December 21-22-23, 2012
Days turned into weeks turned into months. By the end, Michael and his mother communicated solely via text message. She worked weekends and took a single day off in the middle of the week, during which she retreated to her study to work on her second thesis. She pretended to be asleep when he left for school, and he pretended to be asleep when she returned from the clinic. Once a month she wired him his fixed allowance and asked no questions about how he spent it. They took turns to cook, and occasionally she left grocery lists with instructions. On the rare occasions they encountered each other, like passing in the hall, they did not speak.
All this was fine by Michael. When he wasn't griping with advanced calculus or organizing a debate or ploughing through his grade-6-level sheet music, he was either smoking up or with Raymond. Often the former and latter overlapped.
The holiday season was at its climax, but you wouldn't know it from the Black home. Katherine was working late, and Michael had a month left for his SATs. Consequently he sat half-asleep at his desk, convincing himself that Christmas was an indulgence for the weak-willed.
He no longer had time to hang out with his friends, and he was surprised to find how little it really mattered to him deep down. What did they expect, with the tedium that ruled their ambitious, petty little lives? Michael was alive, finally, he had had his epiphany and met his Prophet while the rest of his classmates were running statistics-based algorithms and cross-point references to determine the bars in the neighbourhood least likely to card them. He lived and died every day of his life, and even the deaths were sweet. He, Michael Black, had found it - the big one, the single great love of his life that he would cherish forever. Who needed friends? Who needed family? His own family had deemed him unworthy of their attention, mother, father, brother, everybody. Matt, even Matt had left him.
The usual pang struck him when he thought of that name. He stared with glazed and unfocused eyes through the frost-encrusted glass pane before him, elbow slipping off the edge of The Princeton Review: 1007 Solved SAT Questions. Michael could see right into the apartment across the street. Mrs. Tsukawaki was bustling around her living room, cramming last-minute shiny presents into larger-than-life stockings. The place looked like a Christmas sale, bless her soul - whatever little space wasn't streaked with tinsel, garbed with holly or littered with stuffed gnomes was taken by a humongous spruce tree festooned with twinkling lights. For a second, Michael cast his mind to the dark, austere living room only a few feet away. And Mrs Tsukawaki didn't even celebrate Christmas. Her husband did, however, and even as Michael recalled this, little Felicia Whitaker came bounding down the stairs and flung herself into her stepmother's arms. Natsumi followed suit. Michael remembered their wedding, five years ago- his mother had been bitchy and cold to him throughout. The girls had been toddlers then, Natsumi hers and Felicia his by prior failed (obviously) marriages, knee-height dolls parading up and down the aisle dressed in identical teal silk.
Almost as a reflex, he glanced over to make sure the picture of them was still intact, that he hadn't accidentally broken it during a stoned stupor and forgotten about it. But no, the dusty gilt frame still held the photo of him from the Whitaker-Tsukawaki wedding - Michael the preadolescent, carrying a laughing Natsumi with one hand and swinging Felicia on the other. At the end of that day, he was left with one, powerful, life-altering sentiment - that he wanted two just like these. Little bundles of sunshine he could balance on both arms; two, so that they had each other even when he was no longer around.He'd give them the life he wanted - the kind he could've had if his father hadn't been just another silver-spoon dickbag breezing through town.
Why, Michael thought, why? Mattie, if you hated me so, why not tell me to my face? Why pretend we were besties and brothers that summer when you knew we'd never see each other again?
Sam doesn't think it's a good idea for you and Matt to mix anymore. Says it's an unhealthy family unit and not the example - pause for snort - that he wants to set for his son. Who he says agrees with all of this.
And that was all his mother would say on the subject. That was a week after they'd returned from their trip. Michael had been in the process of recording the piece he planned to play at his piano recital to email to his brother, when his mother interrupted to convey this ghastly news.
Mrs. Tsukawaki had been sympathetic, heaping his plate with stir-fry gyoza and doling out friendly advice. "Family is fluid," she explained, handing Michael a glass of cold milk when the wasabi topping on the first bite made his eyes water. "The things you were born with have little bearing on your later life." Felicia, who'd been nestled quietly in his lap, suddenly gave a tiny snore and dropped her soft, downy head against his shoulder. He'd cried that day, burying his face in the sweet-smelling yellow hair of the child lying in his arms, heart aching with the loss of his brother.
Michael had given Natsumi special reading lessons when she was in the first grade and had trouble keeping up with her class. He'd patiently guided Felicia through the basics of piano playing, sitting by her side for months on end and training her little fingers to move just so. He had interned for a month at Whitaker Investments under the mentorship of Jacob Whitaker himself, who'd later offered Michael a part-time, decently-paying position at the firm as a consultant. Mrs. Tsukawaki always had a hot beverage "just on the stove" and something comforting to say.
Michael hadn't been to visit the Whitaker-Tsukawakis in months.
He suddenly sat up straight. Feeling a rush of affection for the family across the street, he pressed his face up against the chilly glass and waved enthusiastically. No one saw him. Never mind then.
Once the bathroom door was safely locked behind him and the exhaust fan running at full speed, he sat on the lid of the toilet-seat and lit a cigarette. Ray and Casey made it work, didn't they? When she'd had no place to go at sixteen, it was her half-brother, eight years her senior that she'd turned to despite the fact that they barely knew each other. Even now, though it had been years since Casey'd moved out, the two still saw each other almost everyday.
Where was Matt? Did that sweet, naive boy really exist, or was he a figment of Michael's imagination? Burning with curiosity, he ran a search on his phone and recognized the very profile as his brother's.
Oh, wow, was Michael's first thought.
Who was this? This chocolate-haired, gorgeously tanned delight? How could it be the same kid that he'd known all those years ago? Who could fathom that they were related by blood? This boy had a life and friends and a sports team and expensive vacations and a dozen different girls clamouring for his attention. Michael doubted anyone at his school, apart from his bros in the Chemical Liberators knew him as anything apart from 'the cute gay kid', let alone his name. Sure, he'd had his fun but nothing had lasted; eventually boys who'd once been frolicking heralds of infatuation had turned into faceless names in his distant past. Phil and Danny had been his only real friends since the second grade, now even they'd grown apart.
The majority of Matt's interactions were with a boy named Adam Woakes. Upon further stalking, it turned out that Adam was gay - and judging from the sidelong, desperate glances he cast at Matt in all their photos and videos together, clearly in love with him. Michael suddenly remembered Matt waxing on about Adam's coming-out to him on their last ill-fated drive to Whispering Waters. He felt a strange mixture of pride and jealousy when he scrolled through Adam's pictures; at the very least, his presence was an indicator that Matt wasn't homophobic. Back in the days before Ray spoiled him for pretty much every other man on earth, he might've found Adam attractive.
Michael was still brooding when the weekend came round. He entered Ray's apartment late on Saturday afternoon and dropped his satchel, bursting to the brim with exercise books, unceremoniously on the ground. Aha's Crying In The Rain played discreetly from the speakers under the TV. Casey lounged on the sofa, legs in the air, and promptly dropped her phone on her face when he walked in. "Hi cutie, give me a kiss." She stretched out her arms, so Michael leaned in and gave her a perfunctory kiss. She sniffed. "Someone's in a bitch mood today."
"I'm sorry," Michael moaned, and flopped down heavily on the sofa beside her. "I'm overworked and stressed and honestly, just had a shitty week."
Casey wrapped her arms around his waist, and lay her head on his shoulder, her soft red hair tickling his elbows. "You want to talk about it?"
He hugged her back hard. Before he could reply, Ray's voice echoed from an inner room. "Michael? Is that you?" and he emerged into the living area, clad only in sweatpants. Beads of perspiration clung to the shiny, smooth skin of his chest and he began walking swiftly toward them, bare feet thudding softly on the carpet. "Hey sweetie, I was beginning to wonder where you were." He smiled his perfect smile, pearly white teeth gleaming in the sunlit room. "I was just in the middle of a workout."
As usual, Michael was caught off guard by the sight of him. He let out his breath in a gust, let go of Casey and threw himself into Ray's overdue embrace.
"I've missed you." He leaned up and kissed him ardently; Ray's arms wound around his body, so tightly that Michael's tshirt grew damp from the contact with Ray's post-workout chest.
"It's only been a week, sweetheart," Ray laughed, his lips brushing Michael's as he talked. Michael held the fiery locks of his hair in a vice-grip and pulled him close, breathing heavily and unsteadily.
"Are you okay?" Ray kissed his forehead, then led him gently to the sofa, where Casey was now sitting up looking concerned. "You wanna talk?"
"I stalked Matt on Facebook," Michael blurted out.Ray furrowed his eyebrows in surprise.
"What, why-" he began to say, but Michael went on, "he-he has everything, literally everything a person could ever want. And I'm nothing in comparison."
Casey and Ray cast each other a loaded glance. "Michael, you're worth everything that Matt is and more," Ray said quietly. "You're hyper-intelligent, gorgeous, creative... there are millions, no, billions of people in the world who'd gladly have even one of those qualities."
"He has more." Michael's voice was flat. "Hundreds of friends, enough capital to do practically anything he wants… his life is perfect. I'm a psychotic introvert who'll be paying off student loans for the rest of his life."
"But Michael, you have everything you need to succeed," Casey argued. "Sure, you might have to start from a few steps back but that doesn't mean you won't make more of yourself than he ever will."
"That's not what I meant," Michael choked. A lump formed in his throat and before he knew it his eyes were streaming. Ray held him close, stroking his hair. "I know, believe me I'm grateful for it all. But I've spent months - years - crying over the fact that I was so… dispensable to him. I've been alone and miserable for so long - and he's, well, he's doing great."
Ray tugged him gently onto his lap and cradled him against his chest, rocking him to and fro while Casey gripped his hands tightly. Michael hadn't meant to start bawling like this, but the tears kept falling and rolling down Ray's warm chest. Small dark grey splotches appeared on his sweats. "It must've been so easy for him," he snivelled, "to dispose of me like I meant nothing, the moment he realised I wouldn't be useful to him. Jesus Christ - life is so simple for anyone carrying that last name."
"Michael," Ray said softly, his hot breath settling on Michael's skin like honey on bread. "I'm going to tell you a little something about Sam Wynford. But you have to promise you won't tell a soul - not your mother, not your little chem-group friends, nobody. I really, really shouldn't be telling you, but you have a right to know." He lifted Michael's chin with a forefinger and gazed searchingly into his eyes. "Promise?"
Michael nodded miserably. "You too, Case," Ray added, and she bobbed her head silently.
"The Wynford corporation is a client of AWH," he began. "Our biggest client, actually. About a year ago, Sam Wynford was sued for sexually assaulting one of his employees."
Michael's jaw dropped. "What the fuck?"
"Yep. A 24 year-old copywriter, in a legal statement, said she was working late one night when Wynford stopped by at her cubicle. The floor was empty and he looked like he was on his way out. Despite them never having interacted before, and him not even knowing her name until he saw the nameplate on her desk, he started a conversation and pulled up a chair. Considering he was the CEO, she could hardly refuse the exchange. He started flirting with her, paying her compliments and sliding his chair closer to hers. Every time she intoned that this was making her uncomfortable, he would back off, then start all over again. He reeked of alcohol. He would place a hand on her knee, she'd brush it off, then return it a minute later, higher up her leg. She kept trying to back her chair away from his, but he'd only move himself closer, and finally she found herself cornered against a desk. Now he grabbed her thigh tightly with one hand, almost pinning her down to the chair, and shoved his other hand up her skirt and began groping at her underwear. At this point she screamed for help, screamed as loud as she could and began to fight him off. 'Shut up, shut up you fucking whore, someone will hear you!' he said furiously, but then he panicked, leapt up from the chair and took off running down the aisle. The next day she turned in her resignation and filed a police report against Wynford for sexual assault. But in the end, she agreed to settle out of court. They paid her 350k."
Michael stared blankly at the table. Catcher In The Rye lay upturned on the glass tabletop, its cover tinted a faint green thanks to the large amount of weed that had been crushed on its surface. He tried to speak, but could not think of words. He knew Matt's situation in the home front wasn't perfect, but he'd never imagined anything on this scale.
"Matt's life may seem perfect on the surface," Ray said softly, rubbing Michael's congested chest as if he were a seven-year-old with a cold. "But believe me, you should be so, so glad you aren't part of that family unit. According to what I've heard, this woman wasn't the first of her kind and I'm positive she won't be the last. Would you want to live off the Wynford millions, knowing that some part of it was being spent covering up incidents like these?"
Michael shuddered and shook his head. He had stopped crying.