His eyebrows jump. “You’re kidding?”
I shake my head.
“That’s perfect! I can be your boyfriend, your brother. It’s your house. You’ve got rights! You can do whatever you want!”
“The last thing we want is to draw attention.”
He taps his fingertips along the bottle. “We agreed, split everything fifty-fifty.” I don’t remember that. “All of her assets. This is her most valuable asset.” Suddenly he’s a lawyer, and his eyes flash. “It’s as much mine as yours.” I guess that’s true, because it’s neither his nor mine.
He bows his head to search his pockets and reveals a hook of a scar buried in his dark hair.
I picture his hands sliding up her pale cheeks. The cracking sound that must have been her neck—so quiet, too quiet—as he put her to sleep.
Maybe she was already dead, I remind myself to make myself feel better. Maybe he wanted me to believe he killed her so I would be afraid of him, so I would think I owed him. My gut tells me he killed her. But when has my gut ever been right? I can’t afford to be certain. It costs too much.
“There’s a man upstairs, you know.”
He snorts. I think of Graham in his tailored suits, breathing sunshine, like he has never had a bad day. Maybe he could smile Michael into submission. “Fuck him! If he’s got a problem, I’ll kill him.” This seems an oversized solution, but I am beginning to see that is the magic of Michael. He contains multitudes.
He pulls three beads of drugs out of his pocket.
“You can’t do that.” It’s like my childhood has followed me here.
“I want to listen to music,” he says, untying the tiny knot of one bead, setting the others on the floor where he can see them. “Led Zeppelin.” Dead-body music.
“Michael, please.” This was supposed to be my chance, and it feels like I’m losing it to my past, like I’m cursed, can never escape. And it’s not fucking fair. I’m so close.
His eyes catch mine, shiny in their whites. “We’ll keep it down. Wouldn’t want to disturb anybody.”
I march to the computer. I put Led Zeppelin on Spotify.
“I’m going in the other room,” I say. He takes a needle sealed in plastic and a box of Narcan out of his pockets and sets them neatly on the floor.
The house is open-plan, so there is no door between the living room and the bedroom, just a long hall. I can’t escape him. I tell myself that even this is better than living on the streets. I tell myself not to be greedy. I tell myself this is enough.
When has that ever been true?
* * *
I IGNORE MICHAEL as much as I can, which, it turns out, is not a lot.
He gets high and watches Pixar movies on Demi’s desktop, cradled in the corner of the house. He keeps them on low volume, nodding out so he has to watch them over and over, trying to catch all the parts he missed. Finding Dory, Toy Story 4, Cars 3. They play in a near constant loop—breaking only for the occasional art house film to prove he is a man of taste.
He goes in and out of the apartment as he pleases. His belongings slowly filter in, too. His tent folded up beside him, his sleeping bag, even the cardboard he used to sleep on.
His most prized possessions are his “paintings.” They are not actually paintings but collages, which is enough to convince him he’s an artist. They are filled with cutout penises and breasts with clever words like “FUCK” and “PUSSY” written between them—in case the images alone are too obscure. Whenever he goes out, he always checks with me, oddly coy. “Hey, will you keep an eye on my paintings?” It’s almost endearing, how important these hideous creations are to him.
He pawns Demi’s things. We split the money. I buy food and things we need for the house. He buys heroin. He insists it’s what Demi would have wanted. I can’t fault him. She would absolutely want him to kill himself.
I am shocked that we haven’t been caught. So shocked that I begin to feel divorced from the event, like I never even did it.
When I’m lonely, we talk. Michael is just like anyone. His mind is a network of contradictions and booby traps and strange perversions; his are just more obvious.
Like most poor men I know, he is convinced he is gaming the system. He brags about how he doesn’t have to work, how he stole his brother’s identity and now gets food stamps for two people, how he’s walked out on multiple hospital bills.
He tells me how tough he is, how many fights he’s been in; he walks me through all the strange trials of his existence, all the times he survived when he shouldn’t have. That is the thing he is most proud of, his survival, as he shoots himself up and dares himself to die.