6 HEARSAY They say that I was born in February, in a hospital in midtown, while it snowed. It is legend. There are photographs. They say the blue bathing suit with the little green frogs was my favorite. They say that those are my mother's sunglasses, pointing at a naked boy wearing nothing else, in a poloroid, laughing. My first birthday and the big stuffed dog? I remember that dog but I don't remember getting that dog. It seems like I always had that dog. She would sleep in bed with me--endlessly vigilant, black plastic eyes flashing hallway light if anyone opened the bedroom door--along with a real cat named Good-For- Nothing Layabout Cat. That's you, they say, pointing at a photograph--a little boy at his first rodeo, in a baby blue cowboy outfit with suede fringe, standing awkwardly and squinting into the sun--but they aren't pointing at a photo- graph, they are pointing at a story, how this and that and something something. What does it take to own the myth? Why build a self from this? It makes me uncomfortable, my story-- part insight, part anecdote--started by unreliable people at cross-purposes. And which photographs didn't get saved? And which photographs didn't get taken? I never figured out who named the cat but everyone took credit for it. 10 COVER STORY My boyfriend did not die in 1991. I told a lie and it turned into a fact, forever repeated in my official biography. He died on Christmas Day, 1990, when his family disconnected the mechanical breathing machine. He was a composer. We were working on a piece for voice and strings. I liked writing the words under the whole notes, hyphenating them to make them last. I liked sitting on the bed in his apartment, writing on the sheet music--bigger paper, thicker, how it sounded when it fell to the floor when we got tired. It was winter break, friends in town, we hopped from party to party, catching up but separately. We hadn't told anyone. It was late, the night was clear, the roads were empty. The four of them were sober, the driver in the other car was not. I was a few miles away, in a bar, waiting. When the bar closed, I left him an angry voicemail for standing me up. A few hours later, a friend called and told me. He suggested I break into the apartment and start removing things before the family arrived. For several minutes I didn't understand, then--evidence. He hadn't told his family about us. I drove in the darkness between the accident and dawn. I climbed through the window. I couldn't figure which things looked suspicious and which things would be missed. I was sloppy, felt rushed. I grabbed the wrong music. It was a piece had already performed. A few days after Christmas there was a memorial. I sat in the back. As part of his speech, his father mentioned the missing music, made a metaphor out of it, made an appeal for its return. I couldn't give it back. On New Year's Eve, in a black velvet jacket, at a party in the lobby of a downtown hotel, with a drink in each hand--one for him, one for me--I kept asking where he was, if anyone had seen him. I had his passport in my pocket. I shouldn't have taken that either. It was the only picture of him I could find. Excerpted from I Do Know Some Things by Richard Siken All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.
