Fag Hag (Robert Rodi Essentials) (30 page)

Far from bored, Natalie was feeling a rush of anger. She’d often tried to get Peter to paint her portrait, but he’d always had an excuse. But for Lloyd?...For Lloyd, he’d fire up those paintbrushes, no problem. She gritted her teeth and said, “I only asked, because a few months ago you seemed to be having difficulties.”

“Well, sure—every marriage has difficulties. I mean, you don’t stay starry-eyed with each other forever. So, no, it’s not really paradise anymore, if that’s what you mean. But it’s definitely a suburb.”

She smiled at him.
“I
still feel like I’m in paradise when I’m with you.”

He lowered his eyes. “So, anyway—um—when do we get the grand tour?”

She grabbed the bucket again. “Let me just deliver the ice, then I’m all yours.”

At that moment, Lloyd walked into the kitchen, with a bewildered, somewhat sour look on his face. “Natalie, I just went to use your bathroom, and there’s someone in there, and he showed me something very disturbing.”

“Oh,” cried Natalie, her hand flying to her mouth. “Oh, God, don’t tell me Kirk’s still
in
there!”

“What did he show you?” asked Peter, perking up.

“A picture of that Will fellow. The one you used to date. It was such a degrading photo. I can’t believe he was actually
showing
it to me.”

“What was degrading about it?” asked Peter, his eyes twinkling.

“I don’t even want to say. Just be glad you didn’t see it, babe.”

Peter immediately bolted from the kitchen and made a beeline for the bathroom.

Natalie let out a delighted shriek, then collapsed into the most joyful laughter she’d know in more than a year.

Lloyd waited patiently for her to calm down, then said, “Natalie, I’m not having a
bad
time by any means; but I really don’t understand a lot of what’s going on here tonight.”

Before she could answer, they heard Peter scream.

T
EN MINUTES LATER
, Natalie was giving Peter and Lloyd the tour they’d requested. By now, the entire house was filled with gay men; they were leaning against the walls of every room, or sitting in the stairwell, or reclining dramatically on the furniture; they were chatting, networking, gossiping, flirting, drinking. The sharp tang of marijuana smoke wafted through the corridors. Someone in the kitchen pantry was parceling out lines of cocaine. Natalie was ecstatically happy.

“And this is the bedroom,” she said, flinging open the door to her inner sanctum.

Two men sat up from her bed, caught in the act.

“Ruin those sheets and I’ll kill you,” she warned them, then shut the door again. She turned back to Peter and Lloyd and said, “And just down here, the master bath…”

A few minutes later, they were back downstairs. “That’s it,” she said, standing in the crowded hallway. “That’s
ma maison.”

Lloyd pointed down a connecting corridor to the door with the padlock. “What’s that?”

“Just a closet. Previous owner left a lock on it; I keep meaning to have it sawed off.”

“Maybe there’s something valuable stored in there,” Peter said, rubbing his hands together greedily. “Like an old coin collection, or some unknown Picassos.”

“He didn’t
die,
Peter—he moved out. He would’ve taken any valuables with him. It’s just an oversight.”

Michael and David came through the hallway, and passed by Natalie long enough to tell her, “If you don’t want this party to be remembered as a disaster, you have to do two things: First, stop Brandon from playing Petula Clark records, and second, get rid of that repulsive Will character.”

“Okay,” she said. “I guess it’s time to make the presentation to Will. Let’s get Kirk.”

A few of the guests overheard her, and started trilling with excitement. They followed her to the bathroom, where Kirk was still displaying the infamous Polaroid to all those who wanted a second and even third look at it.

“I’ve never seen anything so disgusting in my entire life,” said a tall redhead as he grinned in near beatific pleasure.

“Kirk, darling,” said Natalie, sticking her head in the door, “maybe it’s time to show Will our little treasure before somebody breaks down and shoots him at point-blank range, and you lose the opportunity forever.”

Kirk, now roaring drunk, gave her a toothy smile. “I’m not sure I can walk.”

“Come on,” said a muscle-bound blond next to him; “I’ll help you. I want to see the look on that motherfucker’s face.” He lifted Kirk by the armpits and virtually carried him out.

In this manner was Kirk borne all the way to the living room, where Will still dispensed his barbs and insults with the untrammeled verve of a drunken Tourette’s sufferer. Word had spread about the presentation, and by the time Kirk was suspended by his arms in front of Will, Polaroid in hand, virtually the entire party had assembled to watch the fireworks.

All except Natalie and Peter, that is. She’d grabbed his arm when Kirk’s journey began, and led him away from Lloyd, saying, “Hang back with me, honey, I have something to show you.”

She took him to the padlocked door, produced a key, and unlocked it. “I lied,” she whispered with a giggle; “there’s something down here I was saving for the right moment.” She swung open the door; it revealed a staircase.

From the living room, they could hear Kirk say, his voice only slightly slurring, “Hey, Will, we’ve all enjoyed this so much tonight, it’s only fair you get to see it to.”

And as Natalie and Peter started down the steps, the house was filled with Will’s feral, soul-shattering scream.

“N
ATALIE
? W
HY
’
D YOU
shut the door? I can’t see where I’m going. Where’s the light? Natalie? Are you still there?—Dammit, this isn’t funny. Turn a fucking light on.—I can hear you breathing. Where are y—
ouch!
God damn it, what the fuck was that?—What did you stick me with? What’s gotten into you?—Natalie, I’m not kidding.—HEY, HELP! SOMEBODY UP THERE, OPEN THE DOOR!
HELP!
SOMEBODY UP TH—uh…uh…oh, shit. I don’t feel…oh, you didn’t…ohhh shiiii…”

S
ATURDAY BECAME SUNDAY
. Darkness became dawn. Clamor became quiet.

Natalie couldn’t believe how long it was taking everyone to leave.

“Don’t forget your CDs, Brandon,” she said, dumping them into his arms as she shoved him out the front door.

“Thanks,” he said, counting them.

“So wonderful to have you, but I must get my beauty sleep now.”

“Wait—where’s my Teresa Brewer? I’m missing my Teresa Brewer!”

“I’m sure I’ll find it when I’m cleaning up, and I’ll bring it to you in person.”

“Promise?”

“Scout’s honor.” Actually, she knew full well that Franklin Hernandez had grown so annoyed with Brandon’s domination of the stereo that he’d taken the Teresa Brewer disc and put it through the waste disposal unit in Natalie’s kitchen sink. The act had met with delighted laughter all around.

Just two more to go,
she thought,
including the most difficult.
And there he was now, his eyes hollow and his cheeks sunken. “Lloyd, darling, I’m
certain
he’ll turn up.” She kept the front door open, as if to entice him through it.

But he came up to her and stopped, his palms extended as if in supplication. “I just don’t get it, Natalie. He wouldn’t have left without telling me. He
wouldn’t
have.”

“Of course not. I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” She almost felt sorry for him. Poor, clueless Lloyd.

“You’re sure you didn’t see him leave?” It was about the ten-thousandth time he’d asked her.

“Honey, one moment he was here, the next he was gone.”

“Did anyone else disappear at the same time?”

“Not that I noticed. What are you thinking?” She gave up and shut the door.

“You know what I’m thinking. It wouldn’t be so awful. It wouldn’t be the end of the world. He was drunk, there were lots of desirable men here. I’d understand. I’d be disappointed in him, but I’d understand.”

Kirk Bergland stumbled downstairs, his eyes bloodshot and his hair in a tangle. “Oh, my
God,”
he said in a voice as hoarse as sandpaper on a sidewalk. “Somebody stop all those oxygen molecules from colliding into each other and making so much noise.”

Natalie opened the door again. “So much fun, Kirk. Let’s do it again, soon.”

“Kirk,” said Lloyd, “did you see Peter leave?”

“Only person I saw go was Will. Natalie, thank you for that moment. As usual, you’re my hero.” He kissed her on the cheek and shambled out onto the porch. “If you find my shoes, give me a call, okay?”

“Of course, sweetheart.” She shut the door again. “Lloyd, what can I say? If I see or hear from Peter, I’ll let you know immediately.”

“I’ve searched the house high and low. I can’t find any trace of him.”

“I know, I helped you. Remember?” She stifled a yawn.

“Only place I haven’t looked is that closet.” He stared at the padlocked door.

“Well, he could hardly have gotten himself in there, now, could he?”
Goddamn you, go home!

“I guess not.” He met her eyes again; he looked as though he hadn’t slept in months. “It’s just not like him. It’s
not.”

There was a knock on the door. Jesus
Christ,
what
now?
She opened it, and Kirk was standing there. “Forget something, hon?”

He was holding the Sunday edition of
The Chicago Tribune.
“I just happened to glance at the paper lying on your stoop. Isn’t this a friend of yours?”

On the front cover was a full-color photo of Luigi Gianelli beneath the headline, SIX COPS INDICTED FOR BRIBERY, THEFT. She felt suddenly faint.

“For God’s sake, Kirk,” she said, “what makes you think I know any cops, much less corrupt ones?”

“I could’ve sworn I saw you talking to him one night at Roscoe’s.”

“A cop in a gay bar?...You must be mistaken.”

He looked at the photo. “Hard to mistake a face like that.”

Lloyd craned his neck between them and said, “I don’t believe it! That’s the cop who rescued Peter!”

She whirled. “How do you know that? I mean—it is?”

“Yes. We ran into him on Halsted Street one night. Peter stopped and thanked him again. We saw him go into Little Jim’s, so apparently yes, he’s gay. It kind of surprised us.”

“See, Natalie?” said Kirk excitedly.

Lloyd turned to her. “You know him?”

“I—vaguely remember—taking to someone who looked like that,” she said. Her forehead was dewing up with perspiration now, and she could feel her upper lips growing moist. “I had no idea he was a cop. This is silly; you’re both looking at me as though I’ve done something wrong!”
Oh, that was a smart thing to say,
she scolded herself.

Lloyd shook his head. “Sorry. Right now, everything seems like it’s part of one big conspiracy to take Peter away from me.”

“Peter’s gone?” said Kirk.

“Both of you go home and get some sleep,” she urged them. “You’ll feel better.”

She walked them down the driveway. Suddenly Lloyd stopped and pointed behind her. “That your van?” he asked.

She turned and saw that, during the night, one of her guests had opened her garage. Who the
fuck
had done that? And there was her van—the same one she’d used to spy on Peter and Lloyd, the same one Lloyd had become suspicious of, the same one she’d gone to all the trouble of restoring after it had been stolen and stripped. What a curse that thing was turning out to be!

“Yes,” she said brightly. “Just got it last month.”

“Looks familiar for some reason.”

“There are lots like it around,” she said desperately. “Popular model.”

“Jesus,” said Kirk, reading the front page, “you wouldn’t
believe
the low-down shit your friend’s accused of.”

“He’s
not
my friend, Kirk,” she snarled, whirling on him like a rabid dog.

The two men regarded her with mute alarm.

“Sorry, sorry; I’m overtired. We should all get some sleep. I’m sure Peter will surface eventually, Lloyd.”

“You’re right, I know.” He sighed and turned to Kirk. “Need a lift home?”

“That’d be great, thanks. My socks are getting wet.” He gave Natalie the paper and followed Lloyd to the Celica, leaving dew-damp footprints on Natalie’s front walk.

Suddenly Lloyd stopped, and turned; tears filled his eyes. “I forgot,” he said. “Peter has the keys.”

This was just getting worse and worse. Natalie felt an urge to pull at her hair in frustration.

“Let’s share a cab,” said Kirk, obviously taking pity on him. “We can straighten all this out later if we don’t die from our hangovers first.”

“You’re right,” she called after them as they started down the sidewalk to Broadway, where cabs were more easily available. “I’m sure everything will turn out fine. Don’t worry about Peter; I’m sure he’s safe and sound.”

S
HE CHECKED THE
intercom half a dozen times that morning and heard nothing. She ran out to the supermarket, picked up Brynocki from the kennel, and got home around one; still nothing. Finally just after two, she listened in again, and she heard him. “OPEN UP! GODDAMMIT, OPEN UP!”

She put Brynocki on his leash, got the key chain from under a potted plant, and went down to face him.

At the bottom of the stairs, she unlocked the door to the secret room and swung it open. Brynocki strained at the leash to get in.

Peter backed away from the door. “Christ, a Doberman, too. You’ve seen
way
too much fucking TV, Natalie.”

She patted the dog’s head. “Brynocki’s here to make sure you don’t try anything stupid, like getting away.”

“Now, why would I try that?” he asked, his nostrils flaring. “You’ve separated me from my husband, locked me in a prison, and now put a guard dog on me who looks like my ass is all he wants for dinner. Get away? This is my idea of fucking
heaven.”

“Sarcasm is the lowest form of wit,” she said. Immediately it occurred to her that she was parroting her mother, and she shuddered a little. She entered the room and shut the door behind her. “Brynocki, sit.” The dog obediently sat, square in front of the door. She turned to Peter. “If you lay a hand on me, Brynocki will tear it off.”