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No one notices the slight boy who enters the park and stops abruptly, assessing for a place to sit. No one, except for the man in the gray baseball cap and matching tracksuit, and at the boy’s hesitance, halted at the fork in the path that leads to the benches that circle a quadrant of grass, Armand has a flash of guilt. The bench the boy occupies normally, or had been occupied by him the entire week that Armand spent watching from a distance, is taken today—by Armand. Space is plenty, but given the boy’s apparent preference to isolate, there is small chance that he will join Armand on the bench. Thankfully, the one next to it is empty. No accident, that. Armand had chased away every interested party, squashing their hopes for a sit-down, a moment or longer of respite, while his own was staked on the promise of three o’clock, and at three o’clock, that promise delivered. The boy arrived. And, thankfully, he decides to stay.
_
It was while waiting in line at Duane Reade, staring at a display of toilet paper marked down for a sale, that Armand first noticed the boy. Or, rather, his voice. His bark. Though it had less to do with its snappish tone, an occurrence so common in New York that Armand had already grown accustomed to it during his short stay there, than the word yipped out: Tetranozine. The only medication currently available on the market for the rare neurological disorder that causes extreme memory loss and, often, crippling pain. And it merely alleviated. Armand was in line to fill a prescription for the same.
What a terrible thing for this boy to experience. The occasional sensation of what seemed like a hundred knives stabbing at once at the base of his neck and seizing along his spine, to incacpicate him for days. And, regularly, the headaches. Pounding, blinding, nausea-inducing. Paralyzing. Poor, pale thing, too thin, hair rumpled as if he had just rolled out of bed. The too-long sleeves of his too-big sweatshirt swallowed the span of his hands, which hung limp as his arms against his side. And so young. So Armand thought, as he watched the boy step aside to wait for his pills, appearing as if the singular effort it took to be understood clearly, finally, by the pharmacist had cost him all that he had left on reserve.
Was it empathy that made Armand ache, then? A projection of his own fatigue? Or did the boy manage what no one else had in the months since Armand’s diagnosis? Somehow squirreled under his skin, into his heart, and woken interest? An anemic thing if indeed that’s what it was, but it was enough to pull Armand from the line, shelve his prescription to be filled the next day instead, and follow the boy.
The chase ended at the park, at three o’clock sharp, and the boy headed straight for the bench, where he sat for an hour feeding the pigeons. There, they parted. And, there, Armand returned the following day and the day after that, buoyed not by interest, but by hope, yet another thing he hadn’t felt in months, that he might see the boy again.
_
Initially, Armand was content to watch the boy tossing crumbs at the pigeons. It soothed him. The routine flick of his wrist and the flutter of wings at his feet, birds fighting for their piece. Though why, he could not say precisely. Perhaps it was the simplicity of the boy’s act. An uncomplicated pastime made necessary only by his devotion to it. Perhaps it was that devotion, how it could persist in someone afflicted like Armand. It was no small thing, he knew. Even if the thing that compelled it registered to no one but the boy, the pigeons, and him; the days had been bitter and cold, after all, and few others were driven to the park for any reason.
But perhaps it was the company. The presence of this other who was another and it didn’t matter that it was one-sided. They breathed the same air, existed in the same plane, and Armand’s proximity to the boy made Armand feel less like an island, even if they were both destined to never be mended. Perhaps it was because of that.
He had thought it enough. It was, until this morning, a morning that began no differently—piss, shower, brush his teeth, eat a bowl of oatmeal—and it was while he was chewing, staring at a wall but not seeing it, that interest returned. More distinct this time, shaping into an idea. What if he sat closer to the boy? What if they spoke? Armand was surprised at its clarity, at the amorphous interest turned to a sharp curiosity, almost desire. He expected it to be temporary, and dissipate as swiftly as it had formed, like a passing cloud, but it didn’t.
And so, hours before three o’clock, Armand arrived at the park, and was not surprised to find it filling quickly. Today’s off-season weather, unusually warm for January, had urged flocks of people from their stuffy, overheated apartments for a bit of fresh air, a bit of sun on their dried, parched skin, a reminder that spring would soon be on its way. Thankfully, the boy’s bench was still empty. He hastened for it. He intended to save it for the sole purpose of relinquishing it when the boy arrived. He doesn’t know when he changed his mind. But the lie rolled easily off his tongue at the first man who approached the one next to him, a newspaper under his arm, and Armand told him that it, too, was taken, its occupant away momentarily at the bathroom. Or why Armand did not move to that bench instead.
Armand wanted to be seen.
It occurred to him. After months of speaking carefully, walking lightly, avoiding controversy best as he could, when being invisible was an impossibility so he tried to act normal instead, Armand realized that he wanted to be noticed.
And on that bench, parked as obviously as a stop sign at a street corner, the boy had no choice but to regard him. In the instant their eyes connected, a fissure rippled in Armand’s reality. Like coming awake from a daydream, he was suddenly made real. Multidimensional. He held his breath. He didn’t realize he was holding it, not until the moment that followed after the boy, whose eyes had slid away to stare at his feet for minutes longer, made up his mind and moved forward. Forward toward Armand, to the bench beside him. And whoosh, his breath released.
*
Up close, the way the boy tears apart a slice of bread is mesmerizing. Long, pianist fingers break it first in half, then in quarters, then in pieces no larger than a grain of corn popped to perfection. His goal is equality it seems, that no pigeon should have more or less than another. But soon after the boy casts the first handful, scattering the pieces like rice at a wedding, it becomes apparent that he favors one, a bird indistinguishable from the rest but for its limp and a tear in its wing. He eyes it while he sips his coffee, while his other hand cinches tight around the bag of bread to fend off a rogue bird lest it be tempted to go out of turn. There is longing there, and Armand does not think it wrong to presume that the boy, if he could, would bring the bird home; he cannot change its disposition, but he can change its circumstance.
Whether the boy is conscious of Armand staring or if he’s bothered by it, it doesn’t show. The task of sitting, feeding the birds, and drinking his coffee has him entirely consumed. In that way, Armand is free to observe and catalogue unrushed, and without judgment. He shivers. The day is not so warm that the boy could afford to go without a scarf, but he did. He has each time, the previous days, bundled in a long, down coat, but no hat, no gloves. And no scarf, and Armand is close enough to see his neck pimple with gooseflesh.
What happens next has no rhyme or reason, a now thematic occurrence since the boy’s voice first pulled at him, at the pharmacy. But Armand finds himself unwinding the scarf from his neck and tossing it to the boy, who startles so badly he nearly drops his coffee. Despite his fright—his shock? Despite that and his bewilderment, creasing a line between his brows, he accepts it. The decision was right, as right as Armand’s scarf appears looped around the boy’s neck.
“Thank you,” he mumbles.
“Of course,” Armand answers.
Of course?
No more words are exchanged until the end, when the boy has finished his coffee, tossed the empty cup to a trash can nearby, and knotted the bag of bread closed.
“You look hungry,” he says, squinting at Armand through the curtain of hair that had fallen over his eyes.
It’s true, he is. That bowl of oatmeal was hours ago.
Armand nods. “I am.”
“Do you want to come over for a late lunch?” The boy tilts his head, reassessing. “An early dinner.”
It’s a startling invitation. Impulsive. The boy doesn’t know him at all. Armand could be a serial killer, at worst, or—simply cruel. He almost asks, “Do you do this often? Invite strangers into your home?” But the boy has already withdrawn, and he is biting his lips, worried, perhaps regretful. And as if he had heard Armand after all, he says, “I don’t . . . That was dumb.” He shakes his head. “Nevermind.”
“I’d like that,” Armand says quickly, no rhyme, no reason. His heartbeat accelerates.
A few blocks later, the boy stops abruptly, turns to Armand, and extends a hand. “I”m Timothee.”
Armand shakes it, surprised by the warm grip. It’s firm. “I’m Armand.”
*
The hallway that leads to Timothee's apartment is lit dimly. The paint on the ceiling is peeling and the walls are marked with age, and at the threshold, Armand stops abruptly. He’s been here.
Timothee is ahead. It’s not until he’s reached the end, the other side, that he turns, the absence of accompanying footsteps likely signaling him, and it’s from that rotation, Timothee pivoting to urge him along, that a light flashes bright exposing another interior, like an x-ray. The skeletal frame and ligaments of an earlier time. And Armand sees clearly the thin-wisp line of another body exactly where Timothee stands, topped similarly with a mess of hair tousled like it had been whipped by a tornado. Their dual image startles a gasp from Armand. And he braces for the Polaroid-like trace to complete. For shadows to turn into flesh. But as quickly as the maybe-memory surfaces, it retreats, disappearing back into murky, muddled confusion, slippery as an eel. In seconds, it’s buried entirely.
"Are you coming?" Timothee calls to him.
Throat dry, Armand nods, then realizing that he is too far for Timothee to see, he answers back, "Yes. Yes, I am."
*
Surprise hits Armand again, the second time he catches a glimpse of Timothee’s fully stocked refrigerator. "How often do you shop?" he blurts. The question is steeped in incredulity. He can’t reconcile this slip of a boy—the curve of his shoulders and back when he slouches calling to mind a single stroke punctuated by a fine-pointed pen—with an appetite, let alone any that spurred the sort of diligence required for that inventory. Even from Armand’s vantage point, several feet away, he can tell that the produce that Timothee is sorting through is all fresh, absent of any bruising or other signs of age.
"I don't," Timothee answers. He doesn't explain. By now, Armand knows he won't. He's not being evasive or recalcitrant, no more than Armand who has often been on the receiving end of a frown for causing a conversation to lapse or end abruptly, ignorant of his part to maintain it. It pleases him, that he and Timothee require no more of each other. So, for now, he is content for that mystery to remain a mystery.
Other questions tempt his curiosity, but are unmoored, careless as balloons being tossed by the wind. Who taught you to cook? How long have you been cooking? Why do you cook? Because except for the oatmeal he heats on the stovetop, Armand relies entirely on takeout or precooked meals from the local grocery. More habit now, than necessity, as it had been months and months ago. Now, he can spare the effort. And as he watches Timothee, he thinks: perhaps he will.
But Armand does not interrupt. He does not want to risk Timothee slicing his thumb. He nearly did, earlier, when Armand spoke suddenly, musing out loud, and Timothy jerked, pulled violently from focused to out-of-focus. Because while Timothee chops the carrots, he is fully arrested. As he had been in the park and during their walk to the apartment, in the way he fit the keys in the lock and turned the doorknob and shook off his shoes; a thing at a time is all he can manage. Armand understands. Armand knows, and that knowing touches a nerve, makes him tender, and when the same unruly lock escapes from its tuck behind Timothee’s ear and falls feather-dark against his fair cheek, Armand is overwhelmed by a need to touch. To make right, like setting straight a picture that went crooked on the wall.
But he waits to do it. And at a break, while Timothee has the knife down on the cutting board, he reaches, replaces that ornery strand. In return, he gets a smile. Surprised, but delighted. And then, because there is no urgency, the questions dissolve. And Armand surrenders to the silence, lets it speak uninterrupted, for awhile.
Later, after the dishes are washed, Armand joins Timothee on the couch. He turns on the television, flips from channel to channel, and does not invite Armand to stay. Neither does he tell Armand to go. The choice is Armand’s to make. And it’s easy—finally, it’s easy to stay.
_
The next day, Timothee joins Armand on the park bench.
_
The appropriate response to getting caught in a lie—what do you mean you’re in New York???—is to admit it, then apologize.
Armand receives Elizabeth’s text on a Wednesday morning, five weeks after he told her he was headed for Texas to visit friends and instead bought his ticket for New York City—final destination, the Bronx.
Three weeks since Duane Reade, and two since he stole Timothee's bench. Four days since they kissed for the first time.
I’m sorry, he writes back. He owes her more, so much more, regardless of their divorce. The guilt strangles, but it also provides relief. He’s not entirely a monster, devoid of a conscience, as he had once confessed to his doctor. That he worried about it, his doctor assured, proved that he wasn’t.
The problem was—is—he has no attachment. None to Elizabeth or their children, his mind wiped clean of their memories. It devastates him, that indifference dominates their relationship.
He follows with: I should’ve told you the truth.
He means before, when he forgot to take his pill. That day he was driven to bed by a pain so excruciating it made him dry heave for hours into a pillow and, thankfully, eventually, pass out. He woke from that sleep gasping, but clear-eyed, and New York New York New York thrumming under his skin. He couldn’t explain it—how, when he didn’t understand—but he was certain. It forced him to be, this seductive call from the City. Unyielding and obtrusive as a pebble under a blanket disturbing his peace. Its promise. Not to cure him, perhaps, but release him. Bring him home.
He left for her. For Harper and Ford. For their chance at . . . a resolution?
He should’ve told her.
Elizabeth does not respond immediately, and Armand wonders if this stunt was the last straw, if she’s given up, finally. Then, minutes later, she texts: You did. That’s the problem. And now we’re all paying for it.
She means before, and that’s all Armand knows, inferred from scraps of overheard conversations, curt and fleeting accusations, and crying, stifled behind closed doors. He caused this. All of it. The disorder, the chaos. The forgetting.
The words hang like an omen the rest of the day, a threat simmering to a boil. And you deserve it, a voice tells him, if it comes to that.
_
Next Monday, the fear manifests: Timothee is not at the park. It’s three o’clock. And Timothee is not at the park. Armand’s heart stops.
Where is he? Panic grips him by the throat, and every cell in his body urges: go, go. Go to him. But he forces himself to wait. Shit happens. Timothee may just be delayed. Five minutes pass, an eternity. His leg jiggles impatiently. Then ten. He rips a bloody tear in his lip. Then fifteen, then he gets up and runs.
At Timothee’s apartment, Armand bangs on the door. A hundred awful possibilities assault him at once, speeding from every direction. Is he hurt? Is he dead? Has he grown sick of Armand? Has he moved? Is he even here? Where is he? Why won’t he open the door?
The door opens, finally.
“Armie.” His voice is weak, small and trembling.
Armie?
He bounds into the room and drops his luggage. The piano playing halts. The boy rises from the bench and heads for him, nervous, but sweet. Immediately sweet. He meets him halfway, and extends a hand. “I’m Armie.”
He’s Armie. And Timothee is—
He laughs, a successor to nothing. It’s instinctive, then. Easily given and loose as his limbs. He clasps Armie’s hand in two. “I’m Timmy.”
“Timmy,” Armie breathes out, relieved. But it’s short-lived. His sight broadens to accomodate the rest of him, sweaty and wan. He sways, pitches forward, and Armie catches him. Up, he lifts. Hot. He’s hot as a furnace.
Armie lays him on the bed, gently. He had dressed for the park: jeans, t-shirt, and a hoodie. Devotion. Sweet thing, hair again in his eyes, and Armie sweeps it away, throat tight. He feels stripped raw. Helpless to this irrepressible need to protect that emerges, but knowing that he can’t, not in the long run. So few things are preventable.
But he can make Timmy more comfortable. He finds pajamas. Too large and more suited for a man Armie’s size, but they’re the only pair that Timmy owns, and he changes him. He leaves briefly to get a glass of water, Tylenol, and Timmy’s pill. When he returns, Timmy is curled small and compact on one side of the bed, and the blanket is flipped back next to him, an invitation.
“Please,” Timmy whispers, eyes fever-bright. As if he had to say it, as if it was necessary. As if Armie’s mind was not already made up, decided in that instant at the park, when he thought: it’s over. He’s gone. And his world had narrowed to pointless. Empty. As if he could still be pried away, now. Never. Never again.
Perhaps Timmy had to say it, in another time. A summer pregnant from heat, air so thick it suffocated. Grass that burned the bottoms of feet. When skin got slick and moist and slippery, oiled between the thighs. The stench of garbage that wafted from the outside. A breeze that replaced it when the season shifted. And damp, still, is Timmy’s hair at the nape of his neck, smelling of the earth, where Armie’s face is pressed to it, while Armie is pressed against his back, trying to contain his shaking.
He does not try to contain the rest. These flickers of the past that have no anchor and offer no more context. No explanation. Only sensation. He smells, he feels, and, once, he hears: please. A cry in the dark.
_
They go to the beach. The wind, when they embark from the train, is a harsh, biting thing that burns an angry pink rash on Timmy’s cheeks. It only makes him more beautiful.
The ground is part snow, part sand, and their planned walk starts at trudging through the thicker sections, buried to the knees in white, and Timmy behind Armie, clutching at his elbows to help him stay upright.
“This was a bad idea,” Armie grumbles.
He had thought so, when Timmy suggested the trek weeks ago. Abruptly, he woke from a nap, in the middle of the afternoon, and announced: Montauk. Convinced that a glimpse of the ocean would rattle a memory loose, a fragment that teased in his dreams. But they have the internet or the Discovery channel, Armie had countered. Timmy frowned at him. Not the same.
Soon they find even ground, and they’re running for heat, then for fun, sprinting along the water’s edge, racing for a tree branch protruding from a distance. Armie beats Timmy by a mile, and when Timmy catches up, he crashes into Armie, out of breath and laughing. They stay like that, intertwined, idiots shivering because of a whim, foolish and absurd, and Armie has never felt more alive.
“I think I was wrong,” Timmy murmurs against the lapel of his coat, and rubs his cold nose against Armie's neck. “It doesn’t—I don’t feel anything.” Disappointment colors his observation. He had expected recall to return in a rush. A lightning recovery. Earlier he had described the impetus, the thing that insisted he come here, as an itch, a bone-deep craving to soar on a wave, vaulted to a dizzying height. Ecstasy at conquering the ocean. “I don’t think I’ve ever surfed, or wanted to. Maybe I read about it.”
“Maybe.” He strokes Timmy’s back, soothing.
“Or saw it in a movie.”
A perfectly shaped shell draws Timmy’s attention and the two of them pull apart. He kneels to pick it up. While tracing it’s concentric swirls, he says quietly, “I told Pauline.”
“Your sister?”
Timmy nods. “My sister. About you, I mean. Us.”
“She buys your groceries.”
Timmy nods again.
“What did she say?”
“Well, first, she kind of lost it. She was pissed. And she didn’t say much really, initally, except what the fuck, what the fuck. And shit, motherfucker. Shit, shit, shit.” He smiles. “She curses like a sailor. Then she said: ‘haven’t you two done enough?’”
“What does that mean?”
Timmy shrugs. “Not sure. She got quiet after that. I think she felt bad about it. Didn’t mean to go that far.”
“As far as . . . . ”
“I think—” His face turns pensive. Grave. He stares Armie in the eyes. “I think I hurt people. That we hurt people.”
How? But truth drums a pounding in Armie’s chest. An ache flares. His eyes slide away and catch on flotsam, jetsam, detritus washed ashore. Swept and carried. Aimless, their fate dictated by the current or tide. Like him.
No. That’s a lie. Now.
“In that other life.”
Timmy shakes his head. “In this one.”
Armie grabs his hand and tugs him close. They revert to their earlier position. A joined citadel of flesh and bone, impossible to stop the cold. But there is warmth, between their bodies. Enough to keep them there for the moment and allow for savoring. Enough, perhaps, to remember.