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stage. “The bird people,” Mickey had said of the four of them together, and thought it inexpressibly cute. Jerome had found them ineffably sad. During their limited time together they’d felt like the brothers he’d never had. Those with progeria resembled each other far more than they resembled the members of their own families. His recovery from progeria had been long, two years in the making, a process of countless surgeries and painful genetic experimentation, and costing far more than he’d made from the performances. But it had been an emotionally full time for him, and he’d retained the scars in lieu of nipples as a monument to the journey.
    “No,” he said finally. “I think this is the way they’re going to be from here on out.”
    Mickey pursed his lips but said nothing. He slowly began touching Jerome’s torso, checking out each scar, each monument to a past performance.
    “Cut it out, Mickey. Please, not tonight.”
    “We haven’t checked your skin thoroughly in awhile. That’s my job, remember? Looking for hot spots, places where one of your little escapades is attempting a comeback?”
    “I know, just leave it tonight, okay?”
    “Hold on.” Mickey reached over and grabbed a cleanser off the bedside table. “You got a little pustule coming back. That could mean serious stuff. Gross . . . why can’t you just have the measles sometime?”
    “Dammit, Mickey.” Jerome pulled himself out of bed and hobbled to the chair. Something in his leg was bothering him, but he wasn’t about to tell Mickey that. “I’m just never
clean
enough for you, am I? That’s what this is about.”
    “What this is
about
is that you’re getting careless. You’re supposed to run through one of the hospitals at least once a week, remember? Get checked out? That was the deal we made with the Health Services in order for you to practice this ‘art’ of yours. You haven’t had a thorough check in three months.”
    “I’ve always passed. There’s never been a problem.” He’d stumbled over the word “passed,” hoped Mickey didn’t notice.
    “So what are you afraid of? Why not get checked out?”
    Jerome looked at him: his perfect nails, his perfect skin. His perfect hair: Jerome used to watch Mickey when he cleaned it, each hair pulled individually into a nozzle of the vacuum head, stripped and scented, then a scalp scrub and scrape. When, to please Mickey, Jerome had tried the same thing, and the derma shaves, the full body wipes, he’d been injured or had had to stop because of the extreme discomfort.
    “I’ve never been clean enough for you. I’ve never been tidy. I leave things scattered around, I carry things around with me, I can’t let them go. I can’t forget, I don’t want to forget. I crave contact, Mickey. And contact is always messy.”
    Mickey responded by getting dressed again. As if in defiance he slipped on the shiny stiff clothes of his profession, clothing which would not crease and therefore trap dirt. His translucent nails glittered against the red material like jewels. Even from this distance Jerome could smell the particularly acidic aroma of the cleansing mouthwashes Mickey used to clean his teeth and gums and kill anything—even taste—that food might leave behind.
    Jerome knew that Mickey sometimes swallowed the scouring wash even though there were strong warnings against it. “I’m a professional—I know just how much my body will tolerate.” Once every two years Mickey, like half the population, submitted to a painful and dangerous blood cleansing.
    Jerome’s face suddenly blazed into existence on the mottled white bedroom wall. “Disease Artist may face charges in recent
Cholera!
mishap,” the high-toned announcer said. There followed
a collage of interview segments:
    “Tuberculosis was the disease of the Industrial Revolution, syphilis of the Renaissance, and melancholy of the baroque period. The message then was the same as now: disease is a sin, disease