She would have this baby. She would never miss a dose of AZT and she would have this baby and the baby would be HIV-negative. She still thought there was a chance she might live, that she might make it to the new, better drugs that were in the works — that all their work in the movement would kick into high gear in the research trials. It was only going to go faster once Clinton came into office! Then they’d have allies in Washington instead of enemies. But she wasn’t taking any chances. Yes, everyone in the movement said they were leaving a legacy, even if they died soon — they were deriving some meaning from all this, that they would leave something better behind. That was how the sick ones in the movement who knew they might not be long for this world kept their sanity. And she was among them. But she was leaving more than that. She was not going out of this world at thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five having left nothing behind. She knew her child would thrive. Ava would make sure of that; Ava had promised.
She wouldn’t tell Hector. He’d never know. It wasn’t fair to put that on him when he was taking care of Ricky. And curiously, Issy thought, that’s how it had happened — taking care of Ricky! Hector had told her on a Thursday that he was bringing Ricky home from the hospital that night, and Issy had said she’d drop by with a box of Ensure and some old blankets she’d cadged from her parents’ house in Queens. She wanted to make sure Ricky was comfortable and had everything he needed now that he was back in the apartment.
But when she arrived, she found Hector alone — no Ricky. Hector had been drinking tequila on the couch, watching Beverly Hills, 90210.
“What’s going on?” she’d asked. “Where’s Ricky?”
“Turns out he had a staph infection in his thigh so they had to keep him in longer, on an antibiotic drip,” Hector said. He spoke louder than usual, thickly, eyes cast down. Issy noticed he’d spilled tequila on the rug.
“Oh my God,” she said, setting down the box on the kitchen table. “Poor Ricky. He must be so sick of the hospital.”
“Naw,” Hector drawled. “He has some gay nurse now he talks astrology and bullshit with all day. About signs and moons and what’s rising and what’s falling. He feels fine. PCP’s cleared up.”
Hector was drunk. That much was clear to Issy. “Oh, Hector,” she said, laughing a little. She moved toward him and gave him a hug. “I’m sorry you guys are going through this.”
He put his arms around her. “We’ve been through it before. How you feeling?”
“Okay,” she said, smelling the tequila on his breath and feeling his large hands on the small of her back. She wanted to stay there. She had not been held close for a long time. But she gently stepped away. “Pretty good today, just a little tired.”
“How’s your family?” He motioned for her to sit across from him on the couch, and she plopped down, grateful to rest for a moment. He’d asked her in Spanish, which they slipped into occasionally when it was just the two of them.
“It’s stressful living there,” she answered in Spanish. “They don’t mind me going to meetings, but they don’t want me out in public. I told you my dad said I was bringing shame on the family.”
“Bochinche!” Hector exclaimed. Shameful gossip.
“Yes.” She laughed. “Bochinche. The nice girl brings down bochinche on her family.”
“You should move to Ava’s,” he said.
Issy paused. “I probably will soon,” she said. She wouldn’t mind the support she’d find there. At the same time, moving to Judith House also meant she was sick enough to qualify for a place there. It felt like a death knell. She didn’t want to feel that way — she knew it wasn’t fair to the other girls who already lived there — but she couldn’t escape the feeling.
She and Hector caught each other’s eyes for a moment too long, and she looked away. In the sudden silence, she’d felt the specter—el espectro. This was what, in her head, she called the dark pit before her when she was alone, when she wasn’t ensconced in the comforting shouts and cries of the meetings or rallies, or some of the high jinks they’d have from time to time in clubs. El espectro was simply when, in the silence, you realized you’d probably die soon, or that everyone around you was dying. No action against a government office or clever new poster or even hundreds of friends chanting the same words at the same time could really make the specter go away for good.
Still looking down, she shook her head. “It all sucks,” she said. She traced patterns on her jeans with her finger, not wanting to look at Hector.
He got up and went into the kitchen, came back with a glass for her. “Drink with me,” he said, pouring her tequila.
Issy laughed. “That shit’ll fuck me up!”
“Not so much this far along.” Hector handed her the glass.
“Don’t we get limes and salt?”
He laughed. “You wanna go downstairs and buy limes?”
“No!”
“Then just drink.”
Issy knocked back her first gulp. The tequila burned and bloomed in her stomach, filling her with a liquid sunny warmth. She seldom drank; it wasn’t good for her liver. “My God, that feels so good,” she commented.
Hector smiled bitterly. “I know.”
As they drank, on opposite ends of the couch, they idly watched the TV program — an inane plot in which the girl played by Shannen Doherty witnesses a robbery at her favorite diner and then has flashbacks about it.
“Haha, she’s having night sweats!” Hector laughed. “Pobre blanca!”
“Yeah, she saw a robbery in Beverly Hills!” Issy cried. “How’s she ever gonna recover?”
The more Issy drank, the more she felt convinced she was throwing off earthly chains. She and Hector could’ve been kids growing up on the island together, running on beaches. It all could’ve worked out so differently! Maybe what they were living through wasn’t really happening; maybe they were waking up from a bad dream. The more she drank, the more she admitted to herself that she’d been in love with Hector for three years, that he played the starring role in fantasies she barely allowed herself. Then suddenly she was saying, “Oh, Hector, oh, Hector,” over and over again. Then she was in his arms on the couch, tasting his tequila lips.
Hector broke out laughing. “You’re crazy, Issy!”
“I know.” She laughed, her hands gobbling up every part of his body. “You’ve been so good to me, Hector. I really love you.”
“I love you, too, Issy. But I don’t—”
“I know. I don’t care. Can you just hold me? I haven’t had that in so long.”
“Of course, Issy.” She felt his hands in her hair.
Then it started happening. He’s humoring me, it’s a pity fuck, a little voice in Issy’s head told her. But she couldn’t be bothered with that. She felt the all-consuming gratitude of someone who sets misgivings aside and gives over completely to a fantasy coming true. She looked at him. He stared up at her, lying on his back, frightened and awed.
“Just let me show you,” she said. And indeed she had to show him. But when she undid his pants and saw that he was semihard, she felt a quiet wave of triumph that allayed some of her feelings of being pathetic. She slid down, fellated him, took pride in his moans, in his hands on her head. When she felt he was not far from coming, she pushed down her own jeans, her wet panties.
“We need a condom,” she said.
But Hector pulled her closer. “You’re not going to give it to me,” he said.
She felt a new rush of gratitude and tenderness toward him. Four years now, she’d lived with the feeling of wearing a sandwich board that said DAMAGED GOODS. TOXIC VAGINA. She often felt certain people on the street could read this information in her eyes, and she could see repulsion or pity in return. She knew it was difficult for a woman to infect a man. Usually, though, that didn’t quell her feelings of self-quarantine. It wasn’t an easy thing to explain to a man, and the few occasions she’d had sex since her diagnosis — occasions of which she wasn’t proud, coming as they did after a desperate, lonely bar visit — she’d felt ashamed that she hadn’t told the men, even though she’d insisted on a condom. It was a holy relief to be with someone who understood the disease, who knew about her and didn’t reject her.