In One Person

o’erthrown,’” Elaine recited. “Is that the bit you mean, Billy?”
    “Yes, that’s it,” I told my dearest friend. That was exactly how I felt—
o’erthrown
.
    “Okay, okay,” Elaine said, putting her arms around me. “You can cry now, Billy—we both can. Okay, okay.”
    I was trying not to think of that line in
Madame Bovary
—Atkins had absolutely hated it. You know, that moment after Emma has given herself to the undeserving Rodolphe—when she feels her heart beating, “and the blood flowing in her body like a river of milk.” How that image had disgusted Tom Atkins!
    Yet, as hard as it was for me to imagine—having seen the ninety-something pounds of Atkins as he lay dying, and his doomed wife, whose blood was no “river of milk” in her diseased body—Tom and Sue Atkins must have felt that way, at least once or twice.
    “Y OU’RE NOT SAYING THAT Tom Atkins told you Kittredge was
gay
—you’re not telling me that, are you?” Elaine asked me on the train, as I knew she would.
    “No, I’m
not
telling you that—in fact, Tom both nodded and shook his head at the
gay
word. Atkins simply wasn’t clear. Tom didn’t exactly say what Kittredge is or was, only that he’d ‘seen’ him, and that Kittredge was ‘beautiful.’ And there was something else: Tom said Kittredge was not at all who we thought he was, Elaine—I don’t know more,” I told her.
    “Okay. You ask Larry if he’s heard anything about Kittredge. I’ll check out some of the hospices, if you check out St. Vincent’s, Billy,” Elaine said.
    “Tom never said that Kittredge was
sick
, Elaine.”
    “If Tom saw him, Kittredge may be sick, Billy. Who knows where Tom went? Apparently, Kittredge went there, too.”
    “Okay, okay—I’ll ask Larry, I’ll check out St. Vincent’s,” I said. I waited a moment, while New Jersey passed by outside the windows of our train. “You’re holding out on me, Elaine,” I told her. “What makes you think that Kittredge might have the disease? What don’t I know about Mrs. Kittredge?”
    “Kittredge was an experimenter, wasn’t he, Billy?” Elaine asked. “That’s all I’m going on—he was an experimenter. He would fuck
anyone
, just to see what it was like.”
    But I knew Elaine so well; I knew when she was lying—a lie of omission, maybe, not the other kind—and I knew I would have to be patient with her, as she had once (for years) been patient with me. Elaine was such a storyteller.
    “I don’t know what or who Kittredge is, Billy,” Elaine told me. (This sounded like the truth.)
    “I don’t know, either,” I said.
    Here we were: Tom Atkins had died; yet Elaine and I were even then thinking about Kittredge.

Chapter
13
    N OT N ATURAL C AUSES
    It still staggers me when I remember the impossible expectations Tom Atkins had for our oh-so-youthful romance those many summers ago. Poor Tom was no less guilty of wishful thinking in the desperation of his dying days. Tom hoped I might make a suitable substitute father for his son, Peter—a farfetched notion, which even that darling fifteen-year-old boy knew would never happen.
    I maintained contact with Charles, the Atkins family nurse, for only five or six years—not more. It was Charles who told me Peter Atkins was accepted at Lawrenceville, which—until 1987, a year or two after Peter had graduated—was an all-boys’ school. Compared to many New England prep schools—Favorite River Academy included—Lawrenceville was late in becoming coeducational.
    Boy, did I ever hope Peter Atkins was
not
—to use poor Tom’s words—“like us.”
    Peter went to Princeton, about five miles northeast of Lawrenceville. When my misadventure of cohabiting with Elaine ended in San Francisco, she and I moved back to New York. Elaine was teaching at Princeton in the academic year of 1987–88, when Peter Atkins was a student there. He showed up in her writing class in the spring of ’88, when the fifteen-year-old we’d both met was in his early twenties. Elaine thought Peter was an economics major, but Elaine never paid any attention to what her writing students were majoring in.
    “He wasn’t much of a writer,” she told me, “yet he had no illusions about it.”
    Peter’s stories were all about the suicide—when she was seventeen or eighteen—of his younger sister, Emily.
    I’d heard about the suicide from Charles, at the time it happened; she’d always been a “deeply troubled” girl, Charles had written.