Men Who Love Men (24 page)

I wake up, sweat in my armpits, sweat on my face, sweat dampening my sheets. The screaming continues. I think for a moment that I’m back in my childhood bedroom, and the screams are coming from my TV set, where a grainy black-and-white horror film casts flickering silver shadows in the darkness. But the screaming is real, coming from a man outside on the street.

I peer between my blinds. A few lights go on in an uneasy pattern down the block of rowhouses. A man in a terrycloth robe runs down his front steps. I keep still in the dark, tightening my muscles, my body sticking to my sheets.

New York at night is a swarm of insects. Giant cockroaches crawl out of the sewers. I know; I’ve seen them. Men scream and sirens sing. Helicopters fly low overhead, their spotlights searching for assassins. I’ve seen them too.

Silence slaps my room. The screaming has abruptly stopped.

I peer outside again. The man in the terrycloth robe sees me. I let my blinds snap and retreat to my covers.

It is film noir here tonight. Peter Lorre is hunched in the shadows of my room. My father told me once, near the end, that life is not like the movies.
He said there are no happy endings. It’s not Shirley Temple tap dancing backwards up the stairs with Bojangles Robinson. No, it’s a different Robinson—Edward G.—wandering the streets, forever mad, hearing Joan Bennett—the woman he killed—saying over and over and over: “Jeepers, Johnny, I love ya.” Film noir. Black film. Black life.

I’m dreaming again. My father is angry. I wouldn’t kiss him goodnight. “I’ll go away if you want me to,” he says. He points out the window, a long arm and long finger like the Ghost of Christmas Yet to Come. Outside, the sun is setting without any color. Leaves are falling from our maple tree, gray leaves, and they blow across the grass haphazardly, out into the street. I’m crying, begging my father not to go. But he refuses to kiss me goodnight once I finally offer up my lips.

The sirens start and I’m awake. They get louder and louder, coming for the man who screamed. I get out of bed and walk barefoot through the still apartment. The dry darkness sucks at me. I fumble for the switch and find it, but the harsh white light that descends frightens me more than the darkness. The walls seem so close. I shut my eyes and then open them. The walls seem even closer, inching inward toward me like some hideous torture conceived by Poe.

“I’m sorry, Dad,” I whisper. I can’t do it anymore. I’m sorry.

I suddenly feel very foolish, very alone, standing here in the middle of the living room in the dark, in my underwear, hugging myself with my eyes closed. I drag a metal folding chair into the kitchen and reach up, pulling the cord for the overhead bulb. As it comes to life, the glow burns into the blackness around the bulb, creating a shaky tension between light and dark. It shines directly over me, and I cast no shadow.

I pull open a drawer. I take out notebook paper and a felt-tip pen. I sit down on the chair beneath the light and start to write. There should be a note. The great George Sanders left a note. “Dear World,” he had written. “I am leaving you with your worries in this sweet cesspool.”

I write, “Dear Dad,” but after several minutes of indecision I crumble the notebook paper and toss it into the sink. They’ll call him eventually. A call to Mr. Brower’s office with the grim news from New York. He’ll take the call and listen silently, hanging up the phone without saying a word.

I stand up and pull the cord, feeling rather than seeing the darkness settle back upon me, feeling the dry suck at my naked body. I sit in the dark and think about Fredric March’s walk into the sea at the end of
A Star is Born
. I think about Marilyn, her sweet sad eyes staring into eternity. I think about Lupe Vélez, her head stuck in the loo.

For one moment, I rebel. My cowardice pushes me up, off the chair, over to the window where I press my hands to the glass and feel the cold night outside. It’s quiet out there now. They’ve taken the screaming man away, to where I don’t know. I watch as leaves dance down the street, swirling together, evoking strange, sad memories. A streetlight hunched in grief cries its light onto the asphalt. It’s quiet now. But for how long? How long before the cockroaches crawl up out of their cesspools and come scratching at my door?

I feel for the chair in the dark. I sit, breathing heavily. I watch the wall over the stove, where shadows from the trees outside dance against the gray light of the moon. They begin to take shapes, images, flickering images of the silver screen. I will sit here and watch them, over and over, just sit here and watch my movies like I’ve always wanted to do.

My headache pounds now, overpowering my eyes. I can’t recognize the movie. There’s no sound. A silent film. Like those funny, grainy movies Dad used to show in his den with the drapes pulled closed. The ones with the ladies with the big bosoms and the little boys on their laps.

But this is my movie, I realize. I’m the star. At last, I’m the star, and I’m about to play the final, classic scene.

I turn on the gas and sit facing the yawning mouth of the oven.

I watch myself on the wall, sensuously descending a staircase.

“You see, this is my life,” I hear a voice whisper from somewhere. “It always will be. Just me, and the cameras, and all you wonderful people out there in the dark.” I pause, hands imploring. “All right, Daddy, I’m ready for my close-up.”

As the camera moves in, I’m sitting here alone in the dark, smelling the sweet fragrance of the gas.

There’s more—another story—but I can’t read anymore. This has creeped me out. I don’t know what the hell to make of it.

Is it any good? I can’t tell. It’s certainly over the top, but evocative nonetheless, giving me the goddamn chills. But I’m not so sure it’s really “Darryl’s Story,” the lover Luke said died of AIDS. Sure, there’s the hint that the narrator has AIDS—the night sweats—but his repeated references to the movies makes me wonder if the character is really based on Luke himself. And if he
is
Luke, there’s something pretty nasty in that boy’s background, with all those pervasive references to an overpowering father and the creepy suggestion of being made to watch porno films featuring naked women and little boys.

I wish I hadn’t read the thing. It feels dirty. I push it off my bed, sending it sliding across the floor. I worry that Luke’s story will keep me awake, but my fears are unfounded. My mind and body just want to shut down, and thankfully I enjoy a deep, restful sleep.

So deeply do I slumber, in fact, that I almost don’t hear my alarm. When I finally come to, I hurry out of bed and shower as fast as I can. No muffins this morning. The guests will have to make do with frozen bagels.

We’re only half full, so it’s not a big problem. Everyone’s in a great mood, eager to get out and enjoy the morning. We’ve got another day of glorious weather predicted, with warm temperatures and plenty of sun. Luke bustles around, changing linens, uncharacteristically quiet. I don’t tell him, of course, that I read his story. But I find myself looking oddly at him, remembering his strange and disturbing words.

After the breakfast rush is over, I head over to Jeff and Lloyd’s house. I haven’t really had the chance to talk with them in a couple of days, and it would be helpful to get their perspective on this whole thing with Gale. I find Jeff on his deck lying in a chaise lounge, soaking up the sun in a blue and white Speedo while talking on his cell.

“Of course, Connie, you’ll have the best room at the guesthouse,” he’s saying. “It’s all taken care of. All we need you to do is sing.”

I sit down beside him.

“And of course you will totally have top billing over Kimberley. It would be absurd to think otherwise.”

I shake my head. Is this a wedding he’s planning, or a concert?

“Okay, sweetheart. We’ll see you in a couple of weeks.”

He snaps his phone closed and looks over at me.

“Henry, will you pick Connie Francis up at the Provincetown airport the night before the wedding? And Kimberley Locke is arriving the morning of. Can I put you in charge of the divas?”

I smile. “What makes you think I’m temperamentally suited to take care of divas?”

He gives me one of his lopsided grins. “You take care of me.”

I laugh. “Of course I’ll pick them up. How are the rest of the plans coming for the wedding? What else can I do to help?”

“Ah!” Jeff’s blue eyes twinkle. “Does this mean you are now excited for us at last?”

“Jeff, I was always excited for you guys. I’ve just been going through—”

But before I have the chance to tell him about Gale, I notice Luke across the way, standing in the gate that leads to the guesthouse. And he’s staring at Jeff in his Speedo.

“Hey,” I whisper, leaning in toward Jeff. “You really did a number on Luke’s head, telling him his writing was no good.”

Jeff looks at me oddly. “I said no such thing. In fact, I told him he showed a lot of promise, and encouraged him to keep going.”

I shake my head. “That’s not the way he heard it.”

Luke’s approaching us now, and I notice how he keeps his eyes glued to Jeff’s Speedo bulge.

“Henry,” Luke says, finally lifting his gaze to me. “I’ve finished all the rooms. I was thinking of going to the beach for the afternoon. Do you need me for anything else?”

“No,” I tell him. “You can go.”

He nods and heads back over to the guesthouse. Not a word to Jeff. No gushing as he usually does.

“I’m sorry if he can’t take criticism,” Jeff says, standing up. “I really did tell him he had talent, but there were a few areas where I thought he was a bit too…intense. I suggested he rethink some of that.”

I agree, but I don’t reveal that I’ve sneaked a peek at Luke’s work. I’m not very proud of myself for doing so.

Jeff peels off his Speedo, his dick flopping free. Even though I’ve seen Jeff’s cock a million times, I divert my eyes automatically. We’re sisters, after all. He drops the bathing suit back on the chaise and then steps carefully into the hot tub. “Join me?” he asks.

“Sure,” I say, doffing my clothes in a hurry and immersing myself into the tub’s steaming hot waters. I let out a long sigh. It’s just what my aching body needs.

“You know,” I tell Jeff, “I met an old friend of yours the other day.”

“Who’s that?”

“Eduardo.”

It takes a moment for the name to register for Jeff. “Eduardo?” he asks. “My Eduardo?”

I give him a face. “Jeff, he’s not yours anymore. And hasn’t been for a while.”

“Where did you see him?”

“Brace yourself.”

“Okay. Braced.”

“He’s dating Shane.”

It takes a good half-minute before any emotion shows on Jeff’s face. But then he smiles, settling back against the side of the tub. “I never would have predicted that particular twosome.” He seems to think about it, imagining the two of them in his mind. “Eduardo was always good at seeing beyond superficiality. He clearly sees something in Shane others may have missed.”

I smile. “Like me.”

“Well, I hope he’s happy.”

“You mean that?”

Jeff smiles. “I do. Everyone deserves to be happy.”

I shrug. “Well, he seemed to be. And so did Shane.”

“Well, then, good for both of them.”

“I guess.”

Jeff makes a face as if he doesn’t understand my hesitancy on the subject.

“It’s strange,” I tell him. “Part of me always felt a little better imagining that Shane was still out there somewhere, pining for me.”

He smiles kindly. “I suppose I once felt that way about Eduardo.”

“But no you want him to be happy, even if that’s apart from you.”

Jeff nods.

“I hope Shane is happy, too,” I say.

“It’s okay to feel a little bad, Henry.”

“No,” I tell him. “I’m tired of feeling sorry for myself. I want to feel happy for Shane, and so I’m going to make sure I do.”

We sit in silence for a few minutes.

“How are your bruised legs from the bike accident?” Jeff asks.

I smile. “Better now. This spa works wonders.”

“Yes, it does.”

“Wish it could soothe all the rest of my ailments.”

“You mean the heart-and-soul kind.”

I nod.

Jeff looks over at me with concern. “Lloyd are I are worried about you, buddy.”

But I meant it when I said I was tired of feeling sorry for myself. Suddenly I don’t want to talk about my problems ever again. My problems bore me. Bore bore bore!

So, instead, I just smile. “Look,” I tell Jeff. “These next couple of weeks should be about
you
. I really want to do whatever I can to make your wedding a great success.”

Jeff smiles back at me. “I’m glad you feel that way, buddy.”

“As the best man, I get to make a speech, don’t I?”

“You sure do.”

“I’ll write a good one.”

“You’d better.” Jeff winks at me. “But remember, my mother’s going to be there. Nothing too salacious.”

I laugh. “You mean I can’t talk about the six-way you and Lloyd had in this very tub?”

“You mean the one where that guy was chewing gum and lost it up Lloyd’s ass while rimming him?”

I laugh even harder. “You mean there have been
other
six-ways in here?” I look down at the water and wrinkle up my nose. “Christ, I hope you use a lot of chlorine!”

We both laugh.

And then Jeff’s cell is ringing. He leaps out of the tub to answer it. “Yeah yeah yeah,” he’s saying, motioning to me that he’s sorry, that he has to take this call. He mouths the words
Kimberley Locke
. I signal for him that it’s okay to go. I watch him wrap a towel around himself and go inside.

I don’t stay in the tub much longer. I’m feeling edgy, like I need to be doing something more productive than just sitting here. As I’m drying off, I look over at the guesthouse. Luke is standing at one of the upper windows. I immediately feel creeped out. Was he watching us?
Spying
on us? I thought he said he was heading to the beach. I get dressed quickly, leaving my wet towel on the chaise next to Jeff’s Speedo.