Closet Case (Robert Rodi Essentials) (13 page)

She rubbed his neck affectionately. “And after Edie Adams kissed him on the forehead that famous night outside the nightclub,” she said, picking up John’s story, “you know what he did? He went on to meet his wonderful American wife, with whom he had two beautiful daughters, who are both out on dates tonight or they’d be here to tell him to shut up about Edie Adams already. And then he lived happily ever after, the end.” She turned to him and pursed her lips; John tried to resist, but she craned her neck forward and gave him a big smooch.

Then she mussed his hair and released him, and he appeared a little embarrassed and ill at ease. He searched for something to say, eventually settling on, “Well, it was happily ever after, till it got even happier when my sister Nadia’s boy wrote and asked if he could come and stay with us while he studied medicine in America.” And here he opened his arms and displayed Emil like he was unveiling next year’s Mercedes at a car show. “And since his uncle is the Shoelace King of Chicago, I can afford to send him to Northwestern University and train him to be a great doctor so he can go back to Romania and fight disease!”

“Transylvania,” Emil corrected him. “It will be Transylvania by then.”

Go back to Transylvania?
Thought Lionel, stunned. He hadn’t known that Emil had any intention of going
back.
He felt suddenly heartsick, watching the classically beautiful, adorably gauche Transylvanian patriot stand between his adoring uncle and aunt and scratch his crotch with complete unselfconsciousness.

“Dinner’s ready, by the way,” said Nancy, her smile huge and wide and red, like she had a length of ribbon hung from ear to ear. “Come on up to the kitchen, Lionel, and you can tell us about
your
life.” She smiled and started up the stairs. “We’re having Emil’s favorite tonight.”

Lionel bravely tried to hide that he was suffering from dashed hopes. He pushed himself off the stool and followed the family up the stairs. “I’ve never had Romanian food before,” he said as brightly as he could. “I’m really looking forward to it.”

“Romanian, shmomanian,” said John. “We’re
Americans
in this house. We eat good, wholesome
American
food.”

“Oh,” muttered Lionel, accepting the demise of the final element in his treasured fantasy. “Well, then, what
are
we having?”

“Chop suey,” said Nancy as she reached the top of the stairs. Lionel came up behind her and saw that the kitchen table was now covered with a dozen white take-out boxes. She winked at him. “I slaved over a hot telephone for this meal.”

Emil laughed long and hard at the joke. John, who had perhaps heard it before, was already digging in.

Dinner was over by eight-thirty and Lionel was at his front door by nine. When he entered, he found Yolanda slumped over in his reclining chair, an open paperback on her lap and Spencer on her shoulder. At the sight of him, the bird hissed in hatred and flew down the corridor, presumably back to his cage.

Lionel dropped his jacket on the sofa, then crouched before Yolanda and gently shook her awake. She stirred prettily, and when she yawned, several locks of her hair fell lazily into her face, as though they were still asleep. “Lionel,” she said. “Oh, my.” She looked at her watch. “Back so early?”

“It was an early dinner. How long’ve you been unconscious? Looks like Spencer’s shit on your shoulder about five times.”

She examined the hardening bloblets of bird crap on her blouse and shrugged. “They will wash out.” Then she stretched her arms languorously, straightened her legs, and ran her hands from her thighs to her ankles. “I suppose I have been dozing for a while. I started reading this book around six-thirty, but I do not seem to have gotten very far.”

Lionel took the barely opened paperback from her lap. Its title was
Feudalia,
written by one Edward St. Onge, and its cover copy read, CAN A PLANET MIRED IN MEDIEVAL MISERY DEFEAT AN INVASION OF STAR-SPANNING SOCIALISTS? The colorful cover depicted a heavily weaponed starship warrior appearing in a flash of light in a throne room filled with astonished courtiers, all of whom had Prince Valiant haircuts and wore tights and pointed shoes. The throne itself was occupied by a defiant monarch who looked like a cross between Elizabeth I and Barbi Benton.

He handed it back to her. “Looks riveting,” he said. “No wonder you nodded off.”

She stuffed the book into her purse, which was resting at the side of the chair. “Where did Spencer go?” she asked, stifling a yawn. “Do not tell me you brought him back to his cage all by yourself!”

He shook his head. “Little beast took off like a rocket soon as I showed my face.”

She curled her legs beneath her. “Poor Spencer,” she sighed.

“Poor
Lionel
,” he corrected her. “It was a disaster, Yolanda.” He slipped off his shoes and sat cross-legged on the floor; then, getting a whiff of his feet, he decided he’d better follow Yolanda’s lead and tuck his legs beneath him.

She pouted. “Oh, no. Tell me what happened.”

Spencer began singing from down the corridor. Instead of flying to his cage, he had apparently flapped all the way to the kitchen, to serenade his reflection in Lionel’s Alessi teapot.

Lionel raised his voice so that it would carry above his parrot’s. “I was
totally
wrong about the uncle and aunt. They weren’t peasants; the aunt isn’t even Romanian. She was a Milwaukee lounge singer back in the Seventies — that’s how the uncle met her. He was there for a shoe convention. He’s the Shoelace King of Chicago, you know.”

Yolanda suppressed a smile. “I did not know that, no.”

“Anyway, they weren’t so bad … a little overbearing and vulgar, but in a kind of sweet way. They have six Franklin Mint shadow boxes, with all sorts of instant collections of the most hideous stuff … porcelain thimbles with the fifty state flags, limited edition saucers each featuring a different pope. But
that
I could handle. That’s not the reason it was a disaster.” He shuddered and put his head in his hands. “They casually mentioned that Emil’s only in this country till he gets out of med school, then it’s right back to Romania for him. Or Transylvania, excuse me. And yes, there is apparently a difference.”

She gave him a look of unbearable pity, then slipped out of the reclining chair and curled up beside him on the floor. She put her arm around his shoulder, taking care not to smear any of Spencer’s droppings on him. “There, there,” she said, rubbing his back. “Did you talk to Emil about this?”

In the kitchen, Spencer had just reached a dazzlingly operatic crescendo, which was followed by a metallic bang and a series of horrified shrieks. He’d apparently knocked the teapot right off the stove.

“I didn’t have a chance to say anything to him. The Shoelace King talked a blue streak the entire time I was there. He managed to tell his entire life story, some parts of it two or three times. He even gave me most of Edie Adams’s biography as well.”

“Who is Edie Adams?”

“Star of stage and screen. It’s not important. Anyway, I asked Emil to have dinner with me tomorrow so we could talk. He gave me a great big bear hug, but … I don’t know. He doesn’t seem very
interested.
Maybe you were right about him not being gay.”

She put her head on his shoulder. “Maybe I was, but maybe I was not. Poor Lionel, always rushing in with his big dreams.”

“I know I’m an idiot,” he said. “It just would’ve been so
perfect
.”

Spencer appeared. He had walked down the corridor and now peeked around the corner at them.

“He wants me to pick up the teapot,” said Yolanda. “I will be right back.”

“No, for Christ’s sake, stay,” he said, grabbing her arm (and in the process getting two of his fingers gooey with bird shit). “You spoil him enough.” He turned toward Spencer and said, “
My
turn now. Go play in traffic or something.”

Spencer uttered something low and throaty, then turned and headed back down the corridor.

Lionel released Yolanda and wiped his soiled fingers on the carpet. “Something’s bothering you, too, isn’t it?” he said, noticing the dullness of her eyes. “You’re as depressed as I am. What’s wrong?”

“Oh,” she said, toying with her bracelet, “I heard from Bob today.”

“I thought he was incommunicado.”

“He was supposed to be. But when everyone was in the sweat lodge, he pretended he ha—”

“Wait, wait — sweat lodge?”

She nodded. “They smolder herbs and incense there, to purge and purify the body. It is a Native American tradition, Bob says. Anyway, he had been in there for close to half an hour and everyone was howling like animals, and he had had enough. He thought the only way they would let him go was if he pretended he had to throw up, and he was right — they couldn’t hustle him out fast enough. But instead of going back to his barracks, he crawled through the window of the camp’s office and called me on what is apparently the only telephone on the premises.”

“They won’t let him
call
?” Lionel asked, aghast.

“He
agreed
not to call. Or to use any form of technology the entire weekend … not watches, cameras, electric razors — even pills. Remember, most of the men who are attending this retreat are doing so voluntarily. They do not need to be prevented from using such things. It is part of the reason they
want
to go, to get back to their ‘primal selves,’ as Bob put it.”

It was his turn her rub
her
back. “And how’s old Bob holding up?”

From the kitchen, they heard Spencer begin a new song. He must have decided simply to continue his teapot serenade on the floor.

“Not well. The first thing the men were made to do was pick a new name, an animal name to signify their connection to nature. Well, Bob arrived late, and by the time he got there all the good names had been taken. He said he thought of Wolverine, then Cougar, then Badger, and every time the elder would say, Try again, until Bob got nervous and blurted out,
Gander
. So that is his wild name.”

Before he could stop himself, Lionel snorted a laugh. “
Gander?
Oh,
Jesus.
Not a very auspicious start, was it?” His stomach quivered with suppressed hilarity; he mustn’t let her see how wildly funny he found this.

Yet as she shook her head in agreement, he thought he could detect a fleeting trace of a smile on her face. “No,” she said, “not a very auspicious start. And it has been mostly miserable for him ever since. The men are not allowed to
shower
, Lionel — not even after the sweat lodge. Bob says there
are
no showers. They can swim in the stream next to the campground, if they like, but Bob says the water is never warmer than fifty degrees, and if he jumped in he would surely suffer cardiac arrest. And besides, all the men keep talking about how ‘empowering’ it is for them to be able to smell themselves. Bob says it has become almost a contest, to see who can be the most rank. And they have only been there two days! Think of how they will be after a whole
week
of the sweat lodge.”

“Ugh,” said Lionel, meaning it.

“And the activities!” she continued. “Last night everyone had to bang drums and dance themselves into a frenzy, then spit and spew forth all the resentment they had stored up against the world, and whenever one man would stop, they would dance and bang drums again, until everyone had had a turn.”

“And what did Bob spew about?”

She shifted her weight. “I think that is what is disturbing me. He said he was the last to go, and we laughed about that. But he would not tell me what he said. He claims that before the rite began — that’s what he called it, a ‘rite’ — all the men were forced to take an oath never to reveal the details of what happened there. And Lionel, he sounded a little
proud
of that.”

“This is all so Spin-and-Marty-ish,” Lionel said, shaking his head. “I can’t believe we’re talking about grown men, here.”

“Do you think Bob ‘spewed’ about me?” she asked all at once, her voice as high-pitched as Spencer’s kettle at full steam.

He looked at her, appalled. “In that pit of smelly schoolboys? He’d better not have. But what would he have said, anyway? You’re perfect!”

She averted her eyes from him. “You once told me that he would someday resent me for not being a blonde debutante named Phoebe.”

He sighed. “I was drunk at the time. I sure he said nothing whatsoever about you, Yolanda.
Positive
.”

“Well,” she said, her voice still reedy, “I suppose not, or he would not have taken the risk of calling me.” In the kitchen, Spencer’s song had descended into a soft croon. “I am silly for worrying so much.”

“Yes, you are.”

She stared into space and bit her thumbnail, then turned and said, “Can I be honest with you? What worries me most is that I think in some small way he is not
entirely
as miserable as I had expected. That he is to some small degree
enjoying
himself. He has never kept a secret from me before, Lionel.”

“Well, he did swear an oath.”

She gave him a look from lowered eyes, as though disappointed in him. “Men swear oaths all the time. It means nothing. You
know
it means nothing.”

Does it?
he wondered.
Do I?

He felt a flurry of fear. At some basic and profound level, Yolanda understood men better than he did. He might be one, but maybe that was the problem; maybe it was impossible to have an objective opinion of masculine virtues and vices when they were built into your chromosomes. And being gay couldn’t help; he’d spent most of his adult life in a state of dizzied confusion about his gender. When Yolanda accused men of being essentially faithless, incapable of honoring their word, why did it make him tremble? Because he recognized that trait in himself — or because he
didn’t
? Because it placed him on a level with Bob Smartt — or because it pointed up the crucial way in which he and Bob Smartt were different? And worst of all, how could he ever know the answer to any of this, since most of his energy since puberty had been employed in playing a role? What was beneath the mask he wore? Was there anything
left
beneath the mask he wore?

Yolanda’s simple assertion had flung him into a swamp of unanswerable, almost imponderable questions, and she must have seen the wounded look that crossed his face, the lost look, the eyes that wouldn’t focus, the lower lip that quivered below skin that visibly paled. She touched his hand and said, “Lionel, have I upset you?”

He shook briefly, a momentary convulsion; it was a small paroxysm of terror, brought on by his realization that he was a complete stranger to himself. When he turned to answer Yolanda, he realized he had tears on his face. “I don’t know what just came over me,” he said, his voice eerily weightless, as though it might disperse in the air before reaching her ears. “Something you said just really freaked me ou—”

He was interrupted by a series of enraged shrieks from the kitchen. Startled, Yolanda leapt to her feet. “Oh, dear,” she said, pulling down the legs of her jeans from where they’d gathered around her crotch. “This always happens if you leave him alone too long with his reflection. First he loves himself, then he changes his mind and hates himself.”

“I know the feeling,” Lionel said thinly.

“I will take care of it and be right back.”

She hurried down the hall to the kitchen, leaving him on his knees in the living room, totally and terribly alone.