Ben smiled sleepily. “It’s the one about living forever.”
“What?”
“The Bible verse. John something. ‘All who believe in Him shall not perish but have everlasting’ . . . et cetera.”
“All that’s written on the bottom?”
He shook his head. “Just the chapter and verse numbers.”
“But you knew them?”
“I Googled them.”
She laughed. If Ben had been a closet believer, it would have been a revelation, since Michael had indicated that the two of them had given up on organized religion. She felt curiously let down. She wasn’t all that religious herself, so it might have been useful—or comforting, anyway—if someone she knew had Wi-Fi to the Almighty.
THE HIGHWAY WOUND INTO THE mountains so gently that she barely noticed the climb. It was not until the trees had become pointy and a boulder-strewn river was racing them through a gorge that the change was undeniable. Then, out of nowhere, filaments of snow began to lash the windshield from every direction, making even the dog take notice. Roman was sitting by the window now, enraptured by the gradual whitening of things.
“Is this the Sierras?” she asked.
“Sierra,” said Michael, correcting her. “Singular. Sierra Nevada means ‘snowy range.’ It’s plural already.”
“Oh . . . pardon me.”
“He does that to everyone,” Ben told her.
She changed the subject. “We have chains, I take it?”
“Yeah,” answered Ben, “but the snow isn’t sticking yet, and we passed the checkpoint a few miles back. We should be fine.”
Ben was a snowboarder, of course, so his definition of “fine” could very well differ from hers. Already she’d been horriblizing about the narrow shoulder of the road, the ominous rake of the slopes leading down to the river. She had always been a confident driver and a nervous passenger, and her not-so-latent acrophobia wasn’t helping matters.
“So Pinyon City is . . . up here somewhere?”
“Well, up and then down,” said Michael.
“What do you mean?”
“It’s on the eastern side of the range. Almost in Nevada.”
“So . . . what’s the descent like?”
Smelling her distress, Michael gave her a cagey look over the seat, like a spiteful little brother. “A lot quicker, for one thing.”
She would not let him torment her, however playfully he’d meant it. She distracted herself with the scrolling scenery: a neon beer sign in a tavern window, a bright yellow snowplow, an archipelago of snow from an earlier snowfall, gleaming under the dark pines. But it was no use. She couldn’t stop clocking the relentless climb or the weave of the road or the ominous blossoming of caution signs.
“I take it we’re reaching the crest,” she said, as casually as possible.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Michael brightly, with barely a hint of sadism this time. “You’ll be able to see the lake. Or half of it, at least.”
She didn’t want to see half the lake. She wanted down from there as soon as possible. She hated to sound hysterical in front of Ben, but she had no choice.
“Ben . . . could you slow it down a bit?” He was going forty-five around a bend where thirty-five had been suggested, and she’d just caught a glimpse of the gaping chasm beyond the road, the instant oblivion that some people liked to call a View.
The trouble with Views was where you had to see them from.
Ben said, “No problem,” but didn’t seem to slow down much. He was a good driver, she reminded herself, and extremely careful most of the time, but knowing that did little to relieve the abject panic that was already gripping her.
“Thanks,” she said. “I’m sorry. It’s not you, it’s me.”
The road leveled out, giving her a chance to breathe and loosen her viselike grip on the arm support. It didn’t last for long. Another yellow sign was screaming at her:
EXTREME CAUTION.
DANGEROUS CLIFFS AHEAD.
“Jesus,” she muttered. “What cliffs? Where?”
Her answer came as soon as they rounded the bend. They were hugging the side of the mountain now. There were sheer granite cliffs above and below them, and only a stone wall—two feet high at the most—separated the right-hand lane from certain death. On the serpentine descent she saw places in the wall where the stones were missing or the mortar had been crudely patched, obviously because some poor soul hadn’t heeded the warning sign, or was too drunk to notice. Her leg stiffened against phantom brakes as a warbling groan escaped from the back of her throat through clenched teeth.
“For God’s sake,” said Michael. “Stop with the Indian war chant.” He pointed out the window. “Look! There’s Tahoe.”
Ben, to her horror, actually turned his head to admire the view, and she was certain she could feel the car veer in the same direction. “Ben . . . please don’t do that.”
“Then you look,” said Michael. “You’re missing it.”
“I see it. It’s beautiful.”
“You’re not even looking.”
“I am, Mouse! Mountains, lake, snow . . . oh Jesus Fucking Christ!”
A huge, sooty Safeway truck was thundering toward them around the bend. As it passed with a ghastly whoosh, she closed her eyes and stopped breathing altogether.
“You’re being silly,” Michael told her like a scolding parent. “And you’re not making it any easier for Ben.”
“I know.” She was completely mortified now. She’d always had a thing about cliffs—even before that horrific day with Norman—but she had never before exposed to it so blatantly. Maybe that was because her acrophobia had offered an acceptable outlet for the panic that had been brewing in her for days. The terror in the pit of her belly was less about the altitude than, well, the terror in the pit of her belly.
“It’s almost over,” Ben assured her. “It’s always a little creepy the first time.”
Tell me about it, she thought.
AS MICHAEL HAD PROMISED, THEY reached the valley floor in a matter of minutes. Mary Ann was relieved to be done with her vertigo, but she’d expected more for her suffering than the free-range commerce that had suddenly blossomed along the highway: hot tubs displayed in parking lots, spangly billboards for nightclub acts, “cyber chalets” strung with icicle lights. Not exactly honky-tonk, but not that far from the outskirts.
“Are we there yet?” she asked, hoping the answer was no.
Michael parried her query with one of his own. “Don’t you wanna stop and buy a chainsaw sculpture?”
He was enjoying this, she realized. As long as she’d known him he’d made a game out of toying with her expectations, building suspense for what lay ahead. He was like an annoying little kid leading a blindfolded friend to his secret fort in the woods.
“You’re not going to tell me a thing, are you?”
“Just soak it in, babycakes.”
“I feel like I’m being abducted.”
“Great. That’s what we’re going for.”
A green highway sign pointed the way to Pinyon City, but neither Ben nor Michael remarked upon it. This smaller road led them through a cluster of houses with suburban-looking street signs and seasonal flags flying over the garages. Within minutes, however, the houses had disappeared and they were cruising through a broad, seemingly unpopulated valley. The meadows on both sides of the road were vast and already dusted with snow; the mountains in the distance imposing but somehow incapable of menace. They embraced her, in fact, made her feel safer than she’d felt in weeks.
She remembered a magazine called Christmas Ideals that her grandmother had sent her every year when she was a little girl back in Cleveland. It was sturdier than most magazines, and glossy, and inside there were poems printed on scenes from nature. If she were to see one today, she would probably find it corny, but back then her easy childish heart had soared at the sight of those snow-laden pines and starlit valleys.
Ideals had been the ideal nam
e, she realized, since what the magazine had offered was the sweet reassurance that life could not be improved upon. A pristine landscape was perfection itself; it was only when you added people that everything changed.
Maybe that’s why she was feeling so peaceful.
There was no one around. Anywhere. And the world was fading to white.
“Where did everybody go?” she asked.
“Exactly,” said Ben.
Chapter 18
Unclean Urges
Jake was surprised when Anna told him of her plans for the afternoon. These days she rarely left the house without him, and then only for brief strolls around the neighborhood. He might have caught on to her scheme had he thought about it for a while, but he was glad to have the flat to himself, and Anna seemed excited about seeing Michael Tilson Thomas conducting something or other at Davies Hall. When she left with the upstairs neighbors, Selina and Marguerite, she was dolled up in her fanciest floral kimono and the little velvet cap that Michael had given her for her birthday.
“If you’re feeling inspired,” she told Jake, holding on to Marguerite’s arm, “Notch’s litter box could use a little freshening. Otherwise, enjoy yourself, dear. We won’t be home until after dinner.”
He watched from the door as the three of them—all moving at Anna’s speed—headed down the street toward the Muni Metro station. When they were out of sight, Notch approached and did her little leg-rubbing dance, so he took it as his cue to grab a bag of Feline Pine from its usual spot beside the washer. The ammonia smell stung his nostrils as he twist-tied the heavy bag of dirty litter and moved it, gingerly, to the trash. As he replaced the litter, Notch sat perfectly still on the kitchen counter, watching the operation with the air of a rich lady keeping an eye on her housekeeper.
So now what? With Anna at the symphony and Michael in the mountains for two days, Jake’s major responsibilities were gone. He considered raking the soggy bamboo leaves from the terrace, but that would feel too much like his day job, so he settled on watching television. Anna had never cared for television (“except in times of national emergency”), so, despite the fact that the set was in his bedroom, he tried not to watch it when she was around. You could hear it all the way down the hall, so it would have been disrespectful to invade her space like that, considering the preciousness of her days. But sometimes, thanks to TiVo, when Anna was visiting her acupuncturist, or camped out on a bench in the art museum, he could steal a few guiltless moments in bed with ESPN.
He had already watched two satisfying hours of soccer when the doorbell rang. By the time he’d pulled on his sweats and considered the usual suspects—Jehovah’s Witnesses, delivery dykes, neighbors with flyers for poetry jams—another possibility had presented itself. A glimpse through the window confirmed the worst.
The Mormon kid. Jonah Flake.
Jake sighed and opened the door. He waited for the intruder to speak.
“Your grandmother said you’d be home today.”
“My grandmother.”
“The elderly lady. Whatever. She called herself your roommate. I figured she was kidding.” A crooked smile split the soft, round peach of Jonah’s face.
Jake just stood there.
“Dude . . . can I come in?”
“Not if you’re packing a Bible.”
Jonah grinned and held up his hands as proof. “I’m totally clean.” He cocked an ear toward the hallway. “Is that soccer?”
“Yeah.”
“AC Milan?”
This is what they do, thought Jake. Find something they have in common with you and use it to get their foot in the door.
“Listen, man, I hafta tell you, you’re wasting your time if—”
“It’s not that, dude. I need your help.”
Jake was thrown by the urgency in the kid’s eyes. “My help?”
“I’d rather tell you inside, if that’s okay.”
“Well . . . we gotta make it quick . . . I don’t wanna miss this match.” This was bullshit, of course, since Jake could watch the match whenever he wanted, but he needed an easy way out if Jonah tried to get all churchy on him again. “You can sit over there,” he told Jonah, gesturing to Anna’s armchair.
The kid sat down, but only on the edge of the chair, and his back remained unnaturally straight. He might as well have had a Bible on his knee.
“So wassup, Elder Flake?”
Jonah flinched as if he’d been slapped.
“That’s what you call yourself, right? When you’re a missionary?”
“That’s not what I am today.”
“Okay . . . whatever.”
The kid was quiet for a moment. “The thing is, Jake, I have the same urges you did. Toward men, I mean.”
This wasn’t exactly news. The kid had practically said as much on Forbes Island. “But you don’t act on them. You’ve got . . . whatshername now.”
“Becky. Yeah, I love her . . . for sure. She’s a wonderful girl. But I still have these feelings. I pray for them to go away, but it’s a struggle. It’s the biggest struggle of my whole life, but I’m making it for Heavenly Father.” The kid’s big gray eyes were damp now. “But sometimes it’s like . . . there’s nothing I can do about it.”
Oh shit, thought Jake. So that’s where this is going.
“It’s not like I wasn’t prepared. I was. I knew that a place like San Francisco would put me in the path of temptation. But sometimes when I meet somebody new, the urges get too much for me and . . .”
The kid didn’t finish the sentence, so Jake tried to spare them both the embarrassment. “Jonah . . . dude . . . I’m really flattered, but I don’t think that sexually you and me would be—”
“No! I don’t mean you!”
The response was so fierce that Jake couldn’t help but feel stung by it. “Okay, man . . . cool . . . whatever.”
“No offense . . . you’re handsome and all, but you’re more like a friend. I just meant . . . I met this dude at Starbucks today, and he asked me to go home with him.”
Jake took that in. “I thought you guys couldn’t drink coffee.”
“What guys?”
“Mormons.”
“I was having a brownie.”
“So . . . what? . . . You had sex with this dude, and you’re feeling guilty now.”
“No. I told him no. I said it was against my faith.”
“Well . . . there you go. Nothing to be worried about. Your sacred purity is intact.”
“But . . . I’m still feeling the urges. I haven’t stopped feeling them for the past two hours.”
“Then go back and fuck him. Get over yourself, dude. Get over your damn faith. It’s gonna kill you.”
The kid looked devastated. “Haven’t you ever had something you wanted to change . . . and you couldn’t . . . and it made you feel like a crazy person?”
Oh, one little thing, thought Jake.
“If you don’t wanna help—”
“I just tried to, Jonah. I gave you my best advice. What else could I possibly do?”
Jonah hesitated, his fingertips fidgeting at his temple, where a sprinkling of acne betrayed his idling adolescence. He seemed to be weighing something.
“It’s gonna sound wack,” he said.
“Try me.”
“I need you to hold me.”
Jake just blinked at him.
“It’s part of my therapy. Back in Snowflake my therapist does it, but I don’t know anybody here besides the other elders, and I don’t . . . they don’t know about my, you know . . . You don’t have to, dude, if you don’t—”
“Your therapist holds you?”
“It’s called touch therapy. I’m supposed to do it when I feel unclean urges. He says the urges come to me because my dad was so distant, so . . . if I can find a man to hold me, I’ll be getting what I want, and sex won’t have to be part of it. He says gay men really just want strong masculine love.”
Jake remembered now. He’d seen this on a CNN report about ex-
gays: one grown man holding another on his lap, rocking him like a baby, stroking his head.
“Is this guy like . . . a therapist therapist?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like . . . a psychiatrist or something?”
Jonah shrugged. “He’s a reparative therapist . . . a highly respected LDS leader. He went through this himself. Personally.”
“He’s gay, you mean.”
“Was. He’s married and has kids now. Listen, dude . . . it was wrong of me to ask. You’ve made your own choices. You’ve got your life worked out.”
Right, thought Jake.
The kid stood up, stumbling a little, obviously embarrassed. He headed for the door, looking much more rejected than Jake had felt moments earlier.
“What the hell,” said Jake.
Jonah turned. “What?”
“What do I have to do? Do I have to talk?”
“You’ll do it?”
“I’ll give it a shot.”
The kid’s peachy face went red with relief. Or gratitude. Or something.
He blushes like I do, thought Jake.
“You don’t have to say anything at all,” Jonah assured him. “You can watch the match, if you want.”
“The TV’s in the bedroom, dude.”
“That’s okay. I trust you.”
“We keep our clothes on, right?”
“Totally.”
Jake led the way to the bedroom—and the bed—where he propped pillows against the headboard and let Jonah lie against his chest. Jake wondered what to do with his hands, until Jonah guided him, placing one of them behind his own head and the other on his waist. He did this with such practiced authority that Jake was reminded of a ballroom dance class he had endured one summer as a kid in Oklahoma. Only then he had been the one with a hand on his waist.
“So this is it?” he asked.
“Yep.”
“How long do we do it?”
“Ten or fifteen minutes . . . usually. As long as it takes for the urges to pass.”
Jake felt another twinge of resentment toward this unforgettable stud from Starbucks, then made himself let it go. “Just lemme know, dude.”
“You can rock me, if you don’t mind. That’s part of it.”