To Paradise

XIX

Late April was the one time the city could be described as soft, and for a few precious weeks, the trees would be clouds of pink-and-white blossoms, the air cleansed of its grit, the breezes gentle.

Edward had already left for the day, and David had to leave as well. But he was glad of the silence—though it was never quite completely silent in the boardinghouse—for he felt the need to compose himself before he stepped outside.

He had been living with Edward in the boardinghouse room for little more than four weeks. After leaving his grandfather and Washington Square that night, he had gone directly to the boardinghouse, but Edward was out. The little maid let David into his cold and dark room, though, and David had sat still for a few minutes before he had stood and begun, at first methodically and then feverishly, an examination of the room, pulling and replacing clothes from Edward’s trunk, paging through every one of his books, rifling through his papers, stamping upon the floorboards to see if any might be loose, with secrets hidden beneath. He found answers, he supposed, but there was no way of telling if they were answers he sought: A small etching of a pretty, dark-haired girl, tucked into a copy of the Aeneid—was this Belle? A daguerreotype of a handsome man with a knowing smile and a hat tipped rakishly on his head—was this Aubrey? A roll of money, secured with a length of string—was this stolen from Aunt Bethesda, or his earnings from the institute? A sheet of crackling onionskin, pressed between the pages of his Bible, inscribed “I will always love you” in a fluttery hand—was this from one of his mothers, his first or his second? Belle? Bethesda? Aubrey? Somebody else entirely? The second trunk, which he had bought Edward, with its brass clasps and leather straps, held the little porcelain bird and a few blank music-composition books, but the tea set he had placed in it before leaving to see his grandfather—a ceremonial gesture toward packing, toward the creation of the new house they would have together—was missing, as was the silver set he’d bought.

He was contemplating what this might mean when Edward walked in, and David turned and saw the mess he had made, all of Edward’s possessions strewn about him, and Edward himself before him with an unreadable expression, and after his first, absurd question burst from his mouth, the only question he could think to ask because he did not know where to begin with the rest—“Where is the tea set I bought you?”—he began to weep, sinking to the floor. Edward picked his way across the piles of clothes and books and crouched next to him, holding him in his arms, and David turned and sobbed into his coat. Even after he was able to speak, his questions came as staccato explosions, one following the next with no apparent logic or order, but all seeming equally urgent: Was Edward in love with another? Who was Aubrey to him, really? Had he lied about who he was, who his family was? Why had he really gone to Vermont? Did he love him? Did he love him? Did he truly love him?

Edward had attempted to answer his questions as he asked them, but David interrupted before he was able to finish any of his explanations; he was unable to comprehend anything Edward said. The only things he had brought with him from Washington Square were the bundle of Edward’s letters answering his own, and the report from Wesley, which he finally retrieved, still sobbing, from his own coat pocket and handed to Edward, who took the pages and began to read, first with curiosity and then with anger, and it was witnessing this anger, Edward’s explosions of “Blast!” and “The devil!” that, curiously, quieted David’s own upset. When he was finished, Edward threw the pages across the room, into the blackened hearth, and then turned to David. “My poor David,” he said. “My poor innocent. What must you think of me?” And then his face hardened. “I never thought she would do this to me,” he muttered. “But she has, and has placed in peril the relationship I value most.”