In One Person

stay, I don’t want to hear …” the boy began; he was shaking his head, as if this were a proven method to make himself stop crying.
    “Peter—you have to stay, you have to listen,” Tom Atkins said. “Peter is why I wanted to see you, Bill,” Tom said to me. “Bill has
some
discernible traces of moral responsibility—doesn’t he, Elaine?” Tom suddenly asked her. “I mean Bill’s writing—at least his
writing
has discernible traces of moral responsibility, doesn’t it? I don’t really know Bill anymore,” Atkins admitted. (Tom couldn’t say more than three or four words without needing to take a breath.)
    “Moral responsibility,” I repeated.
    “Yes, he does—Billy takes moral responsibility. I think so,” Elaine said. “I don’t mean
only
in your writing, Billy,” Elaine added.
    “I don’t have to stay—I’ve heard this before,” Sue Atkins suddenly said. “You don’t have to stay, either, Elaine. We can go try to talk to Emily. She’s a challenge to talk to, but she’s better with women than she is with men—as a rule. Emily really
hates
men,” Mrs. Atkins said.
    “Emily screams almost every time she sees a man,” Peter explained; he had stopped crying.
    “Okay, I’ll come with you,” Elaine said to Sue Atkins. “I’m not all that crazy about most men, either—I just don’t like women at all, usually.”
    “That’s interesting,” Mrs. Atkins said.
    “I’ll come back when it’s time to say good-bye,” Elaine called to Tom, as she was leaving, but Atkins seemed to ignore the good-bye reference.
    “It’s amazing how easy time becomes—when there’s no more of it, Bill,” Tom began.
    “Where is Charles—he should be here, shouldn’t he?” Peter Atkins asked his dad. “Just look at this room! Why is that old oxygen tank still here? The oxygen doesn’t help him anymore,” the boy explained to me. “Your lungs need to work in order to have any benefit from oxygen. If you can’t breathe in, how are you going to get the oxygen? That’s what Charles says.”
    “Peter, please stop,” Tom Atkins said to his son. “I asked Charles for a little privacy—Charles will be back soon.”
    “You’re talking too much, Daddy,” the boy said. “You know what happens when you try to talk too much.”
    “I want to talk to Bill about
you
, Peter,” his father said.
    “This part is crazy—this part makes no sense,” Peter said.
    Tom Atkins seemed to be hoarding his remaining breath before he spoke to me: “I want you to keep an eye on my boy when I’m gone, Bill—especially if Peter is ‘like us,’ but even if he isn’t.”
    “Why me, Tom?” I asked him.
    “You don’t have any children, do you?” Atkins asked me. “All I’m asking you is to keep one eye on one kid. I don’t know what to do about Emily—you might not be the best choice for someone to look after Emily.”
    “No, no, no,” the boy suddenly said. “Emily stays with
me
—she goes where I go.”
    “You’ll have to talk her into it, Peter, and you know how stubborn she is,” Atkins said; it was harder and harder for poor Tom to get enough breath. “When I die—when your mom is dead, too—it’s
this man here
I want you talking to, Peter. Not your grandfather.”
    I’d met Tom’s parents at our graduation from Favorite River. His father had taken a despairing look at me; he’d refused to shake my hand. That was Peter’s grandfather; he hadn’t
called
me a fag, but I’d felt him thinking it.
    “My father is very … unsophisticated,” Atkins had told me at the time.
    “He should meet my mom,” was all I’d said.
    Now Tom was asking me to be his son’s advice-giver. (Tom Atkins had never been much of a realist.) “Not your grandfather,” Atkins said a second time to Peter.
    “No, no, no,” the boy repeated; he’d started to cry again.
    “Tom, I don’t know how to be a father—I’ve had no experience,” I said. “And I might get sick, too.”
    “Yes!” Peter Atkins cried. “What if Bill or Billy, or whatever his name is, gets
sick
?”
    “I think I better have a little oxygen, Bill—Peter knows how to do it, don’t you, Peter?” Tom asked his son.
    “Yes—of course I know how to do it,” the boy said; he immediately stopped crying. “
Charles
is the one who should be giving you oxygen, Daddy—and it won’t work, anyway!” the fifteen-year-old cried. “You just
think
the oxygen is getting to your lungs; it really isn’t.” I saw the oxygen