the train pulled away. A thin man with dark hair. Yale thought for a moment that it was Julian—but that wasn’t his chin, and Julian wouldn’t be up yet at ten in the morning. Yale wondered what he’d do if and when he ran into Julian. Would he hit him in the face, or embrace him? It wasn’t Julian he was mad at, somehow. It was only Charlie. Halfway to Evanston, he decided that if he saw Julian, he’d probably just cry on him.
Roman was already in Yale’s office, collating and labeling the copies he’d made in Door County at the library. The entire contents of the shoebox.
Two messages from Bill Lindsey on his desk: one saying the Sharps were coming after lunch to see the pieces, the other reading, “Campo said yes—thank you!” It took Yale a few slow seconds to remember that he’d given Richard Campo’s number to Bill in the car yesterday morning, suggesting he could shoot the 8 × 10 photos they needed to send to New York, that maybe he’d do it on the cheap.
Yale went into the restroom to shave and brush his teeth. He hadn’t done it at Terrence’s, because Terrence was curled on the bathroom floor by the time he woke up, and again, or maybe still, when he got back from his errands. Terrence had promised he’d be fine, that Asher was coming by later. Yale sprinkled water on his shirt now to iron out the wrinkles by hand.
Maybe the test was wrong. Wasn’t it possible to mix up the files? There were no names on any tests, just—what, numbers? Codes? So the code could be off. Which still left him with the fact that Charlie was a louse and he himself was a fool, but all that would seem like nothing if the results could somehow be undone. And the test was so new. Teddy was always saying he didn’t believe everyone with the virus would get the full-blown disease. It was part of some larger conspiracy theory Yale couldn’t remember the details of. Something about there being no longitudinal studies. Christ, was this the bargaining stage of grief? But he hadn’t even moved on from anger yet! He looked at his face in the mirror, crumpled like a child’s. Portrait of a sucker.
Back at his desk, he stared at papers he couldn’t read. He hadn’t eaten since breakfast the day before in Sturgeon Bay, not counting his liquid dinner last night. He should have bought himself a banana when he’d picked up Terrence’s groceries. If he was infected, the best thing he could do was gorge, get fat while he still could. Eat six burgers tonight. Maybe by dinner he’d magically have an appetite.
But where was he even going to eat dinner? Some miserable restaurant. And then what? He couldn’t put Terrence out again. And he couldn’t go anywhere they would ask questions. He thought of Richard’s house, that big guest room, but the thought of that house made his stomach clench. Once upon a time, he might have stayed at Nico’s. Maybe his apartment was still empty, unrented, but where was the key? There were old friends from the Art Institute, some who didn’t even know Charlie, but no one he could impose on.
He felt ill. Feverish, dizzy, an ache in his joints. He’d reminded himself when he woke up this morning that he would probably convince himself he was sick. Knowing this didn’t help much.
At noon, he slowly dialed his own number. He imagined Charlie had gone in to work—Charlie would work through a tornado—but he thought maybe Teresa would pick up, could give him more answers.
Really, no, it wasn’t that. He wanted to cry at her, wanted her to tell him everything would be okay. If Teresa picked up, he’d send Roman out of the office. But she didn’t. And they didn’t have an answering machine, because Charlie was convinced that the day they got one it would be filled with panicked messages from his staffers.
He called Out Loud Chicago and, in a voice he hoped didn’t sound like his own but wasn’t odd enough to attract Roman’s attention from across the room, asked if the publisher happened to be in today. “No,” said a young person Yale couldn’t identify, “Mr. Keene is out on personal business.” He tried the travel agency, too, and was told that Charlie would be in on Tuesday.
It was a tremendous relief when one o’clock hit. He had something to do