Black Chalk

Manhattan, that shred of land at the bottom of the state like the immeasurably modest penis of an ancient sculpture. Chad had visited only once as a child, a four-hour drive from the farm, the swine-stead upstate between the Catskills and the Adirondacks. And even four hours north of the city was only halfway to Canada. No, the British didn’t understand that when you said New York you were speaking of an area the size of England. So Chad played the Manhattanite whenever prompted by false assumption. Although the role hardly suited him.

‘Hey, of course,’ said Chad. ‘You’re all invited. And pastrami on rye is a sandwich, Jack. Cured beef piled high between two slices of rye bread. And in New York City they’re the size of your head.’

Jolyon smiled at Chad and chose to say nothing. If this was how Chad wanted it then Jolyon would play along.

But it seemed a great shame. Jolyon’s own modest past felt like an unfair advantage when he had listened to Chad a few nights ago, both of them sipping Brandy Alexanders. And as Chad revealed more and more of his past, Jolyon had begun to envy and admire his new friend. The boy from the richest country on earth, a pig farmer’s son. The smell of the family business smeared every day on his clothes. The morning wait for the school bus, standing in the too-still breeze with the sweet and sickly shit-scent clumped in his hair. The green-tinged muck forever . . .

But perhaps Jolyon had over-varnished the story, added in detail that would allow him to cherish the tale even more. Because to Jolyon the notion of the peasant triumphant represented a romantic ideal. Chad, the boy who had risen from the straw and the sties to become his high school valedictorian. The straight As, the scholarship, his escape.

But if Chad didn’t want to share the story with anyone else then perhaps there was something more, something Chad didn’t want any of them to know. Not even him.

Jolyon slapped his thigh. ‘So it looks like Emilia wins,’ he said.

Chad wished that he had been the one to have declared Emilia’s victory. He sucked on the joint and decided that marijuana tasted of sage and burnt toast, his mother’s Thanksgiving stuffing. He blew the smoke hard and tried not to splutter. It felt like a bright balloon was inflating in his head.

Emilia’s eyes had shut for a moment, it was safe to look at her, to linger a while. Chad felt soothed by her face like he might by a sunset. Emilia’s blonde hair had fallen onto one of her cheeks and he imagined lifting the hair and hooking it behind an ear. The thin down of her face gathered the light at one corner of her jaw. He would be gentle and she would tremble, she would make sweet sounds of soft pleasure. Then she would roll into his arms, her nose nuzzling his neck.

Chad wondered if he must be lacking in testosterone because it was thoughts of closeness and clinches that dominated his desires. Perhaps his father was right about him. Perhaps real men had thoughts more carnal than these. Which was not to say that his puberty had passed by entirely without erections and bathroom ceremonies. But he had tried to limit himself. There seemed something wrong with self-abuse (why did his brain even use such a terrible, loaded phrase?), something disrespectful toward an unknown and future wife. Right now, most of all, he wanted to hold Emilia in his arms and kiss her gently.

She opened her eyes and smiled at him and briefly he smiled back. Then Chad let his gaze slide quickly away as if continuing a journey around the room. He hated himself for his pitiful spinelessness. In that moment he vowed one day he would tell Emilia he loved her. But the setting would have to be right and the words ready. Just the two of them. Candles, good music. Billie Holiday, Chet Baker. And inside of him a half-bottle of wine, warm and inspiring.

XVI(ii) Jack passed the joint to Mark and then started to play with Jolyon’s possessions, picking them up and absently moving them around the desk. There was a mug holding a bottle of aspirin, a toothbrush, a plastic fork and a strip of photo-booth pictures of Jolyon. The mug stood on Jolyon’s diary and a thin volume on Roman law. And both books were balanced on two water glasses. In the bottom of one glass lay a thimble and also the small dried bud of a rose.

‘Don’t touch that,’ said Jolyon. He hadn’t noticed Jack’s toying at first. He jumped up and snatched the mug from Jack’s hand. ‘Just leave my stuff alone, all right?’

‘What is all this, a fucking art installation?’

‘No, his daily to-do list,’ said Chad and then, seeing Jolyon’s lips draw back against his teeth, wished he’d said nothing at all. ‘Don’t ask,’ he added. ‘It’s nothing important.’

Jack drew away from the desk and then wheeled himself back on the chair as Jolyon, muttering, began arranging everything back in its proper place.