“It’s a great idea. It’s the only solution.”
A few days later, workmen came and dismantled the cage and took it away. A locksmith came and took off the lock.
Damon and I walked to my apartment in grave silence, our hearts pounding. We arrived at the door to my building, walked in, walked up, did not stop at any point. I unlocked my door. The sight of keys made us both shiver with dread. Damon actually looked away, at the wall, until the door was unlocked and the keys were out of sight.
I gave him a nervous tour of my remodeled apartment. He approved. We sat on my couch and drank tea, making polite conversation. After forty-five minutes of this, I got carried away by excitement, because my plan was working: we were actually existing in the same room together, not separated by bars, not protected from each other by the presence of other people, and not threatening each other in any way. I flung myself around his neck and kissed him and said, “I love you.”
He smiled, and laughed, and told me he loved me too, and pushed me back against the sofa and became passionate, like in the rest rooms and the movie theaters, but of course even more unrestrained.
For a week we stayed in my apartment, doing only a small range of activities, but doing them over and over: conducting sensual and erotic experiments, renting movies, eating all sorts of things. The only times we went out were to buy more groceries. I would put on my boots and my winter coat, not bothering to get dressed underneath, and he’d wear his usual transparencies.
The days passed and I still didn’t tell him about his brother, because I felt more days had to pass before I could.
So more days passed. We started going outdoors a bit. We had sex between moving subway cars a couple of times, for old times’ sake, despite the danger, and dangerous it was: Damon would hold me firmly, and I would jokingly remind him not to let go of me. But once, which understandably turned out to be the last time we did it there, he did. I caught myself in the nick of time, while simultaneously getting a vision of what would have happened to my body if I hadn’t. He said he was sorry, that the jerkiness of the ride had made him lose his grip on me. He seemed very upset that I had almost been squashed, and for a while he wouldn’t stop hugging me and burying his face in my neck, even as we walked away from the scene of my near death.
I still worked a lot, but also managed to devote much time to Damon. I would leave the sets as soon as the scenes were shot; I didn’t linger to socialize with the other actors. I never had dinner with them.
I’d spend time studying my lines while Damon did his research. Sometimes, he would ask me if I needed help, but he was always very careful because he knew it was a touchy topic. He tried to be very delicate, and very respectful of whatever answer I would give him, which was no thanks.
One time, to make our relationship as normal as possible, and so that he wouldn’t think I resented him too much, I casually asked him if he could help me with my lines. He tried to respond calmly, and said okay, and sat near me, but it was clear he was a bit nervous. I recited my lines while he looked at the script, and I got them right, so he had nothing to correct. He just smiled normally at me when I was done. I pushed it a step further, because I couldn’t resist, and I was curious.
“Do you have any suggestions? Any thoughts on my delivery?” I asked.
He cleared his throat. He must have known I was torturing him on purpose. “I thought it was very well done.” His voice was gentle. “Very subtle and interestingly nuanced.”
I waited to see if he would say more. He sensed this and added, “I’m only a scientist. You’re now at a level of acting that is way beyond the realm where I can offer any useful opinion.”
I think he was afraid he had said too much, that he had been presumptuous, for he looked down at the floor humbly, as if wishing he could go under it.
I observed him, amused. However, not wanting to be excessively tormenting, I breezily said, “Well, thank you for your help,” and changed the topic.
He seemed relieved.
One day, I started having a new urge, that type of overpowering, irrational urge, like wanting to enter your assailant’s cage or be thrown off a diving board: I wanted to introduce Damon to my parents. I had told them I was dating somebody, and they had expressed great interest in meeting the person, asking if he was an actor too. I told them he was a scientist. When they asked what kind of scientist, I changed the subject until I could think of a good answer. I discussed the possibilities with Damon. He didn’t hesitate as to which scientific profession he wanted them to think he had.
“Tell them I’m an experimental astrophysicist, that I build experiments that fly in space. Telescopes and spectrometers that are launched on sounding rockets and satellites, that kind of thing. I can tell them all about it if they’re interested. Who wouldn’t be? I think I know enough jargon to pull it off.”
I laughed, amazed. “Why do you want them to think you’re an experimental astrophysicist?”
“It sounds good. Nothing sounds better, in fact. Who wouldn’t want to be introduced as an experimental astrophysicist?”
On the whole, Damon thought my urge to introduce him to my parents was insane and self-destructive, but he wanted to please me, and therefore acquiesced, despite the great peril he felt he was putting himself in.
And he was not entirely wrong: my parents were still obsessed with capturing my kidnapper. They were constantly calling the police, asking if there was any progress, if anything had turned up. My father, especially, was persistent and indefatigable in his efforts. He wanted the monster behind bars, he said. Considering all these factors, I don’t know why I had such a strong desire to make the introductions, but I did. I simply thought Damon was wonderful, and I wanted them to see just how wonderful my new boyfriend was. I loved him so immensely, so intensely, so far.
I tried to reassure Damon and myself: “Why would they start suspecting who you are? I’d have to be insane to get involved with my assailant. They don’t think I’m insane.”
There was only one thing Damon and I had to work on before the meeting: his clothes. My parents knew that my assailant had worn, at all times, transparent clothing.
I discussed with Damon the possibility of his wearing opaque clothing. He said he wasn’t sure it could work for him, because it would be like trying to breathe on very little air. He could only do it if he was extremely calm, but any slight turmoil would make him start suffocating.
He hadn’t worn opaque clothing in years, and yet he was willing to try it now, for me. He practiced it before the dinner and did fine; we even had sex while he remained dressed opaquely.
On our way out, however, we argued about up to where his shirt should be buttoned. I said high. He said low — preferably open all the way, as far as he was concerned; it would help him breathe. He had wanted to wear shorts and his usual sandals. I had told him it was out of the question, and that he should look at the bright side: at least he didn’t have to wear a tie. He had gone pale at the mere mention of the word.
We had finally settled on a thin, green, short-sleeved shirt; a ripped pair of blue jeans (the holes calmed him slightly); rain boots that were vaguely translucent; and, most important, one leather glove to cover up his missing finger. My parents knew all too well that I had chopped off Damon’s finger; they not only knew it, they were delighted by it, and bragged about it often to their friends.
The meeting was to be held at my parents’ apartment. We were to have dinner there.