The Rules of Attraction (27 page)

My father also couldn’t eat. So there were meals left wasted at Le Cirque, and Elaine’s and The Russian Tea Room; drinks ordered and left untouched at 21 and the Oak Room Bar; neither of us talking, mutually relieved if
the bar or restaurant we were at was particularly noisy. There was a dour lunch at Mortimer’s with friends of his from Washington. A somber birthday dinner at Lutece with a girl I’d met at The Blue and Gold, Patrick and his girlfriend, Evelyn, who was a junior executive at American Express, and my father. This was two months after he had mother committed to Sandstone and the thing I most remember about that birthday was the fact that no one mentioned it. No one ever mentioned it except for Patrick, who, in confidence to me, whispered, “It was about time.” Patrick gave me a tie that night.

We went back to my father’s place at The Carlyle after the gloomy birthday dinner. He went to sleep, giving me a disapproving look as I sat with the girl on the couch in the living room, watching videos. The girl and I had sex later that night on the floor of the living room. I woke up sometime early that morning hearing moans coming from the bedroom. A light was on, there were voices. It started snowing that night, just before dawn. I left the next day.

On the plane heading for New York and later in my father’s place at The Carlyle, unpacking, pacing, drinking from a bottle of J.D., the stereo on, I think of the reasons why I came to New York and can only come up with one. I didn’t come to see my father die. And I didn’t come to argue with my brother. And I didn’t come because I wanted to skip classes at school. And I didn’t come to visit my mother. I came to New York because I owe Rupert Guest six hundred dollars and I don’t want to deal with it.

PAUL
Have you been in a worse mood lately?

The Freshman you have a crush on passes by you down the stairs out of the dining halls and when you ask him where he’s going he says, “Hibachi.” You’ve forgotten your I.D. so they bother you about that but they let you in anyway. You get some coffee and for some perverse reason a bowl of Jell-O and walk to your table. It seems that Donald and Harry went to Montreal last night to visit the natives and got back this morning. “I haven’t masturbated in eleven days,” Donald whispers as you sit down. “I envy you,” you whisper back.

And then there’s Raymond who has brought Steve, nicknamed The Handsome Dunce in some circles, to the table. Steve is an economics major who “dabbles in video.” Steve has a BMW. He is from Long Island. Now, Raymond has not slept with this guy (gay Freshmen—it’s dawning on you—are an anomaly now) even though he did leave the party with him last night. But Raymond is eager still to let everyone think so. He laughs at every lame conversation attempt made by this idiot Steve and asks him constantly if he wants anything and brings him things (cookies, a disgusting/funny salad, garnishes stolen from the salad bar) even if he has said no. It’s so nauseating that you are about to get up and leave, sit somewhere else. What’s even more nauseating is that you don’t. You stay because Steve
is
hot. And this depresses you, makes you think, will you always be the quintessential faggot? Will you only pant after the blond-tan-good-body-stupid-goons? And will you always ignore the smart, caring, sensitive type, who might be four-foot-three and have acne on his back but who is still, essentially,
bright?
Will you always pant after the blue-eyed palooka who’s majoring in Trombone Theory and ignore the loving Drama queer who’s doing his thesis on Joe Orton? You want it to stop, but …

… then the tall blue-eyed Freshman, who doesn’t even have a hint of interest in you, will ask for a cigarette and you’ll be blown away. But the Freshmen, represented here
by Steve, look so stupid, so desperate to please, trying so hard, nothing on their minds but partying, dressed like ads for Esprit sportswear. Fact remains however: they are better-looking than the Seniors.

“How was the party?” Harry asks.

“My brother’s bar mitzvah was more fun,
maybe
,” Raymond says, glancing over at Steve, whose eyes look permanently half-closed, a dumb grin locked on his face, nodding to no one.

“They were actually playing
Springsteen
,” Steve says.

“Jesus, I know,” Raymond agrees. “Springsteen, for Christ’s sake. Who was D.J.?”

“But you
like
Springsteen, Raymond,” you say, ignoring the green Jell-O, lighting a cigarette, your four hundredth of the day.

“No, I don’t,” Raymond says blushing, looking nervously at Steve.

“You do?” Steve asks him.

“No, I don’t,” Raymond says. “I don’t know where Paul got that idea.”

“See, Raymond has this theory that Springsteen likes getting, to put it mildly,
boo-fooed
,” you say, leaning in, talking directly to Steve. “Springsteen, for Christ’s sake.”

“Listen to ‘Backstreets.’ Gay song definitely,” Donald says, nodding.

“I never said that,” Raymond laughs uncomfortably. “Paul’s got me mixed up with someone.”

“What was the adjective you used to describe the cover of the ‘Born in the U.S.A.’ album?” you ask. “Delicious?”

But Steve’s not listening anymore. He’s not interested in what passes for conversation at the table. He’s talking to the Brazilian boy. He’s asking him if he can get him some Ecstasy for tonight. The Brazilian boy says, “Saps your spinal fluid, dude.”

“Paul, why don’t you just mind your own business,” Raymond says with a resentful glare. “… And get me some Sprite.”

“You had this list, Raymond,” you say, causing more trouble. “Who else was on it? It was quite a list: Shakespeare, Sam Shepard, Rob Lowe, Ronald Reagan, his son—”

“Well, his son,” Donald says.

“But isn’t this the century no one cared?” Harry asks.

“About what?” you all ask back.

“Huh?” Steve asks after the Brazilian leaves.

But you stop listening because we all have lapses of taste; we’ve all slept with people we shouldn’t have slept with. What about that tall, lanky guy with the Asian girlfriend who you thought had herpes but didn’t and the two of you made a vow to never tell anyone about your two nights together. He’s across the room right now, sitting with that same little Oriental girl. They’re fighting. She gets up. He gives her the finger to her back, the wimp. Now Raymond’s talking about how great Steve’s “dabbles in video” are.

“Your stuff is great. Is that class any good?” he’s asking. Now, you know Raymond loathes anything that has to do with videos and that even if this guy did something amazing, which is doubtful, Raymond would still loathe it.

“I learned a lot from that class,” Steve says.

“Like what?” you whisper to Donald, “The alphabet?”

Raymond hears and glares.

Steve just says, “Wha?”

Harry asks, “Was there a nuclear war somewhere over the weekend?” You turn away and look out over the room. Then one final look at Steve sitting next to Raymond, both of them now laughing about something. Steve doesn’t realize what’s happening. Raymond still holds his stare at the three of us, and his hand shakes for a second when he brings his glass to his mouth and gives Steve a quick glance which Steve catches. The quick glance gives it all away. But what could it possibly mean to the blond boy from Long Island? Nothing. It meant only “quick glance” and nothing past that. It meant a shaking hand lighting another cigarette. After Sean left, songs I normally wouldn’t have liked started having painful significance to me.

PATRICK
The limousine should have picked him up any time between ten-thirty and ten-forty-five. He should get to the airport in Keene by at least ten to twelve, where the Lear will fly him into Kennedy, where his arrival time should be one-thirty or one-forty-five. He should have been at the hospital thirty minutes ago but, knowing Sean, he probably went to The Carlyle first to get drunk or smoke marijuana or whatever the hell it is he does. But since he’s always been so mindless about responsibility and about keeping people waiting I’m really not at all surprised. I wait in the lobby of the hospital checking my watch, making phone calls to Evelyn, who will not come to the hospital, waiting for the limousine to get him here. When it appears that he’s decided not to show, I take the elevator back to the fifth floor and wait, pacing, while my father’s aides sit by the door of his room conferring with one another, occasionally looking over at me nervously. One, earlier in the evening, congratulated me, with what I took to be heavy sarcasm, on the tan I had acquired last week in the Bahamas with Evelyn. He passes again, heading for the restroom. He smiles. I ignore him completely. I don’t like either one of these men and they will both be fired as soon as my father dies.

Sean walks down the darkened corridor towards me. He looks at me with pleasurable dislike and I back away, repelled. He motions silently with his arm if he can go into the room. I shrug and dismiss him.

He comes out of the room moments later and not with the white mask of shock I’d thought he’d be wearing, but with a simple and expressionless look on his face. No smile, no sadness. The eyes, bloodshot and half-closed, still manage to exude hatefulness and a weakness of character that I find abhorrent. But he’s my brother, and at first I let it pass. He heads toward the restroom.

I ask him, “Hey, where are you going?”

“The john,” he calls back.

The night nurse at her desk looks up from the chart she’s been going over, to quiet us, but when she sees me gesture at her, she relents.

“Meet me in the cafeteria,” I tell him, before the door to the restroom shuts. What he does in there is so pitifully obvious to me (cocaine? is he into crack?) that I’m ashamed at his lack of concern and at his capacity to tick me off.

He sits across from me in the darkened cafeteria, smoking cigarettes.

“Don’t they feed you up there?” I ask.

He doesn’t look at me. “Technically, yes.”

He plays with a swizzle stick. I drink the rest of my Evian water. He puts the cigarette out and lights another.

“Well … are we having fun?” he asks. “What’s going on? Why am I here?”

“He’s almost dead,” I tell him, hoping a shred of reality will break through to that wasted mindless head bobbing in front of me.

“No,” he says startled, and I’m unprepared for a millisecond at this show of emotion, but then he says, “What an astute observation,” and I’m embarrassed at my surprise.

“Where have you been?” I demand.

“Around,” he says. “I’ve been around.”

“Where have you been?” I ask again. “Specifics.”

“I came,” he says. “Isn’t that enough?”

“Where have you been?”

“Have you visited Mom lately?” he asks.

“That’s not what we’re talking about,” I say, not letting that one throw me off.

“Stop asking me questions,” he says, laughing.

“Stop deliberately misunderstanding me,” I say, not laughing.

“Deal with it,” he says.

“No, Sean.” I point at him, serious, no joke.
“You
deal with it.”

One of my father’s aides walks into the empty cafeteria and whispers something into my ear. I nod, still staring at Sean. The aide leaves.

“Who was that?” he asks. “C.I.A.?”

“What are you on now?” I ask. “Coke? Ludes?”

He looks up again with the same mocking contempt and laughs, “Coke? Ludes?”

“I put seven thou in your account. Where is it?” I ask.

A nurse passes by and he eyes her before answering. “It’s there. It’s still there.”

Nothing is said for three minutes. I keep looking at my watch, wondering what Evelyn is doing right now. She said sleeping, but I could hear faint music in the background. I called Robert. There was no answer. When I called Evelyn back her machine was on. Sean’s face looks the same. I try to remember when he started hating me, when I reciprocated the feeling. He plays with the swizzle stick some more. My stomach growls. He has nothing to say to me and I, in the end, have really nothing to talk about with him.

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“What do you mean?” He almost looks surprised.

“I mean, are you going to get a job?”

“Not at Dad’s place,” he says.

“Well, where then?” I ask him. It’s a fair question.

“What do you think?” he asks. “Suggestions?”

“I’m asking you,” I tell him.

“Because?…” He lifts his hands up, leaves them suspended there for a moment.

“Because you’re not going to last another term at that place,” I let him know.

“Well, what do you want? A lawyer? A priest? A neurosurgeon?” he asks. “What
you
do?”

“How about the son your father wanted?” I ask.

“You think that thing in there even cares?” he asks back, laughing, pointing a thumb back at the corridor, sniffing hard.

“He would be pleased to know that you’re taking, let’s call it, a leave of absence’ from that place,” I say. I consider other options, harsher tactics. “You know he was always upset about all the football scholarships you threw away,” I say.

He stares at me sternly, unforgiving. “Right.”

“What are you going to do?” I ask.

“I don’t know,” he says.

“Where are you going to go?” I ask.

“I don’t know.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know. Utah,” he shouts. “I’m going to Utah! Utah or Europe.” He stands up, pushes himself away from the table. “I’m not answering any more of your frigging questions.”

“Sit down, Sean,” I say.

“You make me sick,” he says.

“You’re not getting out of this,” I tell him. “Now sit down.”

He ignores me and walks down the corridor, past his father’s room, past other rooms.

“I’m taking the limo back to Dad’s place,” he says, jabbing at the button for the elevator. There’s a sudden ping and the doors slide open. He steps in without looking back.

I pick up the swizzle stick he was bending. I get up from the cafeteria and walk down the hallway, past the aides who don’t even bother to look up at me. At the pay phone in the hall I call Evelyn. She tells me to call her back later, mentions that it’s the middle of the night. She hangs up and I stay there holding the phone, afraid to hang it up. The two men sitting by the door now interested, now watching.