I Loved You More (46 page)

“Mr. Gruney,” he says.

Buster lays his hand on my shoulder. The pad of his hand is thick and his hand is especially warm. It's the first hand that's touched me besides Ruth's since I've been home from the hospital.

“I'm sorry,” I say. “I have this thing about breathing. The cover on the headrest, there isn't much room for air.”

Buster's over at the headrest in a quick flash, fiddling with the cover. Then that quick he's back looking at me. Strange blue eyes a little off kilter, as if he is looking just over my shoulder.

“Breath is important,” Buster says. “Why don't you try it again.”

I lie down again, put my face into the headrest opening, take a deep breath.

“Much better,” I say. “Thank you.”

Then: “Mr. Grunewald? I mean Gruney?”

“Yeah?”

“I'm going to put a CD on my boombox here,” he says. “It's my sex magic CD. I hope you like the music. I made it myself. If you don't, we could put on some classical music or music you'd rather hear.”

Through the headrest, Buster's bare feet are still tanned in the pattern of his sandals.

“I'm sure your music will be fine,” I say.

“I'm going to pray a little,” Buster says. “And when I pray I make a sound with my lips, so don't let that freak you out, okay?”

“Okay.”

“And I'm going to touch your head first,” Buster says. “I usually touch the ass first, but with you my spirits tell me to touch your head.”

THE MUSIC IS
a flute, soft. Something lonely. When Buster touches my head it's like the soft music is in my head. Buster's hands are hot like he's got a fever. He works my muscles much harder than Ruth's massages. He uses his elbows, his legs, his whole body. Really, I'm in some other dimension. At one point he's sitting on my ass and pulling my arms straight back. The way his ass feels. Bare ass against bare ass. I remember as a child under the front steps I played a game called
kissing bums
with a boy named Kelly.

“Hey, Gruney,” Buster whispers in my ear, “you can turn over now.”

When I turn over, Buster takes the headrest off and stands at the head of the table. The flute music is in my body now and it ain't the flute that's lonely. My poor lonely body. I feel it welling up, the big lonely weep. But I've had enough fucking tears, what I want to do is come. Come the way Ruth came. That's when Buster steps up closer, lays his balls, his dick onto my face.

“I'm HIV,” I say.

“Aren't we all,” he says.

My nose against Buster's rusty ass, my mouth around his
balls, my dick is, praise the fucking Buster Spirits, hard hard hard. The way I come is one huge breath breathed in with a fast slap. I'm breathing like a racehorse, crying like a baby. But Buster's balls are in my mouth. In no time at all, I'm off the table and in a paisley heap with Buster. We're laughing our asses off.

BUSTER STAYS FOR
dinner. Nothing fancy, he's a vegan, so I boil up some carrots and potatoes, sautée some spinach. Pour some yeast seasoning and Bragg Liquid Aminos on the vegetables. Buster's impressed that I know how to cook hippy. For my dinner, I add a piece of Ruth's homemade meatloaf. Lots of ketchup.

Buster and I are sitting at the kitchen table. We've got our clothes back on and Buster's massage table is folded up. The paisley sheet inside his leather bag.

I'm hoping Buster will stay a while. Buster's just told me his spirits had just told him that I live too much in my head. That I need to get out and be in nature and breathe some mountain air.

Big Ben is the guy who says it: “Maybe you could spend the night?” I say. “I could make a fire in the fireplace.”

Buster is across the table from me. His smile. That missing tooth like Silvio's.

His hand, that warm hand that had touched me, that got me hard, that jerked me off, made me come, is lying next to his fork. My hand goes down as if in slow motion and I lay my hand on top of Buster's hand.

Buster's face is a lot of things right then. His off-kilter blue eyes go a bit more south. Later on, he'll tell me how he was perplexed. He never mixed business with pleasure and already he'd accepted my invitation to dinner. Another rule was he didn't date the guys he did his sex work with. Then there was the fact that I was Ben Grunewald, his former writing teacher that he'd always had a crush on. Plus, I was kind of famous. A Gay Icon. Plus he hadn't kissed me and he wanted to kiss me.

“You're not going to fall in love with me, are you?” Buster says. “Lots of guys fall in love with their sex worker.”

I fold my hand into Buster's. His hand is like a portable heater and my hands are always freezing.

“I don't think I have any falling in love left in me,” I say. “I'd just like the company.”

“Would you read to me from your new novel?” Buster says.

“Twist my arm,” I say.

That's when Buster takes what he wants. His blue eyes go a little wonky and he tilts his head. Before I know it, Buster Bangs is kissing the Gay Icon. Garlic big time on his breath. My tongue against his broken tooth.

Buster and I have just leaned away from our embrace. I've let go his hand and am just standing to get him another helping of carrots and potatoes when Ruth walks in. Ruth doesn't knock, she never knocks, why should she? She's been walking in like that since the first day.

Something about Ruth that is so left over from the New Year's Eve party. The way her face sticks out from the hoodie, wet red hair smashed against her forehead. Her nerdy girl glasses are crooked. As soon as she sees that I am regarding her, that flush of red on her cheek. I'm sure my face is just as red.

“Class ended early,” Ruth says.

THAT THING BEHIND
my eyes that fries, deep fries to a crisp. All I know what to feel is embarrassed and all I know what to do is try and cover it up. I guess what I feel is guilt. Sex with Buster. Old Catholic stuff but still, even though Ruth and I have never promised sexual fidelity, the way Ruth and I have been operating as one unit, it feels like an infidelity.

But so much more is going on inside me. A fucking maelstrom, man. But I won't feel it. It's like that class with Jeske when he asked me to tell the scariest thing about myself. I knew what the scariest thing was. I mean looking back on it now I know I knew. But in that moment, at that point in my life, there was no way I could have accessed that kind of truth telling. It would take me twenty years to tell that kind of truth.

Same way with that night in my kitchen with Buster and Ruth. Looking back on it now. All that I knew. But there was no way I was going there.

It won't be long, though, and it's all going to explode.

Ruth is surprised to see another body in the house. She stops, takes off her glasses, pulls the hoodie over her head, shakes out her hair. In the winter light, her thick red hair seems almost dark brown. The way the windows are steamed over, there's no way Ruth has seen Buster and me kiss or that our hands were touching.

Ruth wipes off the lenses with her sweatshirt. When Ruth puts her glasses back on, she recognizes the man in my kitchen is Buster. She drops her sweatshirt and opens up her arms to her old classmate.

“Buster! Hi!” she says. “Weren't you in Santa Fe?”

“Ruth!” Buster says. “Wow! You're looking awesome!”

Ruth and Buster throw their arms around each other. She's a head taller than him. My God all that red hair.

“Zuni Mountain,” Buster says.

“What are you doing here?” Ruth says.

Buster's rolling his shoulders, moving his arms. Always in movement this guy. His fingers move like he's playing a piano.

“I just gave Gruney a massage.”

“Gruney?”

“Mr. Grunewald,” Buster says. “Never run into shoulders that tight.”

“Gruney,” Ruth says.

Ruth's look over at me is slow. I can't tell you for sure how I react but I'm pretty sure all I do is smile. I know Ruth so well. She's wondering about this massage and why I never told her about it. She's wondering what kind of massage it was and what the massage
meant
. But Ruth sees me smile, so she puts it away for something that she and I will talk about later. Then Ruth does what she always does. She takes over. First, though, she gives me a smooch on the cheek, then starts cleaning up our dinner
dishes. When Ruth kisses me, I look over at Buster. There's no doubt about it. Buster's haywire eyes are trying to figure out that kiss.

I tell Ruth,
no I can do that, you sit down
. But Ruth helps me anyway. We clear the dishes and then she's got the refrigerator open and she's got the canned peaches out, and the frozen blueberries, and the bananas, and the yogurt. She's pouring warm water on the frozen blueberries. She's popping the lid to the peaches. She's peeling the bananas. She's got bowls out for all of us. For me, it's just plain yogurt. Ruth boils water and makes tea,
Midnight in Missoula
. All the while Ruth is talking talking. She and Buster are back and forth, a couple of busy bees, those two. They're talking about Zuni Mountain and Wolf Creek and the Radical Færies and about magic and spells and how before anything you have to believe in magic before it will work. Really, I try a couple times to stop Ruth, to stop Buster. This pleasant back and forth, the way Ruth goes on and on, if Ruth knew it was post-handjob, and pre-coitus, this conversation would probably be a whole lot different. Buster's clueless. The handjob isn't an issue. That's his job. Still, I can see him wonder how many former students of mine are kissing me.

No matter what, I can't get a word in edgewise. At one point, I scream bloody murder, but it's only after, when nobody's heard me scream, that I realize I haven't opened my mouth. Really, we spend the rest of the evening that way. Two or three hours at least, the two votive candles lit on the table, the blue one and the green one, the tall beeswax candle left over from Cannon Beach, the drips down onto its tin holder, onto the table, those two talking like they were best friends and hadn't seen each other in months. Ruth tells Buster about her new class, ten students, all women. How much she already loves these women. Buster is real interested in Ruth's class, so Ruth gets a piece of paper and a pen and she writes down her phone number and address and the date of the class and the time. They're both excited that he'll be the only man.

Ten-thirty or eleven, Buster pats the top of my hand with his. The flames of the candles move. It all happens in a moment.

Buster says, “I'd better be going.”

I say, “Can't you stay?”

My hand goes for his hand, but it's already gone.

Ruth says, “You're not biking in this weather are you?”

Buster says, “No, I got a car now.”

Ruth says, “What kind?'

Buster says, “An old Datsun.”

Ruth says, “I saw it parked out there, red right?”

Buster says, “Yeah, red.”

I say, “Buster.”

His right eye's fine. It's Buster's left eye that looks like he's looking at something behind you. In the candlelight, it takes me a moment to get that I'm the one in Buster's gaze.

Buster says, “Sorry, Mr. Grunewald, it's late.”

To Ruth he says, “I'll see you in class on Wednesday.”

Ruth says, “Can't wait!”

Then Buster's putting on his orange windbreaker. The way he moves about so quick. His beaded bag is over his shoulder. He and Ruth bear hug like old war buddies. When Buster steps toward me, he kisses me on the cheek. Then the other cheek, like in Europe. When he smiles, his crooked tooth.

“I'll twist your arm another night,” he says.

RUTH AND ME
alone in the kitchen. Rain against the window. The votive candles, the blue one and the green one, thin lines of smoke. The Cannon Beach candle is a low flame in a pool of wax. How the low flame jumps. Ruth is sitting across from me, her long arm, her elbow, on the table. The candlelight on her arm. She is a statue, a dark statue in shadow, some long-suffering female Catholic saint. Women who wait.

On the chair where Buster sat, the darkest shadow.

Talking. All that stuff that happens in me just before I tell the truth is happening. The antidepressant buzz in my ears is
two octaves higher, I'm sweating, my heart is beating fast and I'm trying to speak but I can't speak because there's no breath. The desire to move, get out, run. When I finally speak I'm not looking at Ruth, I'm looking down at my hand.

“Tonight,” I say. “Buster's massage.”

My thumb moves to the knuckle, to the no-fear place.

“I got hard,” I say. “And he jerked me off and I came.”

My thumb presses down hard. When I make myself look up, Ruth has moved her face into the light. She's got that smile. Big Nurse or maybe the principal.

“I suppose you're going to do it again,” she says.