Corky Bonner

By John J. Tomashek

What does a guy do when he tries to flush his life down the toiletand the plumbing gets jammed?

Brian Corcoran Corky Bonner was a precocious child; as a teen, he has been a happy high school student who has achieved success as an athlete, musician, and writer. But during his senior year, everything changes. A crippling series of tragediessome caused by fate, others by malicebrings Corky to his knees. Overwhelmed by misfortunes and the sudden death of Mark, his life twin and soul mate, Corkys life quickly spins out of control. Lacking support from his parents and community, his suffering culminates in a seriousbut failedsuicide attempt.

Now, a few months shy of his eighteenth birthday, Corky must essentially start his life over. As a freshman at university, Corky struggles, dragged down by the need to stay afloat in the wake of tragedy. Along the way, he needs helpsome of which he finds himself, while other help finds him.

Corky must decide how to build his life anew, choosing those parts of his past that he wants to preserve and others he needs to discard. Can he find the strength to confront the ghosts of his past, the prejudices of his present, and the doubts of his future?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Nov 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781491709580

John J. Tomashek

John J. Tomashek is an author, scientist, operaphile, and Broncos fan who grew up in Colorado. He completed his undergraduate education in New York before moving to California for graduate school. He holds a BSc and a PhD in biochemistry and a BA in film studies. For more than fifteen years, he worked as a scientist, mostly in industry. He lives in North America.

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Copyright © 2013 John J. Tomashek.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This book is a work of fiction. People, places, events, and situations are the product of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or historical events, is purely coincidental.

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ISBN: 978-1-4917-0960-3 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0959-7 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4917-0958-0 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2013917556

iUniverse rev. date: 10/22/2013

Contents

I. Life

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

II. Sex

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

III. War

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

IIII. Love

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

dedicated to

MLW

I. Life

Chapter 1

Before anything else, the team noticed his scars. Difficult to conceal, the purplish barbed-wire jags stretched along his wrists like broken fences that failed to protect the man who made them. Now he stood, stone still and nearly naked, watching his good neighbors judge him in silence.

OK guys. Listen up.

Attention shifted to Coach Schwarz. His rubber-soled shoes scraped on the concrete deck and sent echoes rippling over the cold hyaline surface of the pool. He stopped twenty feet from where the men had assembled on the bleachers, forcing the varsity swimmers to get up and come to him.

Welcome, new members. I think our newbies are all freshmen. I don’t see any transfers on my roster. He waved his clipboard in their direction. And welcome back to the rest of you. We set a terrific record last year. I expect we can improve on it this year. The coached paced, glancing back and forth between individual team members and his list.

First, I want to go through the names and learn who you are. God knows, I’ve spent the summer trying to forget some of you. The team finally responded with a few nervous titters. Then a warm-up drill. He pointed to a freestanding blackboard at the end of the pool. After that I want to get times for your one-hundred meter freestyle so I can do some initial ranking. OK? The team mumbled their assent.

OK. Coach Schwarz read from his clipboard. Bonner! Brian?

It’s Corky, said the man with the scars.

What?

People call me Corky. Not Brian. Derisive snickers percolated among the guys. His focus on the coach distracted, Corky now glimpsed the scornful faces of his teammates.

OK. Sure. Whatever. Here you’ll go by Bonner. Coach Schwarz scribbled a note. You weren’t here for summer session. He glanced up from his clipboard to look Corky in the eye. Any reason I should know?

Corky folded his arms over his chest and looked down. No.

Coach Schwarz shrugged and started to move on.

Sir, Corky said, his head still bowed. I had a lot of stuff going on.

Coach Schwarz only grunted before continuing through the rest of the names.

Into the pool, ladies. A clap of his hands ricocheted back and forth between the cinderblock walls. Let me see the quality of your stroke.

The guys swam warm-up drills for twenty minutes. Coach Schwarz followed them up and down the length of the pool, bellowing advice. Finally he blew a whistle to order them out. They thrust themselves from the water and gathered in a drippy shivering huddle behind the blocks.

OK. Let’s get some preliminary times. We’ll do this in groups of six using lanes two through seven. C’mon—hustle! Get yourself at a block. He turned to an assistant. Tom, get their split times.

Corky found himself behind lane five.

So… Corky. A tall lanky swimmer, with a blond brush cut, gaunt angular face, and thick lips, leered down at him. Called that ‘cause you float like a cork? Unblinking, Corky met the gaze but said nothing. A whistle pierced the air. The first group of swimmers shot off the blocks with a thunderous splash.

Dude, don’t be an ass, said a deep voice behind Corky. He turned around to see who had spoken. A slender youth, with pale pock-marked skin and wet raven hair pasted to his large head, smiled back. His benign face centered on a significant nose.

I’m Ben. He extended a hand. Ben Schuster. Corky reached back warily to accept Ben’s welcome. Dick-wad here is Richie Oliver. Ben pointed to the tall Aryan. Richie scrutinized Corky for another moment before turning to mount the block. The thrash of churning water echoed and died as the first group touched the wall below the blocks. The second group, including Richie, launched itself into the pool at the scream of the whistle. Ben poked Corky to regain his attention.

Dude, don’t let him bother you. Ben gestured towards the lane where Richie had taken a commanding lead. He’s fast and proud of it. But if you’re fast, he’ll be cool. Corky stared at Ben in stony silence. He’s the co-captain. You should try to get along with him, if you want to stay in good grace. Still Corky said nothing. Ben shrugged. Dude, you’re up.

When the time trials were over, Coach Schwarz gathered his team on the poolside bleachers.

We’ve got some fast newbies. Excellent. He looked over his notes. Best time was Oliver. No surprise there. Richie gave a teammate sitting next to him a high-five. Next best times were Bonner…, Coach Schwarz paused, …Kolczewski, Lee, and Graham. Nice work. OK. The workout for the rest of today’s practice is on the board. Tom will assign lanes according to your times. Get to it.

Tom put Corky in lane one with Richie and a short, round-faced senior who stared at Corky’s forearms while introducing himself as Dan Kolczewski. Richie skipped the courtesies altogether and started his workout.

Dude, you are fast. Ben closed his locker and turned to give Corky a friendly slap on the shoulder.

Corky scooted down the bench to get out of Ben’s reach. Thanks. He pulled on a shoe.

A guy on the other side of the bench slammed his locker shut. Hey, how’d you get those scars?

Dude, Ben intervened before Corky could respond. That question is so uncool.

He’s a fucking loser, that’s how, a tinny voice answered from the next bay. A trickle of laugher followed.

I got them the usual way, Corky shouted back. Ben smiled—it sounded like a joke. But other guys hurried to finish changing and leave. Corky fastened a gold rope chain around his neck. On the chain hung a knot of silver wire twisted around an amber crystal.

Ben sat down. Dude. He spoke softly so as not to be overheard. "What’s the deal? You got, like, an Ordinary People thing going on? Dead Poets Society maybe? Or Norma Desmond or something? What?"

Corky got up, thrust a spare towel into his gym bag, zipped it, and slung it over his shoulder. I have to go to class.

OK. Ben picked up his own duffle and started walking alongside Corky uninvited. "Hey, me and my girlfriend are going to the Frosh-Week showing of Casablanca tonight. You should join us."

No. The answer fell like a guillotine. Ben tripped in his stride. Corky’s face twisted in response to some internal conflict, and he raised one hand to hide it. Wait, he amended hastily. OK. Maybe. He froze, as if some critical part had gotten stuck inside him. Maybe I’ll see you there. At the movie. Corky nodded once, as if to convince himself he’d finally gotten it right. Then he hurried away before Ben could say anything more.

* * *

I baptize you Brian Corcoran Bonner, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. Father McMahon dipped into the marble font with an oyster shell and dribbled water over the child’s forehead. The mercurial trickle zigzagged through the boy’s wispy orange hair, reflecting warm light from beeswax candles and prismatic windows. He didn’t cry. Instead, he pulled an arm loose from his swaddling clothes and tried to touch the water.

I baptize you Mark Emerson Murphy, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost. Amen. A more typical child, Mark let out a howl when the cold water splashed his face. The jury of parents laughed, unanimous in their verdict of cute, and beamed at their children.

Brian Corcoran and Mark Emerson were born on the same day in the same ward of the same hospital at almost the exact same time. Before Brian and Mark, their mothers had shared a polite acquaintance through the volunteer network at their parish. But during their communion of agony and joy, Mary and Francine sealed a bond of closest friendship. The proud fathers, Angus and James, dutiful to the social leadership of their wives, developed a competitive but jovial camaraderie. Naturally, the Bonners and Murphys stood as reciprocal godparents for the two boys. Angus felt relieved: he could justify excluding Mary’s brother Patrick from contention as Brian’s godfather.

But where his nephew was concerned, Uncle Paddy would not be denied.

Corky! My wee little Corky. Paddy’s brassy tenor pierced the incensed atmosphere with indecent enthusiasm. He reached out to take Corky from Mary. She gave him up reluctantly.

His name is Brian. Angus’ voice boomed through the empty church.

Ach. Paddy dismissed Angus with a wave of his free hand and turned to the child cradled in his arm. He’s a Corky if ever I saw one. He tickled the baby’s chin. Look at that hair—just like our da, eh Mary? He’ll be a rascal, I’ve no doubt about it. No doubt at all. Ah, Corky.

Scandalized by Paddy’s exhortations, Fr. McMahon retreated up the nave, past the Advent wreath, and into the sacristy.

Corky, Mary agreed. She took back her child. His godparents, James and Francine, crowded into the huddle with Mark in their arms. Corky, they said, trying out the name and discovering that they liked it, too. For his part, Corky had gone to sleep.

Well, that’s it, then, Paddy said. Corky he is.

Angus made a noise halfway between a sigh and a growl. He clapped James Murphy on the shoulder, and they walked away to settle with Fr. McMahon, leaving the women to coo over the children.

* * *

Corky waited in the twilight outside the Student Union. Large posters advertising events for Frosh-Week flanked the doors to the auditorium. People milled around in front, exchanging introductions and comparing hometowns and majors. Alone and apart, Corky shoved his hands deep inside the pockets of his tan cargo shorts. On a faded purple t-shirt, the Olympic rings in flaking appliqué stretched and cracked over his chest. Under the frayed sleeves, triceps bulged. Corky didn’t notice the girls who noticed him. He seemed lost, a misplaced bronze statue, a burgher of Calais inadvertently separated from his group.

Dude. Ben approached, hand-in-hand with a tall willowy girl. She had flawless coffee-and-cream skin and satiny black hair that stretched down to her narrow nude midriff. She blinded Corky with a smile full of big perfect teeth.

Hi. I’m Beth. She reached out to Corky.

Ever the clown, Ben pointed to her and wiggled his eyebrows. Beth! She giggled and diverted her proffered hand to give him a playful swat.

Corky extended a hand, palm down, so that Beth had to reach under to shake it. Her gaze remained steady on his face the whole time. I’m Corky. He dropped his hand back into his pocket.

Nice to meet you, Corky. Hey, that’s an unusual name. He didn’t take the cue. I like it. Still nothing, so Beth tried again. Is that your actual name? Like on your birth certificate? Or a nick name? What?

It’s my middle name. It’s short for Corcoran.

Exactly. Ben jumped in to help. Your first name is Brian, right? He looked at Beth and gestured with a flourish at Corky. Brian.

Nobody calls me Brian anymore. Corky looked down at his toes and curled them against his flip-flops.

Corky is a cool name, Ben tried again. I like it, too. Corky, Cork, Corkarino….

Corky’s head pivoted and swiveled like a gun turret. His eyes flashed, and the concussion of his voice followed. And don’t call me Cork. Ben shut up.

I’m a freshman, too, Beth said. How do you like it here so far?

It’s OK, I guess. So far.

You think? Me too. Hey, Ben tells me you’re on the swim team. He says you’re really good.

Corky’s face went blank. Then they both spoke at the same moment. Thanks, Corky said, just as Beth started to ask, Do you…? She waited to see if he would say anything more than thanks, but he didn’t. Do you know what you want to major in?

Yes. Another embarrassing pause. English lit and journalism. They were visibly startled when Corky turned and asked: What are you majoring in?

Engineering, dude, Ben replied with gusto, grateful for a topic he could share. Gonna be an architect. I want to make buildings more fucked-up than Frank Gehry.

Beth endured her boyfriend’s interruption. Psychology, she said. Definitely psychology. And maybe a minor in philosophy. I’m not sure about that, though.

Oh.

My dad is a psychiatrist, she explained. I’ve always thought his work is really interesting. And I like helping people. I want to go into clinical psychology, or psychiatric practice, or something like that.

I see. Corky’s patina darkened. What’s his name?

The question disoriented Beth. Dr. Gordon. Zachary Gordon. Why?

Just curious.

Dudes and dudettes: time for the film. With a firm shove, Ben ushered them into the auditorium.

Ben soared out of the theater.

Damn, I just love that film. Love it! He circled around Corky and Beth, making melodramatic gestures like a badly trained Shakespearean actor. ‘Of all the gin joints in all the world—Ben’s Bogart impression resembled a constipated asthmatic—why did she have to walk into mine?’

Corky noticed Beth had a well-honed ability to ignore Ben’s histrionics. How did you like the film, Corky? she asked.

I liked it.

Hey, let’s go get something to eat. Yes? Yes? Ben was not ready to land. They altered course towards the Student Union.

Where are you from? Beth asked as they walked. Ben listened from her other side. Corky told them the name of a town several states away. Neither Ben nor Beth had ever heard of the place.

It’s very small, Corky explained. Less than twenty thousand people. He named a more famous metropolis located forty-five minutes from his boyhood home.

Ben and I grew up together. Beth mentioned a city Corky knew was maybe two hours away. We started dating in high school. Ben put his arm around her. Does your family still live where you grew up?

Corky paused. No. They’re gone.

The Union Pub was packed by the time they arrived. Corky waded through the huddled masses to get nachos while Ben and Beth jockeyed a serve-it-yourself soda fountain.

He’s pretty high strung, Beth commented to Ben when they were alone.

No shit. High strung and tighter than a drum. Ben made it rhyme. Good swimmer, though. He tried to isolate three plastic lids from a tightly stacked nest. I don’t know what it is, but I like him.

Well, you do have a weird sixth sense about people, Beth said. Ben chuckled and gave her a patronizing peck on the cheek. She grabbed his hand, her nails digging into his palm. I know you don’t believe in sixth senses, but I do.

Ben freed himself from her grip. Wait until you see his wrists.

What about his wrists?

Just look. You’ll see.

They brought the tray of drinks to a table Corky had just claimed. He hunched over the hot nachos like a mother hen guarding her brood. Ben put the tray on the table. Beth sat down and put a soda in front of Corky. With slow mechanical precision, he peeled the paper sheath from a straw and stabbed it through the crosshairs of the plastic cover on his cup. Ben blow-gunned Beth with his straw wrapper, wedging it in her exposed cleavage. The stunt earned Ben an audible love-slap.

Ow.

Beth gasped and covered her mouth. Oh my God. She was staring at Corky’s wrist. Corky pushed his drink away and hid his hands beneath the table.

I’m sorry. Beth reached out to pat Corky’s shoulder. He withdrew from her touch. Beth waited. After a moment, Corky sat up again and folded his arms, resting them on the table. He kept his eyes down the whole time.

I’m sorry for how I reacted, Beth repeated, glaring at Ben. He shoved a fist full of nachos into his mouth. Beth turned back to Corky.

I just…. She laced her fingers together, hobbling the impulse for human contact. I imagine that must have hurt a lot. It sounded lame. I can only imagine. I’m sorry. It’s none of my business. But Beth continued studying Corky as though he were her business.

Like so many times that evening, Corky knew he should be saying something. Anything. But he didn’t want to talk. What could he say? Ben and Beth waited, and after a minute of thought, Corky had his answer.

I don’t remember what it felt like. He spoke carefully, each word a choice. I suppose it hurt. At the time, it seemed less painful than the alternative. Corky took a long drag from his soda. Then he unfolded his arms and held out his wrists so they could examine the scars. With a nod from Corky, Ben reached out, tentatively touching one of the scars with the tip of his finger. He made a face. Beth, however, placed the palm of her hand over the scars on Corky’s other wrist and gripped it firmly. He winced.

Corky, she said, capturing his gaze even though he squinted to protect himself. I’m really glad to have the chance to meet you.

* * *

Corky had his first meeting with a court-ordered therapist on the Thursday before classes started. He dreaded the appointment. He’d done little else the past two months but answer questions like why did you cut yourself? and how are you feeling now? and what will you do next? Get over it already. Why can’t you just leave it alone?

Corky arrived at the University Health Center early. He sat down in a waiting room, casting furtive glances at the other people in the confined space. They ignored him. Exactly on the hour, a wiry man stepped out from the door opposite the entrance. He had salt-and-pepper stubble and wore a brown tweed coat over a lemon yellow polo shirt. Thick glasses magnified a pair of slate gray eyes.

Good afternoon. Although other people waited, the man looked directly at Corky. You must be Brian.

Corky. Call me Corky. He got up and pushed past the man’s outstretched hand. The door led to a hallway lined with offices and examination rooms.

Nice to meet you, Corky. I’m Dr. Shay. He turned to follow, directing Corky to the third office on the left.

Corky peeked inside. Against the far wall, an old wooden bureau strained under stacks of files. In front of the desk waited a space-aged meshwork chair, its undercarriage girded with more knobs and levers than Nemo’s Nautilus. Hanging over a three-cushion sofa of taut brown leather was a vast painting. There, on a narrow strip of troubled sea squeezed beneath a turbulent sky of cotton and cobalt, scudded a half-dozen sailing vessels, each the size of a postage stamp.

Lurking just inside the door, a wretched chair of amorphous tan duck cloth sagged at a right angle to the sofa. Corky dumped his book bag on the floor and tried to sit on the edge of this bland blob. It threatened to suck him down into its grainy dun upholstery like quicksand.

Dr. Shay ambled over to his chair and dropped his middle-aged bottom onto the space-aged seat with a squeaky bounce. Let’s do a quick checklist of our legal obligations, and then we’ll work out what we’re actually going to do. Does that sound all right to you?

What is your name?

I’m sorry. Shay. Dr. Shay.

Your first name.

Raymond.

Raymond Shay. Corky rolled the name over his tongue. Ray Shay. He drew each syllable out like saltwater taffy.

Can we do the checklist now?

Yeah. Sure thing, Ray.

Let’s see here. Dr. Shay opened a file and started thumbing through papers. I have your signed confidentiality and release form. You were given copies of these as well, correct? Corky nodded. Any questions? Corky shook his head. He was starting to slump back in the chair against his will. This evil piece of furniture seemed to lack a frame and rejected good posture.

I also have a file from the clinic in your home town. You were seeing Bob Talbot and Dr. Phelps. Is that right? Corky nodded again. Good. And it says here you’ve been assigned to Dr. Campbell as your local psychiatrist. Right?

Yeah, yeah.

Good. Shay closed the file and put it back on his desk. He turned to face Corky. I understand that you have refused any sort of medication. Is this correct? Corky acknowledged it was true. And though it isn’t in the record, Shay chuckled, I hear that you have a pit bull of a lawyer who ensured that you got your way on the matter. Corky glared at him silently. Shay sat back and crossed his legs. It’s your choice, Corky. I’m just a psychologist. I tend to think meds are overrated and overused. However, in your case, I think you might want to reconsider. If you do change your mind, you should talk to Dr. Campbell about it. All right?

Yeah. Fine. Got it. Thank you.

Shay either ignored or didn’t notice Corky’s impatience. We are obligated to meet once a week until your eighteenth birthday. I see that’s exactly three months from today. What we talk about is up to you. It will all be confidential, of course, unless you make statements that indicate to me you are an immediate danger to yourself or others. It’s described in the release you signed. All right?

YES! Corky screamed, tensing and balling his fists. He took a breath and let his hands open.

Shay didn’t flinch, as if tantrums were an everyday occurrence in his business and indicated no immediate danger. So, Corky—what would you like to talk about?

Nothing. Corky flopped back and surrendered to the canvas quagmire at the edge of the sea.

Well, we have another fifty minutes of mandated time. We can sit in silence if you like.

That sounds great. Corky closed his eyes and tried to drown out the world.

Or, if it’s all right, I’d like to ask you some questions.

Whatever. Corky had learned through cruel trials and unusual errors not to fight people like Shay.

What do you have on your schedule for next week?

What? Corky tried to look up from an almost supine position. He hated this chair.

Your schedule. Today is Thursday. What are your plans for the holiday weekend? Classes start on Tuesday, correct? What do you have first up on your schedule?

Let me think. Corky lay quietly, killing time pretending to think. I arrived yesterday. I got the keys to my apartment. The management was good about it and let me in a few days before the start of the lease. My stuff should arrive tomorrow. Not much stuff, really—the apartment is furnished—just books, music, and my kitchen equipment. I bought a new mattress, and that should arrive on Saturday. I suppose unpacking and putting things away will keep me busy. He cocked his head to check Shay’s reaction.

And your first week of classes? Shay would not be satisfied until the clock ran out.

Swim team practice first thing on Tuesday. Then Greek and Roman lit in the morning. Most of the afternoon off, I think. I have something on Wednesday just before lunch, and another class mid-afternoon. I’ve got my schedule here somewhere if you want to look at it. Corky struggled to pull himself out of the muck and into a sitting position.

That’s not necessary. Tell me, do you have plans to join any clubs? Extracurricular activities?

No.

Have you given it any thought?

Corky gave it some rapid thought. I suppose I’ll want to write for the school newspaper, and maybe the literary magazine. Shay waited. Maybe I’ll see if anybody wants to form an amateur string group, a quartet maybe. The music students here are pretty serious, though. I doubt I’m good enough for them.

Your home is quite some distance away. Nobody else from your home town came here, did they? How do you plan on meeting people?

I don’t.

Oh? Why not?

I don’t want to.

Hmm. Shay’s murmur carried a casual threat that only people in his profession could make. I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to isolate yourself.

Corky jumped to reassure him. I’ll see people in class. And on the swim team. I’ll get around to joining a club or two.

Is this the varsity swim team?

Yeah. Why?

What will you say about your scars?

Corky looked down at his forearms. He’d made the cuts, one pair of parallel incisions on each wrist, with a sharp carbon-steel paring knife. The medical technicians who’d intervened agreed it was an exquisite job, worthy of a surgeon or a butcher. Stitches that closed the wounds added perpendicular highlights to the lines. Corky thought his scars had a beauty like fine tattoos.

Why do I have to say anything?

You don’t, but on a swim team, you won’t be able to hide your scars. People will wonder.

Let them wonder.

That’s fine for most people, I suppose. The hoi polloi don’t need an explanation. But at some point you’ll want to develop closer relationships with people. You need to have an explanation if you want those relationships to succeed.

I think we’re getting way ahead of ourselves, Ray.

Fair enough. Shay backed off. Let’s try something else instead. What would you say are the three most important things you want to focus on during your first semester?

Swimming, writing, and…. Corky paused. And a special project.

Special project? Shay sounded intrigued.

Just something I’m thinking about. Corky folded his arms. It’s not anything bad, he added to deflect any concerns.

Shay persisted. Will you tell me about it?

Maybe. Not today. Corky averted his eyes, hoping Shay wouldn’t push for more.

Fine. I’ll wait until you’re ready. Shay wheeled towards his desk and jotted a few notes on a legal pad. After a minute he looked up.

Here’s my homework for you, Corky. I want you to think some more about how you will meet new people. Shay sat forward. This is important. Overall I think you’re doing well right now—very well, all things considered—but you need to generate a network of friends, or you’re in danger of falling back into an unstable emotional state.

Corky squirmed. This sort of language made him feel like a leper.

Shay went on. We should work on finding a way for you to talk about your experiences with other people. It has to be something that makes you comfortable, but that also puts other people at ease and helps them to understand you. Otherwise, you won’t be able to develop close relationships. Shay paused. Here’s another danger you need to consider. If you don’t tell your story, other people will make one up.

They can go to hell. Shay didn’t react. Corky laughed to himself. And they can leave me alone in mine.

Shay shook his head and made another note on his legal pad.

Chapter 2

Oh Mary—Mother of God!—let Corky alone why don’tcha? Mary Bonner continued fussing with the chaotic mop of burnt umber shag carpeting her son’s head. He struggled in her arms. Her brother reached over and lifted the two-year-old out of his mother’s coils and set him on the ground. He latched onto a stuffed orca the Murphys had given him for his first birthday. It was his favorite pet of the dozen animals in his menagerie.

Look, Mary. Paddy wagged a finger. I’ll take him over to Mike’s for a haircut. No trouble at all.

No, Corky interjected.

Mary ran a finger under her chin. I can give him a haircut in the kitchen.

Paddy scoffed. Oh, that’ll be glamorous no doubt. No doubt about it.

No. Corky had made up his mind.

You know I don’t like Mike. Or the rest of those… people you associate with. Paddy’s bachelor lifestyle was neither mentioned nor discussed in the Bonner house.

For the love of Jesus, Mary—it’s just a bloody haircut. And it won’t cost you anything, so why complain? Do you even know what Mike would charge a regular customer? Do you know now?

NO! Corky shouted. He knew they were ignoring him.

Please watch your language around Corky. Mary shivered even though it wasn’t cold. Gladys does my hair and she charges twenty dollars. I can’t imagine it costing more.

Well, dearie, it does.

No. Corky wished he had more words.

Maybe I can ask Gladys to cut his hair.

Now Mary, I can take him by Mike’s this afternoon. No trouble at all. Paddy looked at Corky. We can get ice cream after. Whaddaya say, Corky?

No, Mary insisted.

Yes. Corky had changed his mind.

That’s it, then. Paddy did a little victory jig. Mary just shook her head and sighed. Paddy looked at her. What is it, Mary? Surely you’re not this upset about a haircut.

No. Her lip started trembling for at least the tenth time since breakfast. It’s Angus. And Sean. Paddy nodded. Corky’s younger brother, born almost a year ago, arrived with severe physical and mental handicaps. Doctors had recommended abortion, but Angus wouldn’t hear of such an atrocity, much less consider it.

Paddy sat down and put an arm around Mary’s shoulders. It’s been hard for you now, hasn’t it? She nodded, straining to keep her composure. Have you made plans with Angus about what you want to do? She nodded again, and took a breath.

We’ve decided to leave him in St. Anne’s Home. The tears started to flow.

It wasn’t much of a decision, Paddy thought. Well, he needs constant care, he does. Sean had already spent most of his first year of life at St. Anne’s. Angus has to work, and you’ve got your hands full up with Corky now. He rocked Mary gently. They’ll take good care of him at St. Anne’s. They will. They have so far.

Mary nodded again and wiped her eyes. I know. We visited last week.

You and Angus are still young. You’ll have lots more kids, or my name isn’t McRae.

Mary choked and burst into fresh weeping, shaking her head violently. No, we won’t.

Well, why ever no…. It struck Paddy just as he said it. Sean’s birth had been complicated not only for Sean, but for Mary as well. Women’s problems rarely eclipsed Paddy’s world, but he knew this one was a biggie. That’s it, then, Paddy concluded with a murmur.

Oh Paddy, don’t tell Angus I told you. She clutched his arm. He says we have to keep it a secret. He’d be so angry to think you knew. Promise me you won’t tell.

Of course not, Mary, of course not. Paddy took her hand in his. I tell Angus as little as possible, you know that. Mary’s strangled sob became a garbled laugh. She put her head on her brother’s shoulder.

You are so good to me, Paddy, she said. He stroked her hair.

Aye, he sighed. I do the best I can.

* * *

The day after Casablanca, Ben and Beth chanced upon Corky eating lunch outside the Student Union. The autumn weather was still mild, and students crowded around tables on the patio. Corky sat alone, head down and ears plugged with music.

Ben nudged him. Dude, mind if we join you? Without waiting for an answer, Ben took a seat. Corky pulled out his ear buds.

Hey, Corky. Beth took a seat next to Ben. Corky had his mouth full of sandwich, so he nodded a greeting.

Awesome practice this morning, dude. Ben popped a can of soda. Hey, you got class this afternoon? The Film Society is showing some Garbo shorts in the giant lecture hall of the psych building. Mostly silent stuff. He chugged down half of his soft drink and belched.

I have an appointment.

Too bad. Ben peeled wax paper off a chicken tortilla wrap.

How are your classes going? Beth asked. She stirred chili in a white foam bowl.

OK, Corky said. Only the distribution requirements in science and math scare me. Beth nodded sympathetically.

Dude, I can help you there.

What are you listening to? Beth pointed to Corky’s well-preserved Discman.

Corky swallowed too soon. "Four seasons. Vivaldi." The lump of sandwich forcing its way down his esophagus felt like an armadillo trying to crawl through a garden hose.

May I? Beth asked, reaching for the earphone cables. Corky nodded. Beth put a bud in her ear and listened. She smiled. That’s nice. She removed the ear piece. That’s a good recording.

You like classical? Ben asked.

Mostly, Corky replied. Also some current pop, bits of this and that. He took a smaller bite of sandwich and chewed it thoroughly. You?

Dude—Metal. Iron Maiden. yeeOOWW! Ben performed a mock riff on an invisible guitar to accompany his unrestrained yelp. Heads turned at the commotion.

Eat your lunch, Ben. Beth pointed to his wrap.

I like movie soundtracks, too, Ben added before obeying.

I’m seriously into opera, Beth confessed, returning attention to Corky. My mother started taking me when I was ten. We have a really good opera company back home. Her eyes glazed over with a mild case of nostalgia. "Here they have a small company with only two productions a year. I got a subscription to see what it’s like. They’re doing Traviata in a couple weeks."

Corky spoke without thinking. I saw an opera on TV once.

Ben laughed. So it was you who watched that. A look from Beth shut him down.

Really? Beth asked, interested. Which one?

I can’t remember much about it, Corky admitted. It was broadcast from New York. I think it was some retirement shindig for the soprano. When she first came on stage, everyone went nuts and the opera just stopped. Curtain calls went on forever, too. Beth thought about it while Corky talked. At the end, she swallows poison that’s hidden in a cross, and then she dies in her lover’s arms.

"Fedora, Beth deduced. Giordano. It was the farewell for Mirella Freni. I saw it, too. Taped it, in fact. She took a sip of iced tea. Hey, she said, tapping Corky on the arm. Know what? You should come with me to Traviata."

A flicker of surprise crossed Ben’s face. I thought you were going with Alyssa, he said through a mouthful of food.

I was thinking about inviting her, Beth replied. But I haven’t asked her yet. I don’t think she’s that into it.

Oh. OK. Ben finished his lunch. He wadded the paper wrappings into a tight ball and hooked it at a waste can twenty feet away. He scores! Ben raised his arms in triumph. Beth ignored him. Corky wondered how to leave the table without seeming rude.

Dude! Beth and Corky both jumped. I’ve got it. We should set you up with Alyssa.

No, I…

Yes, dude. Yes, it’s perfect. She’s totally sweet. Totally, totally sweet. His accordion gestures implied that totally sweet meant generous breasts. She has red hair like you and everything. He looked at Beth. Help me out here, babe.

I don’t know if there is help for you. Beth waved her hand to draw Corky’s attention away from Ben’s antics. Alyssa is my best friend and a really nice person. We can introduce you, if you want. Beth waited. Ben chewed his lip.

Sure. I mean, I’ll meet her. Corky stammered. But I don’t think…

Oh c’mon, dude. It’d be awesome. We could double date. You know, all hang out together, see movies, go to…

I’m gay. The hard edge returned to Corky’s voice. Ben and Beth stared at him.

Dude…. Ben hedged. Um, that’s cool. Yeah. Totally cool. Hey, we know a guy back home who’s gay.

Ben, hush. Beth furrowed her brow.

Ben folded his hands between his knees. Hushing. Totally hushing.

You haven’t given me an answer about the opera. It’s next Wednesday night. How about it?

Corky gave up. Sure. Sounds like fun. Immediately after he said it, he could feel the tension flowing out like grit from a ruptured sandbag.

Awesome, dude. I hear a lot of gay guys go to the opera.

"BEN!"

Ben held his hands up, palms out, to show he wasn’t hiding anything.

I’m just saying. He cocked his head and grinned.

* * *

The opera? Get out of here.

Some of the guys were stretching by the pool before the start of practice. Ben extended his leg along a bench and leaned forward to grab the saddle of his sole.

Dude, I wouldn’t make this up. Corky’s going to the opera with Beth.

Why aren’t you going with her? asked Tony Renato, who had just come out of the locker room and joined the group. He wrenched an arm behind his head.

Dude, I hate opera. Ben screwed up his face and pantomimed barfing.

Yeah, but you’re letting your girl go with Corky to the opera? Tony shook his head. That ain’t right.

Dude, it’s cool. More of the team arrived. Hey, Corky.

So, you like opera? Richie aimed his default scowl at Corky.

I don’t know. Corky scanned the faces of his teammates. I’ve never gone to one before.

Oh, so it’s like losing your virginity? Tony chortled.

Guys, guys. Ben held his hands up, trying