Eye Contact (12 page)

The smile that has reflected Hector’s happy remembrance fades as he tells them, “Surprised as I was by the news he delivered, I was even less prepared for the
other
morsel he would soon divulge to me. We spent most of our evenings together at the theater, then at dinner, which could last till past midnight. Instead of returning with me to the apartment to retire, David began staying out on his own, telling me he wanted to explore the nightlife. This seemed reasonable for a man of his age, and I didn’t give it much thought. He was always up and about the next morning before I was, fixing breakfast, over which he’d share tales of the previous night’s exploits. I marveled at his energy, which seemed boundless.”

Hector again fixes the knot of his tie, but there’s no need—it’s still perfect. “One morning, however, David hadn’t returned. While making coffee, I heard the front door. A few moments later, he stood in the hallway to the kitchen. I told him, ‘I may not be your mother, but I deserve an explanation.’ He asked me to sit down and joined me at the table. He poured coffee for us both. As I reached to pick up the cup, he took my hand into his and looked me in the eye. ‘I have something to tell you,’ he said. I’m sure you can guess what it was.”

Neil coughs. “I have an inkling.”

“He’d been hitting the bars that week—gay bars, it turned out—and on that last night, he went home with someone. ‘Why?’ I asked him. ‘Are you sure?’ I stuttered through the predictable litany of questions. Calmly, David explained that he’d been wrestling with this for several years, since the start of college, that he’d had no satisfaction from his flings with women. The previous summer, he’d stayed on at the apartment he kept near school, and during those months, less pressured by the demands of classes and the expectations of friends, he ‘found himself,’ he said, and became comfortable with his self-awareness as a homosexual.”

Hector’s discourse has grown agitated, and he starts to rise from the sofa, as if he needs to pace. But he stops short of standing, plops back into his seat, and gestures with both palms open, as if beseeching Claire and Neil to understand.

“Flustered, I suggested that his comfort level should end right there. ‘Keep this to yourself,’ I warned him. ‘If you take this any further, if you spread the news, it will probably kill your parents and will certainly thwart your career.’ In truth, David’s parents are open-minded and tolerant, but I was afraid to predict how my brother might react to learning that his son had ‘gone gay’ during one of his visits to dear, worldly Uncle Hector.”

Claire crosses her arms. She eyes Hector with an accusing stare. “Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that you were afraid your brother might think it was
you
who turned David gay?”

“That’s bullshit,” says Hector, in no mood for honesty.

But Claire persists. “Come on, Hector. Theater, ballet, opera? French lessons in
third grade
so the kid might find his way around a menu? The costume parties and opening nights and weekend excursions to Provincetown? Of
course
David’s parents would conclude that you’d dangled a tantalizing plum before their baby. But the point is, Hector: you’ve done that all along, and they’ve known it. They’ve known that you live in a milieu that might appeal to their son, and they’ve never denied him the opportunity to be with you. In fact, they’ve encouraged it. So I don’t understand …” She stops short, having thought of something. “My God. Do you think they’d suspect you’d
slept
with David?”

“For Christ’s sake, Claire, they’d know better. They’ve often razzed me about the effete company I keep, and I admit that I project something of an affected persona, but they understand, as I’m sure you do, that I’m playing a role. I’m a theater critic—New York-based, nationally syndicated, with a public that likes to imagine me as a glib socialite. I have no problem with that. Indeed, I enjoy it. But I am not gay, which you know better than anyone. David’s parents know it too. I would never take advantage of their son, under
any
circumstances.”

Neil clears his throat and wonders aloud, “Where are Mark and David with those drinks?” The party is filling in with other guests, and there’s a crowd at the bar near the kitchen. Neil spots Victor Uttley, someone from the mayor’s office who’s had his fingers in much of the committee work for Celebration Two Thousand.

Returning his attention to Claire and Hector’s discourse, Neil cautiously enters the conversation. “I’m sure you’re right,” he tells Hector. “Intelligent people no longer fear gay ‘recruiting.’ Gays have always known instinctively what is now accepted as fact: Sexual orientation is
in
you. It’s genetic, and it’s there from day one.”

“Okay,” says Claire, conceding the issue, “but then I’m all the more bewildered, Hector. Why are you so uncomfortable with David’s homosexuality? You
are
glib—I’ve rarely seen you frenzied by anything more serious than a sluggish first act. What could possibly concern you about something so pedestrian as your nephew’s sex life? It’s not rational.”

“I never claimed it was ‘rational.’ But it troubles me. I’m worried.”

Neil asks him, “It’s AIDS, isn’t it?”

Hector looks from Neil to Claire, whose eyes ask, Well, is it?

Hector exhales, then he lays the issue bare. “Of course it’s AIDS. The worry wrenches my gut. I don’t give a damn what David does with his dick—do excuse my rather crude indulgence in alliteration—but I don’t want him to
die
doing it. He’s at exactly the age when he should explore life to its fullest, tasting from the ‘banquet,’ but in historical terms, this is exactly the wrong age to belly up to
that
smorgasbord.”

He pauses to clear his mind, then sums up his concerns: “If David became infected, his parents would never forgive me for introducing him to a world turned deadly. Worse yet, I could never forgive myself.”

The tenderness of Claire’s smile declares a truce in their squabbling, revealing that her affection for Hector is deepened by the knowledge that his displeasure with David’s gayness is ultimately selfless and loving. She pats his hand. Then she turns to Neil. “Where
are
Mark and David with those drinks?”

The music has kept pace with the changing tempo of the party, and the tasteful cocktail tunes have segued to jazzier selections that sound a tad nasty. Some of the guests have started dancing. Others graze at the buffet. But most are clumped near the bar—reaching for drinks, greeting acquaintances, marveling at the loft, flirting with the boys from Happy Happenings.

“
Kir
,” Manning tells the bartender over the din, “nor kirsch.” He passes back the two snifters. “Put a spoonful of cassis in white wine.”

David says, “Leave it to Uncle Hector to stump the help. He’d never
think
to ask for gin and tonic, your basic hot-weather standby.” He shrugs, as if to offer a lame apology for his uncle’s refined tastes. David downs the last of his drink, the second gin and tonic he has managed to procure during the confusion over the kir. He orders a third.

“Easy there,” Manning tells him. “The night is young.”

David smirks. “Promises, promises. …”

God help me. Manning tells David, “Take this, will you?” It’s one of the kirs. Manning carries the other, along with his own drink.

Jostling through the crowd, David spots one of the
Journal’s
new interns, just hired for the summer. There’s a splotch on the back of his hand, and he’s showing it off. “Tough tatt,” says David, leaning to admire a little portrait of Beavis.

“Thanks, dude.”

As they move onward with the drinks, Manning says, “I hate to sound like an old fart, but what’s with these tattoos?”

David gives him a vacant I-dunno look. “Lots of kids are doing it. Just a trend.”

“I mean,” Manning grapples for the words, “it’s so … permanent. Trends are fine. They’re fun. By definition, fashion is fleeting, but an entire generation will go to their graves wearing those.”

“I imagine we will,” says David, agreeing but not caring.

“‘We’?” says Manning, stopping right there. “You mean …?” Now he’s truly curious. “Where?”

David laughs. “Relax, Mark. My ‘we’ merely acknowledged membership in generation X—isn’t that what you call us? I’m not into tattoos. That’s kids’ stuff.”

“Thank God,” says Manning, visibly relieved.

“Not so fast,” David sounds a note of warning. “I’m into something else entirely.” He fixes Manning in his stare.

Manning returns the stare, half smiling, half sure that David isn’t serious. “Okay,
what
?”

“Not telling. Not yet.”

“Smart-ass.”

“I love it when you talk like that.”

“
David
,” says Manning through clenched teeth, “behave.”

They’ve arrived to deliver drinks to Hector and Claire, who seem involved in a serious discussion with Neil. “Sorry for the delay,” Manning tells them, handing out glasses. “There was a bit of mayhem at the bar.”

“Thank you, dear,” says Claire. “It’s rare that I
need
hooch, but frankly, my tongue was hanging out.” She drinks.

“Really, Claire.” Hector doesn’t quite approve of his companion’s hearty thirst, but succumbing to his own, he joins her, downing half the glass.

Manning says, “It looked as though you were all having a fairly heavy talk.”

“Just party chat,” says Neil. “Comparing notes on some of the guests.”

“Oh?” says Manning. “Anyone I know?”

Hector tells him, “One of your colleagues—nothing important.”

Claire says to Manning, “On the topic of your colleagues, that was dreadful news this week about the
Journal’s
science editor.”

“We all feel terrible about Cliff Nolan,” says Manning. “David and I have been assigned to work on an investigation of his murder—our publisher, Nathan Cain, thinks that the police could use some help.”

Looking up from where he sits, Neil asks, “How’s it going? Any suspects?”

“Several,” Manning answers, “but nothing firm yet.” He’s unwilling to say more.

Seating himself next to Claire, David tells Manning, “As long as we’re into shop talk, I have some questions about your big weekend story on Professor Zarnik.”

“I’m sure,” says Manning. He sits next to Neil, completing the circle. “As I explained to Neil earlier, I’m not ready to expose Zarnik yet. Everyone knew the story was slated, so I had to stall.” Manning notices Hector and Claire exchanging a quizzical glance. He asks David, “Haven’t you filled them in?”

David mimes a zipped lip.

Manning tells David, “I admire your restraint, but I think we can take them into our confidence. In fact, I’d find an outside perspective helpful.”

Manning tells them the background of the story, then he and David recount details of their visits to the planetarium. Manning concludes, “So even though I’m reasonably sure that Dr. Zarnik’s an impostor, I haven’t a clue as to who he really is or why he has faked this ‘discovery.’ What’s more”—Manning hesitates—“there’s a possibility that he’s somehow related to Cliff Nolan’s murder. That’s why I invited him here tonight. Maybe I’ll catch him from another angle.”

Hector and Claire have listened to every word, astonished that the man who claims to be Zarnik might be involved in a murder plot, not to mention that he would attempt to pull off such a large-scale ruse. Claire says, “He surely doesn’t think he can get away with it, at least not for long.”

Manning agrees, “It’s nuts. I don’t care how remote and tiny he claims his planet to be—if it’s not where he says it is, people are going to figure it out. My God, he’s even piqued the curiosity of the Department of Defense.”

“Maybe they’re not so dumb,” says Neil. “Maybe they’re behind it.”

“Yeah,” says David.

“A reasonable theory,” Manning concurs, “but why would the Pentagon have an interest in deceiving the public about an astronomical discovery? Look, I was an adolescent during Vietnam, which was lesson enough. I still harbor a healthy disdain for the military and most of what it does, including their ‘blood pinnings’ and their double-standard adultery trials. They’re certainly not above deception—they’ll justify anything in the name of ‘national security.’ But
this
doesn’t make sense. I may not trust them, but I don’t think they’re stupid.”

Hector has been silent since the start of this discussion, but now he asks Manning, “Your publisher, Nathan Cain—what’s his role in the Zarnik story?”

“He has military connections from way back,” says Manning, “and he used his pull to strike a deal that will give the
Journal
a huge advantage in satellite communications. The Pentagon is even helping him with computer power and staff. But now they’ve called in the favor. For some reason, Zarnik is set on using me as his mouthpiece, so Cain’s been instructed to have me do some digging. On the surface, it would appear that Zarnik’s deception is meant to be conveyed from me, through Cain, to the Pentagon. But that doesn’t wash if the Pentagon itself is involved.”

Hector asks, “What about Cain?”

Manning sips his drink, then answers, “He’s a man of supreme integrity. I don’t agree with all of his politics, and I don’t even find him especially likable, but I do respect him. Yes, he’s an odd man, a powerful man whose behavior is sometimes quirky, but he’s a consummate journalist and businessman—and a patriot to his very marrow. He
loves
this country. If in fact the Pentagon is tinkering with a conspiracy, they’ve involved Nathan Cain unwittingly, and it offends me to think he could be used as a patsy. If
that’s
the case, he could be in danger, which is why I wrote the story you’ve all read. I can’t tip my hand yet. We don’t know what’s at stake.”

Neil whistles pensively. “Heavy-duty. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I could use another drink.”

Just as the others are voicing their assent and Neil turns to search for a waiter in the crowd, someone taps him on the shoulder, telling him with dry enthusiasm, “
Neil.
The place is
fab-
ulous. Congratu-
lations
.”

“Victor,” says Neil, rising, “I
thought
I spotted you over at the bar.” The man would be hard to miss, well over six feet tall. “Let me introduce you to some people.”