Cetus and Chimera - Part IV
In Part III, David surprises Matthew at the hospital and meets Hector. The couple gets in a fight, Hector moves to a new facility, and Matthew confides in Hector on the state of his relationship.
I spend hours wringing the water out of my head. David never apologizes for what he said in the hospital, and I don’t pressure him, never bring up the conversation anyway. I keep long hours at the facility. Hector remains stable, and the coral is strong and healthy, and because of this the doctors make more regular visits. I see familiar ones and new ones, other doctors visiting from across the city and state, some from the other end of the country. They’re fascinated. I can tell by the way they look at him, like Hector is something new to be bought. Of course, I know what they’re going to tell me before they say it.
“You must present this at a conference,” says one.
“Imagine the work you could inspire,” says another.
“My patient is not a circus act,” I say.
“Don’t you care about what this can do for others?”
“I care about him and his health. Until then, everything else can wait.”
The way they look at each other, how they move back and forth from admiring Hector to the notes on their pads, reminds me of seagulls. I hear snatches of their conversation, enough for me to piece together what they’ve got planned, take Hector to a different facility or bypass my authority. After some time talking amongst themselves and Hector, they leave in a flock. With every one of their visits, I lose sleep until I pass out from exhaustion. I worry about Hector, about what these doctors have planned, so I stay later than I’m supposed to. I monitor the coral, but I’m watching Hector. Some nights I fall asleep in the lab and blink away the brightness when I wake, realizing what’s happened. Other times, I fall asleep in a far corner. I wake one of these nights to a blanket pulled over me. Hector is not in his bed, and I freak. His tank is empty. A dim light from one hallway, and I hear a clang from the kitchen. Hector’s there, setting the coffeemaker on a hotplate. He struggles to whip the sugar and first bits of coffee in a metal creamer. He holds it in the crook of his elbow pressing against his chest while he whips, the coral on his arm making his movements stiff and jagged. I smell the sugar congealing, becoming something near molasses. He looks up, like he senses I’m there.
“It’s harder than I thought it’d be,” he says.
I take these things out of his hands and finish whipping the sugar. “You almost had it.”
“Practice, I guess.”
When I look at the clock, I realize I’ve been here all night.
“Matthew,” he says. There’s a strange sensation hearing your name in someone else’s mouth this close to your body. Hector repeats it. “You don’t have to stay so late on my account.”
“I don’t mind,” I say.
“You need to rest.”
“I’ll be fine.”
I pour us coffee, which Hector drinks in a single gulp. Along his arm and torso, the coral looks healthy, strong, though I notice tips of some branches looking duller than the rest of him, especially along his hand, almost brittle. I lean against the kitchen counter, stuff a hand in my pocket and feel the coral there. At this point, I can’t remember if I’m taking it with me when I change clothing or if I’m wearing the same pants every day, but the piece is still there. I twirl it between my fingers.
Hector pours himself another shot of coffee but stops himself from downing it. “You don’t keep liquor here, do you?”
I reach into the drawer that only opens when pulled nearly off its hinges. I keep a flask of whiskey there, and I pour some into our coffee. We knock back our drinks together, and I relish the rush of heat down my throat.
He leans his head against my shoulder.
“They talk,” he says, “the doctors.”
“They can choke.”
“I’m afraid I’m going to end up like some lab experiment.”
“I won’t let them.”
“That’s what they’ll do.”
“Not if they can’t find you.”
“Then do it. Take me out of here.”
*****
David’s in the shower when I arrive at the apartment later that day. I strip down to my underwear and sit on the bed. His phone’s charging on the nightstand, buzzing with messages again. I know that eventually, our axes will shift, already have, and we’re looking at different skies, dark and unfamiliar, and unknown stars pointing us to a home we hadn’t yet found. He steps out of the shower, steam circling behind him. Judging by his face, I don’t think he expected me. I don’t say shit, either. I turn his phone over, so the screen faces down, and hug him, the soft smell of soap against his neck. The implosion of our lives is sending us careening out of our orbits. We’ve been knocked from our common center of mass. We stay there, like two slow dancers, neither of us wanting to be the first to let go.
*****
Now I’m driving south toward the Keys. Along the roads, the post-work runners are gone, and to our right the sun sets, the sky orange and ochre. Out here feels like a different world, where the din of the city is far away and drowned by the quiet of the ocean. Hector points to a strip of empty beach, so I pull over. It’s late in the afternoon, and the sand has cooled. Hector hums next to me when his feet sink into the sand.
“I want to get to the water,” he says.
With one arm around his waist and the other holding his hand, I help him as best I can. He’s still not used to walking longer distances. Hector takes the first step in, and relief washes over his face. He wades further out until he’s waist deep. He turns to me, holds his hand out, and I follow, taking it in mine when I reach him. We’re somewhere between the tides, and the water is still as glass. Pelicans dive in the distance, their final feeding before dark, and gulls cry away to their nests.
“Help me float,” says Hector.
He falls against my arms, and I keep him above water. His arm bubbles where the coral touches water, and I imagine it coming away in pieces, but it doesn’t. Maybe someday it will. It’ll grow old and chip away, revealing the skin I long to see beneath it. It’d be my fault and my doing, the outcome unforeseen and welcomed. He tugs on my arm, pats the water like he wants me to lie next to him, and I do. He reaches for my hand. I take it, and we’re holding on to each other against the current, a strange new animal, until we reach some other land.
Christopher R. Alonso was born and raised in Miami, FL. He has worked as an indie bookseller and is a graduate of the NEOMFA program. His work has appeared in Catapult, Strange Horizons, and Fireside Fiction, among others. His writing has received support from Juniper Summer Writing Institute, the Miami Writers Institute, and the Periplus Fellowship. He was awarded Tin House's 2022 First Book Summer Residency. He is querying a novel.
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