Flesh and Blood - By Michael Cunningham Page 0,118
him a sandwich, sat at the table with him. It was a cold white day that refused to snow. The sky outside the window, between the buildings, was fat and billowed, opaque.
She said, “Jamal, honey. You know what AIDS is, right?”
Jamal chewed his sandwich. He held the bread with both hands, like a child younger than seven. He needed a haircut. Loose corkscrews of shaggy black hair fell over his forehead and the back of his neck. She found herself staring at his eyelashes.
Wondering, would he like a bicycle for Christmas? Would he be safe on it?
He nodded.
“AIDS,” Zoe said, “is a kind of sickness, right?”
He nodded again.
“It's called a virus. It's like a tiny bug, too small to see. It can get into people's blood. And it makes them get sick.”
“Uh-huh.”
“Well. I have it. It got into my blood, and I might get sick. I'll probably get sick.”
“When?”
“I don't know. It could happen anytime. I thought I should tell you now.”
“How did you get it?” he asked.
“I'm not sure.” She paused. Don't stop, she told herself. Just let him know. He'll always remember every lie you tell.
“Probably from a man,” she said. “I honestly don't know who. Or from a needle.”
“Did you get it from my father?” he asked.
“No.”
She didn't know that. But there were limits to what she could say to him.
“Will you die?” he asked.
“I don't know. I hope not. But I could.”
“If you died, would I go live with my father?”
“No,” she said.
“Good.”
She stroked his hair. He took another bite of his sandwich, chewed, swallowed. A pipe in the ceiling thumped.
“If you died I'd live with Cassandra,” he said.
“You love Cassandra. Don't you?”
“I don't have it. Do I?”
“No. I had you tested years ago, you probably don't remember. The doctor took some blood, you screamed for half an hour. But no, you're fine.”
“Can I go up to Ernesto's?”
“Do you want to ask me any more questions?”
“No.”
“You sure?”
“Yes.”
“Is going to Ernesto's what you really want to do?” she said.
“Uh-huh.”
He got up from the table, walked to the door.
“Jamal?” she said.
“What?”
“Be careful.”
“Okay.”
“Don't play around in the halls with Ernesto. Stay in his apartment.”
“Okay.”
“The other day, I saw, well, just a man who didn't look very nice, hanging around out front. I don't think you and Ernesto should play in the halls anymore. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Don't stay too long, okay?”
“Okay.”
“Okay. Bye.”
He walked out the door and closed it behind himself. She could hear his feet ascending the stairs.
That had been the conversation during which she'd told her child that she would get sick and would probably die. What had she wanted, screams and accusations? A weeping collapse into her arms? This was probably better. But still she resented her son for being calm, and for wondering what would happen to him. She was relieved and she was furious and she was sad almost beyond tolerance. Would death itself be like this, so awkward and ordinary? She could see that it might. It might prove surprising mainly in its resemblance to every other event. It would not necessarily mean the end of unspoken emotions or self-concern; it might not even be the end of social embarrassment. Sitting at her kitchen table with a Mason jar full of hothouse tulips and her son's half-eaten sandwich, with the virus buzzing in her blood, she saw that she could leave her life worried only for herself, surrounded by people who would hold her hand and stroke her forehead and who would be wishing, under their grief, that she'd get through with her dying so they could continue their lives. Who'd be grateful it was her and not them.
This wasn't what she wanted, this bitterness and hollow fear. She wanted transcendence. She wanted bliss.
No. Not even that. She wanted to go on buying groceries and listening to music and reading the, newspaper in bed. She was so present in those daily details, so attached to them, that she realized, suddenly, she was not going to die. She was not going to die. She was too entirely here in the room, in her skin.
She lifted her wrist to her face, smelled her own flesh. Then she reached over and picked up Jamal's half-eaten sandwich. It bore the imprint of his teeth. She sat at the table holding it.
“Well, hon,” Cassandra said over the telephone, “what did you expect him to do?”
“I don't know,” Zoe answered. “I honestly don't.”
“Figuring out how he feels about you getting sick is going to be part of his life's work. Expecting him