the eyes up and on the right. He showered. He dressed. The same clothes from Saturday, he checked them for stains or dirt. Nothing.
As he pulled the door shut he felt his breathing change. He had to think about it. Each breath became shorter. He took the steps one at a time. He stopped on the sidewalk, heard the noise of traffic, the sound of the bus. He knew what was happening. He was having a panic attack. He pushed his way back up the steps, unlocked the apartment door. Closed and alone he moved to the sofa. He couldn’t stop himself. He cried. Alone, no one would know unless he told them, and he kept crying.
Finally when he stopped everything seemed new. The sensation had changed to an ache. His skin was warm. He moved to the bathroom mirror. Eyes red, skin pink, and his big ears dark, almost the color of blood. He didn’t want this. He wanted something else. He didn’t know what. But he knew he wouldn’t make it out today. So he called the hospital and lied that he was sick.
