Moth for The Star

604 - Unseen Presence







*3 months later* March 2006





“Not to look on those eyes,

Those lips, that hair, -

All the smiling disguise that thou dost wear.”

- Shelley





New York

JUSTIN:



I walked around the stalwart table at the centre of my apartment for the hundredth time; staring at the assortment of canvasses propped up like so many shambolic shards of a quartz crystal. Raising my hand to my forehead and sighing with exasperation, I tugged a large one out from under smaller frames and stood it up against the wall; it was complex and chaotic, burning with red intensity and yellow ferocity. I had painted it some weeks ago and looking at it now, I felt a flush rise to my cheeks: my art reflected so much of me, it made me feel exposed. But I had once told Mikey that the greatest art is usually personal, and I still believed that. Let them judge me, tear me apart. I have already given all I have to give.



And I really had no cause to complain: I had been received with better reviews, more success and more popularity than I had ever imagined. Arriving as a small-town artist, following his dream on the suggestion of another; I had expected obscurity, intolerance and belittlement. Instead, although it had been hard, I had found that critics praised my thematic choices, the public was attracted to the energy of my work and I myself found a rhythm, an inventive cadence, producing increasingly adroit work. The reason I was now staring at my paintings in the middle of my floor was because Mr. Olsen had taken me to dinner one day and dropped the bomb of which I had dreamt for the 11 months I had been in New York: I had been asked to effectuate my first solo show.



I had stared at him over the oysters and salmon, at his crisp white shirt and costly black suit, aware of my mouth forming into an irrepressible grin.



“When?” I had asked “Where?And why...now?”



Henry Olsen had smiled his suave smile over the rim of his champagne glass. “In April,” he said. “At the Manhattan Emerging Art Gallery and because, Mr. Taylor, you are proving yourself to be very worth my while!” He sat back and took off his glasses, tapping them against his chin as he regarded me amusedly.



“Do you know to whom I sold one of your paintings yesterday?” He inquired and when I shook my head, exclaimed “Mr. William Farthinstoke!” reaching over and thumping me on the shoulder.



Mr. Farthinstoke. Rich. Rotund. Ruthless. Renowned. One of the most prolific collectors in New York, he set the trends. Once he started collecting an artist's work, they found themselves rolling, recklessly, radically, into repute. Fame slithered behind this man like a luxuriant shadow. Porky hands smothered in gold rings. Money sings. Bathing in millions. A celebrity in the dusty world of art collectors, his interest heralded distinction, elevation, triumph.



I felt the blood rush away from my head and down to my fingers and toes with a numbing tingle. At last! 11 months of paint-smeared nights working at my easel, 11 months of smiling and being introduced to clicking black heels in salon soirees, 11 months of watching and cultivating my own voracious style, and finally I was recognized!! Success beckoned like gaping jaws, lined with applauding admirers like so many glistening teeth. Mr. Olsen went on, beaming whilst lighting up a cigar in celebration, telling me that one of my recent compositions, 'Chaining a soul', had caught Mr. Farthinstoke's small shiny eye as he cruised around one of the accumulative exhibitions. I thought back to the painting, one I had crafted on an agitated day, wanting to express the intense frustration I had felt after the bashing, a frustration I was reluctant to admit I still felt at times.



Strong black strokes almost totally conceal a vague bright shape behind. From a distance one can see it is crouched, swirling colours bunched tightly with anticipation and sadness. With allusions to Watt's 1885 painting 'Hope' the figure reaches out its hand as if to catch the music from the last remaining string of an almost shattered lyre. A blindfold is hinted at with angry gash of navy paint and the ether around the edges of the canvas burns with tireless brush strokes, emotion tumbling out, screaming, rolling with heavy, textured technique. A soaring mind imprisoned by a deficient body, an intellectual ambition thwarted by a shaking hand.



***



Pittsburgh



Brian wove his way through the swaying forest of multicoloured bodies in Babylon. Michael followed behind him, grinning and tripping slightly from the mild drugs Brian had shared with him behind Ben's back. Not that Brian much did drugs these days, Michael mused. In fact he had become altogether more...sober. In character and behaviour since... Michael pushed the thoughts from his mind, slightly embarrassed that he still felt a pang of jealousy when he remembered Justin, even though he had seen with his own eyes what a confident, serious and thoughtful young man Justin had become, and how good he had been for Brian. Did Michael's sexual attraction for his friend still take precedence after all these years? Michael shook his head. It was stupid and he had Ben, who was hot...yet not in the same way as Brian's powerful slenderness, his assertive poise, his masculine beauty...



A jovial shout interrupted Michael's thoughts: Ted was standing at the bar laughing, his arm around Blake's slight shoulders, beckoning and gesturing towards a gin and tonic. Michael pushed past a kissing couple and joined his friends. Brian leaned nonchalantly against one of the metal beams, a cocktail resting next to him on the bar. He smiled and grabbed Michael around the back of the neck, pulling him in with a laugh.



“So, what'll it be for Mikey?” he chuckled, and Michael thought he could see a hint of something behind the usual guarded eyes with their casual expression; a hint of...worry? Pain? What was it? But he forgot all about it when his 'Bloody Mary' arrived and he nearly choked at the taste of tomato in a drink.



“There was nearly a bashing last week” Ted forwarded, earning a scathing look from Brian and surprise from Michael and Blake.

“What do you mean nearly?' his boyfriend asked, and Ted played with his hair as he replied; “It was in 'Out' last weekend! I picked one up in the diner after I finished spread-sheeting my tax returns and filing the latest income from out new clients at Kinnetic...”



“Okay Schmidt, no more about your wonderful world of dancing numbers” Brian interrupted with a friendly sneer. “Or do you want every stud in my club to loose his hard-on?”



“Right.” Ted continued “Anyway, I saw that some thugs had started to threaten a young gay boy, and started chasing him,” he threw a furtive glance at Brian, “but this kid, he ran away and they chased him....right into a gay bar!” Michael felt the mirth bubbling up in his chest at the image of several gay bashers, complete with clubs and knives, suddenly finding themselves surrounded by a host of angry queens. He snuck a glance at Brian and saw he was smiling into his glass, never an exhibitionist.

The thrumming pulse of the music beat through Michael's chest, and he closed his eyes, glad when Brian took his hand with a whispered “Let's dance” and they lost themselves in the sweat and glitter and skin and flashing lights on the dance floor. Gazing at Brian as he swayed, his head back and his eyes on the lofty darkness above the disco illumination, Mikey smiled and began to mentally checklist the things that Hunter would need for University next year...



Suddenly, Brian stopped. His stillness was a stark contrast to the swaying energy surrounding them, and he grasped out, catching hold of Mikey's shirt as his eyes focused on the ground. Glitter turning misty. And then, as Michael turned in surprise, Brian's knees buckled beneath him and he crumpled to the floor. Michael's mind became soundless: bodies moved to no music, mouths opened in silent shouts, lights flared in the quietude. Brian lay, unmoving on the boards, his hand curled beside him and Michael, in a bizarre state of tranquillity, noticed the soft skin on his palm and the fine long fingers...



And then it was all clamouring and crowding and people bending down pushing Michael out the way, his heart hammering in his chest. Glances and bellows for a doctor, shouting above the deafening music. Finally, Mikey shoved his way through, pulling a concerned man off Brian, and bent down to roll his friend over. Brian's eyes were closed, his lids bluish and his skin a deathly pale but he was breathing. Unconscious. Screaming for Ted, Mikey fought back the panic in his throat and swallowed terrified tears as he gestured for him to call the paramedics. And on all sides people danced on, lost in the beat: just another person collapsed, nightly occurrence. A small hubbub in one corner of the dance floor, whilst all around the 'thumpa thumpa' continued.



***



New York

JUSTIN:



I woke in a cold sweat. Looking at my alarm clock, I saw it was still the early hours of the morning: the streetlight were on outside and a midnight chill misted the windows. My dreams had been nameless, complex and fleeting. I knew I was under a lot of stress from putting on my own show, and the pressure of so many people's expectations. I had not been sleeping well for the past few nights; waking early, thinking incessantly, painting to the point of exhaustion. No matter how I tried, nothing I created gave me satisfaction, and I was sure it would not satisfy the public either, and so frustration had crept into my work, hardening angles and coarsening brushstrokes, bringing back the phrase 'crude and heavy-handed' with a biting irony.



I expelled my breath in an exasperated huff and threw off the covers, swinging my legs over the side of the bed and standing in the cool midnight silence, feeling the dark coolness rolling over my neck and arms and breathing slowly. Only one week until my show. FUCK. And I still did not have anything that I felt proud of, that was worthy of the New York standard, the standard I knew they would be expecting. I walked over to my easel and picked up a fresh canvas; maybe I might be able to capture some of the unfathomable and disturbing energy of my dreams. It was then I realized with a jolt and a sudden knot in my stomach that my hand was shaking. Badly. Twitching and jerking with a life of its own. Sure, I had painted for 10 hours solid yesterday, but still it had not played up like this in years.



Brian had always known when I was having trouble, when I was upset, or angry, and when my hand shook even when I tried to hide it. Before I fell in with Cody; when anger was hardening my soul and clouding my head; I had searched so hard for a way to release that fury. Fury at Chris Hobbes, fury at what had happened to me and how it had put my life on hold, but most of all fury at myself for being inactive, for not seeking revenge, or at least justice. For being so powerless against his violence, for thinking that I could actually find myself again through my art.



Brian had come home that night to find me stormily drawing and re-drawing, hard charcoal strokes over old ones, deeper and deeper, darker and darker, as if I could actually make the pictures speak, if I just drew them well and harshly enough. He had padded over softly to me, picking up one of my discarded sheets of paper; one depicting a man's guts being ripped out by two grimacing transvestites with pointed teeth and huge hands. After studying it he had come to sit beside me, making a non-committal remark, aware of my fragile temper. And when I had felt the familiar tense shudder begin, and sworn at my fucking hand for being so useless, for embodying MY ineptitude, he had gently reached out and tried to take it, to give it the massage he and I knew always relaxed it. But I had pushed him away, too wound up and hostile to accept help. I wonder how many times he has been there for me and I didn't see it. His eyes that night as I spat out my anger, as I tried to alienate him through references to my bashing, were so soft. Concerned and quiet, he had just sat there and listened. Been there for me when I needed but not about to push me, no expectations, just his unconditional support, his unspoken commitment.



I looked up from my reverie, gazing across my empty apartment; my empty life; and pictured his face: deep green eyes burning into mine, soft full lips that I knew so well, pliant skin under which you could feel the hard angle of his jaw... I had stopped fantasizing about his body a few months ago, but at times like these, just the thought of his countenance; the beloved expressions, the familiar feel of his silky hair under my finders; made me smile and lose the burdens of the day. My hand had stopped shaking and I gently picked up a brush, feeling the old shiver of inspiration run down my spine. With a smile playing on my lips, I sat down at my easel and began to paint.



***



Pittsburgh



The hospital staff told Michael that they wanted to keep Brian in for observation overnight after they had released him from E.R, unable to find anything that would have caused him to pass out. Brian, when he had recovered, as usual shrugged off the incident, but Mikey continued to worry.



“You've never passed out like that before,” he said, glancing at Brian's impassive face in the clean neon-lit light of the ward, “It's always been due to booze or drugs…and I saw you were sober tonight”



“Or maybe” Brian interjected, a tired smile on his lips “I've just got better at hiding it…even from you!”



“Don't bullshit me, Brian. I know something's up. Now what is it?”



Brian looked at him, tilting his head to one side, and then he lifted his hand and placed it around the back of Michael's neck.



“I'll tell you as soon as I know, Mother Hen”



***



That night in the echoing hospital, Brian let himself think. What the fuck was wrong with him? Apart from the spells of dizziness, there had been a growing pain in his side, low in the pelvis, sometimes searing and making him clench his teeth, sometimes fading to a dull ache. He didn't want to imagine what his mother's God had cooked up for him this time… Despite his 'fuck-'em-all' attitude and his uncaring masquerade, Brian cared deeply that his mother had condemned him to hell. A part of him wondered whether she was right, whether he was meant to be punished for breaking some stupid fucking rule in a musty old book, probably written by a bunch of power-hungry priests to control their followers through fear and dogmatism. Whatever.



His thoughts took him back to Justin, and he wished, for a moment, that his partner…Yes, he allowed himself to think that word, for after all they had been through nothing else really fit… was there. And then he mentally kicked himself for even imagining that Justin would want to come back, away from his new life, his success, where one wrong move now would make or break his career. Who was Brian to tie him down, chain him emotionally, drag him back to dirty old Pittsburgh? That is why he had stopped phoning, had left Justin physically and emotionally free to do whatever he wanted to do, and fulfil whatever potential he wanted. Brian grimaced as the sound of distant retching and groaning reached his ears. Corridors of ghosts. He wondered briefly whether his father had spent time here, in the weeks before he died…Jack Kinney, not meant to be a family man, but always willing to sponge money off his dutiful son. Dishing out insults and heartbreak with one hand whilst accepting cheques and support with the other. Brian pursed his lips: now the old fucker was dead and gone.



The next morning, early, just after the nurse had made her rounds, dishing out pills to reaching hands like sweets to eager children, Brian found a doctor at the foot of his bed. Having already dressed from the night bag Mikey had brought, he sat on the mattress and glanced up, mentally preparing himself. The older man, in a white starched coat and big spectacles, came round to face him, holding a clipboard in the crook of his arm and raising his hugely bushy grey eyebrows he asked Brian to follow him into his office on the floor above. Once there, Brian sat down on the big leather chair to one side of the desk, and the doctor on the other.



“Mr Kinney,” he began, “My name is Dr. Berelowitz. I hear you were brought in unconscious last night from a … nightclub”

Brian snorted, “Yeah Doc, but I wasn't unconscious for the reason you think!”



Dr. Berelowitz pressed the tips of his fingers together and peered at Brian over the tops of them. “I know.” He said quietly. And when Brian folded his arms, sat back in his chair and waited, he continued; “We could not at first find what was wrong with you, so we ran some more extensive tests. The results came back this morning and… It appears you have stage 2 osteosarcoma. It is a form of bone cancer, and looking at your medical history, I would say probably secondary to the testicular cancer that was removed 2 years ago.”



Brian let out a short disbelieving laugh. “I guess God isn't finished with me after all!” he muttered. Dr. Berelowitz looked up, “Sorry?” and Brian glanced away: “Nothing.” Then he was silent before clearing his throat and glancing around the suddenly spinning office. “What are my chances? What do you have to do?”



Dr. Berelowitz frowned and sat forward in his chair; “The prognosis is not totally negative,” he said carefully. “Survival ranges from 50% to 60%. What's more, the tumour is on your upper right femur and so is operable, and although it is metastatic osteosarcoma, the metastases are few and localised, meaning we have caught it before it was certified terminal. The typical symptoms of osteosarcoma, some of which you have been experiencing; pain, joint swelling, fatigue, fever, weight loss, dizziness and anaemia can all be easily mistaken for flu or hyperglycaemia and so the cancer often goes unnoticed for a time. The fact too that it does not initially show up on your routine blood tests makes it hard to diagnose.”



Dr. Berelowitz stood up and reached behind him on the shelf, pulling down a large black diary. “But now, Mr. Kinney” he said, “You must undergo pre-operative chemotherapy and localised radiotherapy to try and shrink the tumour. Then, in a few months we may have to operate. I am going to book you in for radiotherapy once a month for the first few months before switching to chemo once a month and after that we may have to intensify the treatments. Just make sure you look after yourself at home and read up on osteosarcoma. I really am very sorry.” He smiled ruefully at Brian who bit his lip and stared out the window, shaking his head slightly.



The doctor leaned across his desk. “I must tell you, Mr. Kinney, that despite the success of chemotherapy for osteosarcoma, it has one of the lowest survival rates for osteopathic cancer. So it may be best to start preparing yourself for it to go either way...tell the wife and kids...“



Brian turned to look at him and smiled a sardonic smile: “I'll be sure to do that Doc!“ he said, and then, picking up his bag and gathering the papers Dr. Berelowitz gave him, he walked slowly, numb, out of the hospital and into the sunny street.



***



New York

JUSTIN:



The hall was buzzing when I took a deep breath and stepped through the misted glass doors. Seeing the huge banner outside the gallery with a copy of one of my paintings and my name in massive black lettering had made the nerves clutch at my chest, restricting, making me want to turn tail and run. But this was it, the moment I had been waiting for, where I would surely come to life in the eyes of New York, or die with the floundering masses: my first solo show.



So I plunged into the sea of dinner jackets and champagne and collectors and art students and gallery directors, no doubt invited by Mr. Olsen. Immediately I was surrounded by congratulations and pats on the back and smiles and appreciative remarks. Throughout the afternoon I mingled and talked with various people, wanting to know about my inspiration (I couldn't tell them of my real muses, but I said the appropriate and slipped in and out of conversation.) I had become quite the socialite: New York had taught me well. The energetic kid with his passions and frustrations seemed a distant memory now - I was Justin Taylor, acclaimed Manhattan artist, an upcoming name in art magazines. I saw with a start the broad round shoulders of Mr. Farthinstoke coasting above the crowd and I made my way over to him. He congratulated me and looked down his nose at me then looked up at one of my paintings, and the arrogant smile playing around his jowls told me he would buy another of my works and make my fortune.



Later that evening I was approached by a thin woman in a black silk dress and massive white pearls. She introduced herself pompously as Veronica King, art critic and collector, in the business for over 45 years, her small black eyes darting amusedly over my face and her claw-like hands playing with her lace scarf.



“So, you are the Justin Taylor that Henry won't shut up about!” She crooned. “I must say you are quite young to be so talented…how old are you?”



“Twenty-four” I replied, smiling at her bluntness.



We talked about trivial things and Pittsburgh and as she spoke Ms. King walked, leading me over to my painting 'Chaining a soul'. When we were stood in front of it she turned to contemplate it. “This one intrigued me especially” she murmured, eyes darting over the rough texture of the paint with its flaring colours concealed by darker strokes. “There is such an entrapped energy to it.”



“Yes,” I rejoined “That one pretty much comes from…experience” And when she turned back to me with a questioning look, I told her of my hand after the assault and how I had felt so restricted and angry. She looked at me with a pitying expression; “Don't you worry young man, you have proven yourself here, and you need never think about it again. You can go and get a wonderful wife who will love you like you deserve…Do you already have a wife? A sweetheart perhaps?”



I shifted the weight on my feet; “Well, actually…” But Ms. King cut in with a knowing smile, “Back in Pittsburgh is she? How can you resist!”



“There is someone” I said firmly, looking her in the eye, wondering as I said those words whether they were still true. “But it's not a girl. I am gay, you see”.



Her face went blank as her mask of propriety slipped and she stared at me, quickly looking me up and down as if my sexual orientation would show on the outside…which it did for people like Emmett I suppose. Then she turned back to stare at my painting, putting her claw up to her mouth as she scrutinised it, for lack of anything to say.



I continued as I too looked at the huge canvass; “It was a hate crime, someone struck me in the skull with a baseball bat for being gay.” I turned to look at her.



Finally she swivelled back to face me, and despite her obvious struggle a small smile was playing on her lips. “I must admit that I never would have guessed it… and I doubt I will ever understand it! But you will make some lucky man very happy, Mr. Taylor.” Her expression turned thoughtful “You know, I've never actually admired a homosexual before!”



***



Pittsburgh



Brian sat on the white rug on the floor of his apartment, a joint held carelessly in-between his fingers. Night blurred the illuminated buildings in the window behind him and he felt peaceful, or was it hopeless? Mikey and the boys would bounce over in a few hours, ready to go to Babylon and celebrate: back into the tireless beat, the celestial sway, the mindless effulgence. Yet Brian did not think he could lose himself anymore in the club, could not shrug off all thought like in times past. Debbie's words came back to him through the fog of his memory: “Mourn the losses because they are many, but celebrate the victories because they are few.” Brian sighed, taking a drag from the thin white cylinder in his hand; maybe he should accept it with grace and dignity…



He lifted a card off the table and gazed at it. Years had passed like leaves blowing in the wind, and there was nothing he could do to fight it. It was his 35th birthday, and Brian felt momentarily bitter: Fine fucking present God had decided to give him. But there was also nothing he could do to fight the doctor's revelation earlier that week. So he leaned back and stared up at the distant ceiling, revelling in the smallest sensations: the feel of the thick carpet beneath his bare feet, the hard edge of the sofa behind his back, the gentle touch of a breeze on his cheek from the half-open window.



***



End of Chapter 4