The Tin Box Read online

  He’d never bothered to program a witty ringtone or bit of a favorite song. His phone just made the default noise, an irritating buzzy chirp. He received so few calls—especially lately—that he’d never been annoyed enough to do anything about it. Now he glared at the little device before picking it up. “William Lyon speaking.”

  “Duh. It’s your phone and you’re the only one there.”

  William could hear the smile in Colby’s voice. “Can I help you?” William said.

  “Jeez. Sounds like that stick’s crept right back in.” His sigh was noisy. “And after all my hard work too.” When William remained silent, Colby sighed again. “You got mail. Something official-looking, with lawyer names on it.”

  “Oh.”

  “So the truck came late today and the post office is gonna close in an hour, but the store stays open until six if you want to come by. I can probably talk the assistant postmaster into letting you at your envelope. The assistant postmaster is easy.”

  William frowned for a moment, imagining Colby flirting with another man, but then the truth dawned. “You’re the assistant postmaster.”

  “Which is gonna make the convincing job a real cinch. I almost always listen to myself. So, you gonna come get it today?”

  William looked at the blinking cursor on his monitor. “Yeah. I’ll be there in a little while.”

  “Cool. Catch you then, Will.” Colby disconnected before William could correct him.

  He could have continued to work for a while; it was only a little past three. But now he couldn’t concentrate on the numbers anymore. He told himself his anxiety was over the awaiting mail, but he wasn’t sure whether that was true.

  He changed out of his shorts and into trousers, but in a small fit of rebellion refused to don a button-down or blazer. He wore a T-shirt instead, a plain gray one that he usually reserved for exercising. He wished it were snugger and that he had muscles worth showing off.

  When he arrived at the store, that older lady was there again. Mrs. Barrett, he remembered. She was exiting the door just as he was about to go in. She carried a single bottle of beer and gave him a vague smile as she passed. On the other hand, as soon as Colby caught sight of William, he waved happily, as if William might not see him in the otherwise deserted building. “Hey!” Colby called across the aisles. “You want postal service first or general store?”

  “Postal. And then I guess I could use a few groceries.” He was nearly out of bread and he’d been craving potato chips. Maybe some ice cream would be good too, if the store carried any decent flavors.

  Colby came skipping around the store counter and down the aisle between the shelves. His jeans today were black and very tight, but for once he was wearing a shirt with sleeves. His ubiquitous flip-flops slapped loudly on the tile floor. He didn’t quite touch William as he zoomed by, but William could feel the air currents shift with his passing. And then Colby was sliding over the post office counter again and reaching for one of the mail slots behind it.

  “Here you go,” he said, setting a white envelope on the counter.

  William glanced at the return address. Lee and Gorgodian, Attorneys at Law. Because he wasn’t contesting anything in the divorce, he hadn’t hired his own lawyer. Lisa had found a firm that did cheap no-fault divorces and William had agreed to split the costs. He was a little resentful that they had to involve lawyers at all, since there was really no conflict, and he could have spent the money on better things. But Lisa wanted things done right. And he certainly didn’t want problems coming back to haunt them.

  At first, he was going to slip the envelope into his pocket to read later. But then it occurred to him that something probably needed to be signed and returned. He might as well get it over with now and avoid a return trip tomorrow. He tried to ignore Colby’s scrutiny as he carefully tore open the envelope and removed a thin sheaf of papers.

  “Something bad?” Colby asked after watching him read for a few moments.

  “Preliminary divorce papers.” William let his hand drop.

  “Oh man! I’m sorry.”

  “It’s not exactly a surprise. I was expecting them.”

  “Yeah, but the whole situation must suck. How long were you married?”

  William had to think for a moment. “Almost six years.” He set the papers on the counter. “Can I borrow a pen?”

  “Don’t you want to read them over more carefully?”

  “Not really. I doubt there are any surprises.”

  “Wow. You must really trust your ex. Your almost ex.” Colby reached under the counter and then handed over a white plastic pen.

  “I do. She’s a good person.”

  “Then why are you guys splitting up?”

  It was a really personal question. Hardly appropriate coming from somebody William barely knew. William’s own parents had received only a sketchy rationale—that he and Lisa had different life goals—and they’d been disappointed enough with that. He doubted that Lisa had given their friends or her family many more details. But here was Colby, expecting an explanation and looking disappointed when William only shrugged.

  There were several places where William had to sign. He checked the papers three times to make sure he hadn’t missed any. Then he looked up at Colby. “May I buy an envelope, please? And a stamp.”

  “If you send it priority mail, the envelope’s free. Postage’ll be a lot higher. But we can add tracking or delivery confirmation, which isn’t a bad idea for legal papers.”

  “Fine,” William said wearily. He took the envelope Colby gave him, copied the law firm’s address onto it, and slipped the papers inside.

  But before he could seal it, Colby snatched the envelope away. “Wait! You should keep a copy for yourself.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know. ’Cause it seems like a good idea. Hang on—I’ll make you some copies. I won’t even charge you. You can consider it a special newcomer’s deal.” He hurried through a door before William could resist.

  William couldn’t see anything through the open door except for an off-white wall and a large plastic mail bin. But he heard the whir of a photocopier, a startled “Shit!” and then some muffled banging. A few moments later, the whirring resumed.

  Colby emerged shortly. “Sorry. I hate that machine. It’s even more evil than the printer. I bet if the photocopier could speak it would demand virgin sacrifices in its name.” He plopped the envelope and the copies onto the counter with a smile.

  Despite Colby’s urging, William skipped the tracking and confirmation services. He paid for the postage and watched as Colby slid the envelope into a slit on the wall. “They’ll pick that up tomorrow.” Colby said. “It goes to a processing center in Fresno, so it’ll be a couple days before it gets to Oakland.”

  “That’s fine. Thanks.”

  “Now you’re ready for your big shopping excursion? Maybe you should get a celebratory bottle of wine. I’ll warn you, though—Grandpa stocks the cheap stuff, not the good stuff.”

  William wasn’t feeling celebratory. Just… dull, and tired. He wished he could crawl into bed, pull up the covers, and go to sleep. “I’ll skip the wine, thanks.”

  “Sure.” Colby did his over-the-counter gymnastic feat. “You want me to leave you in peace or do you want help finding stuff?”

  Now, that made William pause. What did he want? He suddenly had no idea.

  Colby must have noticed his lost look because he patted William’s arm. “Can I give you more advice? Visit the library. Pick up something really trashy—Mrs. Barrett just left us three new bodice-rippers today. Or maybe choose some fantasy or sci-fi. I read that when I want to fly away from the real world for a while.”

  William meant to refuse but instead found himself gently guided through the store to the book-lined room. Colby patted him again. “Take your time. I’ll even stick around past six if you need me to. I don’t have any wild plans for tonight.”

  It occurred to William how kind Colby ha
d been to him, all without expecting anything but a little gruff company in return. William had been barely courteous to the man most of the time, and yet Colby’s sunny disposition had shone through. And those touches on his arm—when was the last time he’d been touched for more than a handshake?

  For God’s sake, he was not going to cry! He gave Colby a shaky smile instead.

  “Thanks. A book is a good idea.” And jeez, when Colby beamed like that he seemed to glow like a halogen bulb.

  “Then I’ll leave you to your literary perusal.”

  William spent longer than he expected examining the shelves. They contained a fascinating mixture of titles. There was fiction in every imaginable genre, cookbooks, old textbooks, books on art and travel, and how-to volumes about everything from dieting and quilting to small-scale electrical engineering. He supposed they must reflect the diverse interests of the people who lived in Jelley’s Valley. He wondered who had provided the book on hydroponics or the guide to becoming a mortician.

  But then he spied several trade-size paperbacks neatly grouped near a corner of the room, and he pulled a few of them out. He was slightly shocked at what he found, yet also intrigued. Colby’s contributions, most likely. After a moment’s consideration, he chose one whose cover depicted two bare male torsos sort of floating over a landscape with horses.

  Colby was leaning on the counter next to the cash register, squinting at a catalog. He looked up at William with a smile. “Find something good?”

  “Maybe.” William placed the book next to the catalog.

  He was gratified to see Colby’s eyes widen. “Um, you do realize this isn’t exactly Zane Grey, don’t you?”

  “More like Zane Gay.” William swallowed a nervous snicker over his own lame attempt at humor.

  “Okay. So… not that I wanna discourage you or anything, ’cause this is actually a really good book. Plus Brett and Jesse are so hot together, and there’s this one scene—oh my God! And a good dose of hurt/comfort, which kinda floats my boat sometimes. But why do you want to read it?”

  William licked his lips nervously. “I guess I want to read about Brett and Jesse.” As Colby continued to look at him with lifted brows, William squeezed his eyes shut. He could still make up an excuse, or maybe pretend he’d made a mistake. But then he thought about Bill sitting in a lonely cell, furtively writing letters to the man he loved. A man who—because Bill couldn’t let go of that love—he’d be unlikely to see again.

  William opened his eyes and whispered the words he’d uttered only three times before. “I’m gay.”

  The first admission had been to his parents, who’d reacted with tears and yelling and, ultimately, with attempts to fix him. The second time had been to Pastor Reynolds, who’d told him that homosexuality was a disease and a sin, one that could be cured through belief, prayer, and ultimately, referrals to aversion therapy.

  And the third time had been to Lisa. She had nodded curtly, as if some part of her had always known. Her lips had thinned. “Have you…. Is there someone? A man?” she’d asked tightly.

  He’d answered her with the truth. “No. I kissed a boy twice, both times when I was in high school. That’s all.”

  “But you’re sure?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then why did you marry me?”

  “I hoped… I hoped I’d change.”

  The look she gave him was so pitying he wanted to shrivel up and die. “I want a divorce,” she’d said.

  Colby, though, responded differently. He didn’t yell or cry; he didn’t preach or look at William with pity. Instead, he gave his usual dimpled grin—and then he cackled with delight.

  “Time to start JV’s first LGBT community group. You wanna be president or treasurer?”

  Seven

  THEY didn’t actually start a gay community group, although as William completed his shopping, Colby continued to joke about secret handshakes, mottos, and lapel pins. William drove back to the hospital feeling as if an iron band around his chest had loosened just a little.

  As soon as his groceries were put away, he opened the tin box.

  Apr. 30. 1938

  My dearest Johnny,

  My parents came to visit yesterday. I don’t think they wanted to, and I wasn’t especially eager to see them. But Dr. Fitzgerald said it was part of the cure.

  They let me bathe first and the barber shaved me. They gave me my regular clothes to wear—the suit I wore when I first arrived. The more usual outfit here is more akin to pajamas, with baggy trousers and a buttonless tunic. I’m supposed to be thankful for that much, because some patients are given no clothing at all and must go about quite naked at all times. Some are too ill to care, but I see some of them attempt to preserve the tiny shreds of their dignity by holding their hands in front of their groins. It’s as if the asylum staff has stopped seeing these men as people and now views them as animals. It’s terrible, Johnny.

  But I was telling you about my parents’ visit. I looked quite presentable by the appointed time, I believe. I was taken through a series of doors that are usually kept locked and was led into a small room near the building’s main entrance. Someone has tried to make the room comfortable. The chairs are upholstered instead of hard wood, the walls are clean and painted a pale blue, and there is even a painting on the wall, a poorly done still life of flowers in a vase. I don’t think the room is used very often. Most of the patients never get visitors.

  My parents were waiting for me. They didn’t stand or say anything. Mother had been crying already—her eyes were red and wet—and she started in again, burying her face in a handkerchief. Father glowered at me as if I’d upset her on purpose.

  I sat on a chair facing my parents and didn’t speak. I didn’t trust myself to open my mouth. How could I remain civil to the people who had incarcerated me, who had taken me away from everything I loved?

  Dr. Fitzgerald came in a short time later. He tried to get us to chat but none of us took the bait, which made him unhappy. Finally, he turned to me. “Isn’t there anything you’d like to know, Billy?” They call me that here, as if I’ve regressed to childhood. “Don’t you want to know how your brother and sisters are doing?”

  I don’t give a fig how any of them are doing. My sisters stood by as Mother and Father schemed to send me here, and it was Edward who followed me to your house and then gave the police the address.

  So I asked the real question, the one that has been deviling me since I first arrived: “How’s Johnny?”

  Mother began bawling again and I thought Father might punch me. His face grew red and his mouth pursed up like a hog’s asshole. “That man left town,” Father finally spat.

  Now, I’m fairly certain he’s lying, Johnny. You have your job and your cozy little house, and you and I promised each other that no matter what happened, we’d always be there for each other. I remember that, Johnny. We promised it more than once. So probably my father is lying.

  Or maybe you have left town and you’re near Jelley’s Valley now. Maybe even in Jelley’s Valley. Maybe you’ve come to be closer to me, even if we can’t see each other. Maybe you’re getting the lay of the land, trying to find some way to get me out of here. You would do something like that, wouldn’t you? You pretend you’re no romantic, but it was always you who said we should run away together, run far from my disapproving family. And it was always I who reminded you that we might starve if we did. I told you to wait. Someday things will get better, I said. There will be more jobs and we can go wherever we want.

  If you come for me now, Johnny, I’m ready to run.

  Dr. Fitzgerald spoke for a while after that. He told them that he’d been treating me, but that I wasn’t very cooperative. Which isn’t true. I always do everything he wants—except stop loving you. He said he wants to try something new with me, something called insulin therapy. I’ve no idea what that entails and he didn’t explain it. Perhaps researching it can be your task this time, instead of looking up words in the dictionary
.

  I miss the way you taste, Johnny. Please, come rescue me.

  Yrs always,

  Bill

  William vaguely remembered reading about insulin therapy in one of his classes, but he had to Google it to refresh his memory. The treatment predated electroshock therapy and had been used primarily on schizophrenics. Patients were given doses of insulin large enough to trigger convulsions or comas. This would be repeated daily for weeks, sometimes months. Some patients ended up with brain damage. Others died.

  He had to step away from the laptop before he learned more details. He began to pace. His hands were trembling, and he felt as if he might vomit. He couldn’t stop imagining Bill strapped down in a hospital bed, sweating and shaking and scared. And he started to remember some of the therapy sessions from his own youth, when just praying away the gay hadn’t worked and his parents had sent him— No. He wouldn’t think about that.

  With a bit of a start, William realized his feet had taken him out of his apartment and down the echoing hallway. He knew where he was going, although he didn’t seem to have much choice in the matter. It was like one of those dreams when you know you’re walking toward something scary but can’t stop yourself, or like watching a horror movie where some idiot goes stumbling blindly to his doom.

  He’d peeked into this room before, but only briefly. It wasn’t very interesting. The comfortable furniture Bill had described was long gone, as was the painting of flowers. The walls had been repainted since 1938—probably many times—and were now a scuffed and tired pale green. But William was certain this room was the one where Bill had visited with his parents. It was close to the entry hall, and a subdued version of the entry’s grand chandelier hung from the ceiling. The floor was neither marble nor wood, but it also wasn’t the plain linoleum and tile found in the rest of the hospital. The floor of this room was a pleasing design of black and white hexagonal tiles.