The Son of Every Man

Chapter 4.1

I tell him we can stop, that I've gotten enough information to work with for a while. He looks relieved. I glance around and realize how much the place has changed since I first started coming here. Vending machines burst from the polished concrete of the south wall. The old dropped ceiling has been torn out; exposed beams and ductwork are painted bright colors. Leafy plants hang in red clay pots along the perimeter.

"Think it'll be published before I get out?" His face is transparent, full of hope.

Miguel does this sometimes. I love him for it. Just when you think he's done with the world, closed up shop and begun his ascension, leaving all unfiltered interaction behind out of equal parts boredom and frustration—he opens himself up in overt search of guidance. He is back on the ground and deferring entirely to you.

Answering him breaks my heart. "No, there's no way I can finish it by then. Besides, I don't know how I feel about publishing it. Even if I decide I want to, there's little or no chance it will generate interest."

"Don't you dare start talking about this even-if-I-decide bullshit. We're way past that. If you're not going to at least try, I'll steal the whole thing and try to sell it myself."

I laugh.

"I'm dead serious."

"You think I don't know that?" I close my notebook and rest my arms across its white-flecked cover. "All right, I'll look into publishing when the time comes. But as of now there's too much work left to do. I shouldn't even be thinking about it. Anyway, you'll be out of here long before it's done."

"Yeah. Okay." He doesn't hide his disappointment from me.

"It's a good thing, Miguel. You'll be getting out soon."

"Five months."

"That's not far away," I tell him, but even as I say the words, I know what we're really talking about. I've read about it, and although Miguel isn't one to fit many molds, he fits this one. I know that sooner or later, in one form or another, I'll need to say it out loud. So I draw in a small breath. "Is it scary? The idea of getting out—does it scare you?"

His eyes dart around the room. They are wet. His answer follows what feels like an eternity to me: "Yeah, I'm scared." He won't look at me right now. I know that. "Man, I've been in here a long time. I'm fucking scared to death."

;-;

Ever since the kid uttered the words, Miguel had been trying to shake it—to un-see every familiar smile lighting up the kid's face, to un-hear the way his deep voice inflected up each time he finished a thought, even when it was not a question, just like that enigmatic man Miguel used to know. He was struggling, without much success, to shed the presence of his dead mentor.

Gabe had insisted he was different from his father. Miguel understood the importance of such a distinction—fuck, he even believed the kid. And he wanted desperately to see it for himself. But so far, it wasn't happening that way. And yet Gabe's behavior would soon depart from his father's in a number of ways, the first of which arriving as a shock.

It happened as the elevator door opened in the foyer of his building. Alice had produced some very strong drinks tonight—she was always up to something—and in turn, Miguel had gotten the kid a little bit drunk. He was a little bit drunk himself. Neither had been his intention, and besides, his motives were pure. He would offer Gabe his bed and sleep on the couch. It was a very comfortable couch. He had slept there himself on occasion, even when there were no visitors—it was that comfortable.

Miguel had been plotting through this when the distorted double tone sounded and the door rolled open on worn, dry bearings. Gabe stood beside him, and then, as the wood and mirrors of the compartment were revealed to them both, the kid seized up. Miguel heard him draw in a strange, wheezing breath of air, then pinch it off in his throat. Gabe's hands rose up like serpents and clamped over his dark brown eyes. He stumbled backward and his back slammed into the opposite wall. He slid down, bending at the knees, landing crumpled on the floor.

By this time, Miguel was kneeling next to him, pleading with him, prodding at his shoulder, asking him what the fuck was happening. At first Gabe made odd, flailing attempts to push him away, but then he seemed to give up, hugging his knees, burying his face between them. Then, gradually, his arms fell to the floor. He expelled a long breath of air. His face was still down and Miguel heard his deep, muffled voice plead, "Why? Why now?"

Miguel shook his shoulder. "What the hell's going on?"

Gabe untucked his head, looking confusedly around as if he had completely forgotten his surroundings. "Nothing. I'm so sorry." He stood up suddenly, swaying, legs shaking, saying, "That's it. What's the nearest train? I'm going home." He started walking toward the exit and Miguel followed.

"Hey, wait up. Please don't leave. Is it the elevator? We can take the stairs. I know all kinds of people who don't like elevators."

Gabe whipped around to face him. "Look, I think I just had a panic attack. I'm not sure. Anyway, I'm not going to burden you with this."

"But I'm asking you to stay. I don't want you to go."

"Why?"

"Because I want to spend time with you. I don't see why either of us has to be alone tonight. Not over such a little thing."

Gabe's breaths were short and clipped. "It's not a little thing."

"Well, what am I supposed to say? I don't want you to go."

"You want to spend time—"

"Yeah, just...you know, talking and sleeping. That's it."

"Talking and sleeping..."

"Yeah. Hanging out."

Gabe froze in place, and for a terrifying instant, Miguel thought it was about to happen all over again. But then something seemed to click in the kid's brain. "All right, I won't go." He walked back to the elevator and pressed the button.

Miguel stood there watching him from a few feet away. When the door ground open again, Gabe gestured inside as if demonstrating. "See? Nothing." He spoke as if to convince himself as much as Miguel. "I'm fine. There's nothing."

Miguel put on a smile and followed him inside. He wasn't about to let the kid think he was worried. But Gabe was right. A panic attack wasn't a little thing. Had it been wrong to insist he stay the night? Miguel tried to imagine the alternative: a long train ride through the early-morning darkness, the snaking tunnels, and the hollow apartment waiting at the other end, where the kid's parents had raised him, where one had ended her life. Where Gabe discovered her body. (Eddie had eventually revealed this tragedy to Miguel.) No, surely that was worse.

Besides, Gabe actually did seem better now. The color returned gradually to his face and his grip relaxed on the brass handrail of the elevator car. A thousand of their exhausted reflections assembled in the mirrors. When the door opened again, Miguel led Gabe over plush burgundy carpet to the very end of the hallway, through a mint green door with a gold placard that read one-zero-zero-nine, and into his modest home.

;-;