Name Games (49 page)

The house on Prairie Street, built for my uncle Edwin’s family in the years before air-conditioning was common, was designed to combat the dog days with broad, overhanging eaves shading long rows of shallow windows. A year ago, during my first summer in the house, I learned that while these features were deemed ingenious a half century ago, they didn’t begin to match the comfort-pumping power of several thousand BTUs. So the lovely old home was invisibly modernized with a high-efficiency air conditioner that I was assured “could frost a church.” An expensive retrofit of concealed ducts now blew bone-chilling relief from the high corners of every room. The house was sealed tight on that torrid August morn, and though birds greeted the day from surrounding treetops, I wasn’t even tempted to crack a window and hear their song. So much for fresh air.

“Going for a run?” Neil had asked me earlier, when we’d kissed, thrown back the covers, and swung our feet to the floor, rising from opposite sides of the bed.

I hesitated. A run with Neil was never drudgery; the mere sight of him in motion was its own reward (ah, the joy of aerobics). He too got a certain charge from our mutual workouts in the park, which were frequently topped off at home by a more languid form of exercise. “Uh, the heat”—I waffled—“not today. Sorry, kiddo.”

A bit later, around seven-thirty, when I arrived downstairs for breakfast, having showered and dressed for a busy day at the
Register
, I was alone in the kitchen. Neil was still out running. Thad was still in bed; he would sleep till noon if undisturbed. Barb, our live-in housekeeper, hired a half year ago in late January, didn’t seem to be around either. Coffee was freshly made though—bubbles still floated on the surface near the top of the glass pot. Morning papers were set out with a platter of pastries and bagels.

I poured coffee into an outsize Chicago
Journal
mug (old habits die hard), sat at the table, and opened the
Register
, skimming the front page. There had been no overnight changes to the layout I’d approved at yesterday’s late-afternoon editorial meeting—the world, it seemed, was as quiet as the house.

“Christ, it’s hot already!” said Neil, rattling the back door open, then closing it behind him with a thud.

I grinned. “Told you so.” Raising my cup, I offered, “Hot coffee?”

He answered by throwing at me the white gym towel he carried, damp with his sweat. Bare-chested, he’d taken off his T-shirt before leaving the house, hanging it on a coat hook near the door. He now grabbed the shirt and started blotting himself with it. The indoor air felt suddenly icy against his wet skin—his nipples were erect.

“Here,” I said with a laugh, getting up, “let me swab you down. Keep the shirt dry—you’ll need it.”

We met in the middle of the room, where I took the T-shirt from his hands, set it on the counter, and began drying him with the towel. He could easily have done this himself, but he understood that I
wanted
to perform this duty—it was a labor of love. So he stood passively, watching without speaking as I worked my way down his body, starting with his hair, his neck, then his chest, where I paused to warm his nipples with my tongue. Had anyone walked into the room, we’d have presented a tableau at once erotic and ridiculous: he, the architect returned from a run, standing buffed, sweaty, and near naked in the kitchen, wearing only silvery nylon shorts, cracked white-leather cross-training shoes, skimpy ankle socks; and I, the freshly groomed publisher of a small-town newspaper, hunkering before him in a crisp white shirt, jaunty yellow-and-gray-striped tie, perfectly creased gabardine slacks, spit-polished cordovan oxfords.

Like a wet, fleshy tether, my tongue bridged the gap of this unlikely union, this spontaneous melding of animal and intellect. The taste of him shot past the essence of coffee that lingered in my mouth. On the surface of his skin, salt drawn from his body excited my senses and made me want more of him. Squatting lower, I reached behind him to mop his back, stopping at the waistband of his shorts. Then I dried his legs, working up from the ankles, again stopping at his shorts. Nuzzling his crotch with my chin, I felt the warm lump of his erection, moist against my face. Looking upward, glancing past the contours of his chest, I asked, “Where’s Barb?”

“It’s Thursday—farmers’ market this morning.” He traced both index fingers over the tops of my ears. “She was headed for the park while I was coming back.”

That would keep her busy for the few minutes I needed, so I pulled down his shorts and helped work them past his shoes. His penis bobbed blindly for me in the cool air, but I resisted the temptation to provide its warm target. Instead, I slid the towel between his legs and finished the job of drying him, first his testicles, then his butt. The course nap of the terry cloth aroused Neil all the more, so on an impulse, I drew the towel between his legs again, holding its opposite ends taut, in front and behind. Lifting, I began pulling the towel back and forth, sliding it first up his crack, then up past his testicles, again and again, as if flossing his groin.

At first Neil laughed. Then he moaned. Then he fell silent as he widened his stance, squeaking his treaded soles on the kitchen floor. Crouching a bit, he rocked his hips, countering the direction of the towel, riding out a fantasy that I could not envision but was happy to stimulate. He looked down at his penis, by now painfully engorged, then stared into my eyes, woozy and amazed, mutely begging me to finish what I had started.

It wouldn’t take long. Guiding the head of his cock along my tongue toward my throat, I was unprepared for its heat, its rocklike rigidity, its sheer size. I had sampled his arousal countless times, but this was unprecedented, a happy new plateau, so to speak. While nursing this bit of manly wonder that had taken root in my mouth, I whipped the towel one last time through Neil’s cheeks, its million tiny terry fingers teasing a million tiny naughty nerves. In the same instant, his rocking stopped, he tensed, and then—rapture. He grabbed my hair, I grabbed his buttocks, and together we drained him of the sort of ball-busting, mind-bending orgasm rarely enjoyed by men old enough to vote. (The onset of adulthood has its other rewards, such as drinking, travel, and discretionary income.)

Neil, remember, is pushing middle age, and I’m already there. What’s more, this was in the kitchen, on a weekday, with me fully dressed. All in all, I felt pretty damn proud of myself.

“
That
was inventive,” Neil told me with a soft laugh, still catching his breath. His words had the grateful ring of sublime understatement.

I stood, pressing his nakedness against my clothing, loving the touch of him. “My pleasure, kiddo.”

He finger-combed my hair; I was again office-ready. “Seriously,” he said, “that was incredible. Four years together, and it just gets better.”

I kissed him deeply, letting him taste a bit of himself in my throat.

He picked up his shorts and stepped into them. “You’ve raised the bar considerably, Mr. Manning.” He tucked himself in with some effort, still showing a considerable bulge. “I owe you one.”

“You owe me nothing,” I assured him while moving to the sink. Tossing my necktie over a shoulder, I leaned to rinse my mouth with a fistful of water.

“I
mean
,” he explained, stepping behind me and pulling my hips to his, “I owe you some equally creative lovemaking.”

Intrigued, I asked over my shoulder, “A debt of honor?”

“Precisely. This will take thought and preparation and possibly some scheming. But the debt
will
be repaid.” Then he patted my butt, telling me, “I need to run upstairs and put myself together.”

“Aww,” I pouted, turning to him, “keep me company. Have some coffee.” I picked up his T-shirt from the counter and handed it to him.

“Sure.” He pulled the shirt over his head, first popping that beautiful shock of mussed hair through the top, then working his sinewy arms through the sleeves. The body of the shirt dropped over his shorts, just concealing the lump.

The back door cracked open. “Any coffee left?”

“Come on in, Doug,” I called. “We were just sitting down.”

And in strolled Douglas Pierce, sheriff of Dumont County. He had befriended me during the week I moved to town and had since become an important news source for the paper. Over time, his friendship with Neil and me grew warmer, and we entered each other’s circle of closest confidence. Letting himself into our kitchen that Thursday after his morning workout (his hair was still wet from showering at the gym), Pierce repeated a routine we had come to expect and enjoy. As usual, he carried a large, fresh Danish kringle he’d fetched at a downtown bakery, adding it to the other pastries on the table.

“Christ, it’s hot,” he said, echoing Neil’s earlier entry-line while removing his sport coat, draping it over the back of “his” chair. As our chief elected law enforcer, he chose not to wear a uniform, but street clothes, and I’d long admired his skill at assembling a tasteful business wardrobe. He even passed the scrutiny of Neil’s design-trained eye. As these observations might suggest, the Dumont County sheriff is gay. Sitting, he took an appreciative look at Neil approaching the table in his nylon shorts—there was a carefree bounce to my partner’s step. Dismayed, Pierce asked, “You’re not going
running
out there, are you?”

“Finished already. Just the usual four miles.” As Neil sat, I joined them at the table with extra cups.

Pierce continued to appraise Neil’s attire, observing, “But you look so fresh, so …
energized
,” a clear reminder that, at forty-six, he’d risen through his department’s ranks as a detective.

Neil and I glanced at each other, each stifling a laugh.

Pierce looked quizzically at each of us, back and forth. “What’d I
miss
?”

“Nothing,” we blurted in unison, feigning innocence but sounding guilty.

Pierce sat back, crossing his arms, shaking his head. “You guys…”

Neil leaned forward. “Have some coffee, Doug.” And he poured for all of us.

We spoke of the weather (no relief in sight), the food (any form of Danish being preferred over any form of bagel), and the news (not much).

“Yeah,” said Pierce, “it’s been a quiet summer. Usually, when the weather heats up, things can get a little dicey, but so far so good.”

Neil wiped his mouth, laughing. “Come on, Doug. When was the last major crime wave that embattled your department?”

Pierce smiled, swallowing coffee. “Point taken. The mean streets of sleepy little Dumont are hardly an urban war zone. Thank God.”

Neil and I nodded our accord. While munching a flaky slice of kringle, though, I wryly noted, “Try putting out a daily paper sometime, and you’ll come to appreciate a modicum of mayhem. When the local garden club makes page one”—I tapped the front of that morning’s
Register
—“you’re in trouble.”

“Don’t forget,” said Neil, “the Dumont Players Guild is mounting a world premiere tomorrow night. There’s a story—play it up.”

“Glee Savage has it covered,” I told him. “That story’s where it belongs—in features. My news sense tells me that
Teen Play
won’t make the front page.”

“Not even when your own
kid
is in it?”

“
Especially
when our kid is in it.”

“Oh, wow,” said Pierce, “I almost forgot—how’s Thad doing with the play?”

“Neil and I saw last night’s dress rehearsal, and Thad was terrific. I hate to admit it, but Denny Diggins may have a minor hit on his hands.”

Neil added, “Thad has really grown into his role—both of them, actually. I’m glad he decided to give community theater a try this summer. The school plays have been great for him, but it’s important to get beyond that and learn to work with adults on a production,”

I nodded. “Thad
has
grown in recent months, and not just as an actor. I was surprised by his maturity last night—especially during the ‘incident.’ ”

That caught Pierce’s attention, but before he could ask about it, Neil said, “ ‘Incident’ aside, Thad’s maturity was evident all evening. When I used to be involved in theater, a director once told me how every production seems to have its ‘pillar’—a cast member who earns the respect of the entire company by setting an example and inspiring the others. Clearly, Thad is that pillar, that leader. Last night during intermission, when he was obviously drained by act one and the fight scene, what did he do? Instead of goofing off with his pals and guzzling Mountain Dew, he chose to squire his ‘parents’ around, make introductions, and help out stuffing programs.”

“That surprised me,” I admitted, “not only that Thad was stuffing programs, but that the programs
needed
stuffing. The print shop could have done all the collating and bindery work—for a price, of course. The Players Guild must
really
be strapped to take on grunt work like that.” Shaking my head, I uncapped my pen and made a note to write the group a check.

“Back up,” said Pierce. “What about the ‘incident’?”

Neil and I glanced at each other. Though proud of the way Thad had handled it, we were more embarrassed than angered by Jason Thrush’s homophobic crack. But Pierce had asked—and he would be sensitive to our mixed feelings. Neil told him, “Thad’s costar sounded a distinctly sour note during intermission.” Then Neil related the whole “boy toy” incident, including Thad’s threat: “Keep it up, Jason, and you may not live till opening night. Remember, I’ll be waiting in the wings.”

Pierce seemed surprised, exhaling a soft whistle. “Tough stuff.”

“No,” I explained, “it was
clever
, Doug. Thad was paraphrasing the last line from act one. He simply substituted Jason’s name for the character’s name, Ryan.”

“Ahhh,” said Pierce with a laugh. “Kids.”

I agreed. “Just adolescent horseplay. One minute, there’s a major blowup; the next, it’s forgotten.” These words were meant to assure myself as well as Pierce. After all, the grand total of my child-rearing experience barely topped eighteen months.

“Come opening night,” said Pierce, “all will be well, I’m sure.”