Spider Season (18 page)

As I entered the first door on my left, I flicked on a light switch and was instantly transfixed. The walls were covered with photos—and I was in every one. Each was carefully framed, with all the frames perfectly aligned, not a crooked one in sight. Also framed and on display were dozens of newspaper articles in which I was featured, going back to my seventeenth year, when I’d made the regional newspapers in the Northeast after killing my father.

Like the photos downstairs, these items were also arranged in chronological order. I hadn’t seen most of them, and had no idea so much had been written about me, or so many photos taken. Holt had not only found old clippings about my father’s death, he’d also searched out local press coverage of my high school wrestling matches. Amid these, in a more ornate frame, was an eight-by-ten blown up from my senior yearbook photo. After that came more clippings, from my college years, followed by photos of me after I’d arrived in Southern California to work for the
Los Angeles Times
. Some of these were candid shots taken on the street, while I was out walking or driving, a few with Jacques at my side. There was even a photo of Jacques and me at a Gay Pride march, cheering as Dykes on Bikes rolled by on their motorcycles, and another, also taken surreptitiously, as I helped him walk slowly down Norma Place in the last months of his life, when he was gaunt and pale and his eyes had lost all hope. Finding these stolen moments in Holt’s house was unnerving, to say the least. But it also made me feel horribly violated and more furious with him than ever.

Below the framed photos, on a credenza, lay two scrapbooks. I opened one to find it stuffed with yellowed clippings from the onslaught of news coverage related to my Pulitzer problems eighteen years ago. The other, only partially filled, contained items from the recent publicity focusing on my book.

I closed the scrapbooks and backed away to the door, trying to digest what I was seeing. The room had been turned into a shrine. Under different circumstances, I might have been flattered. Instead, thinking about the implications, I shivered.

I switched off the light, and moved on down the hall.

*   *   *

It was in the next room that I came across the spiders.

There were at least a hundred of them, maybe twice that number, preserved in jars of formaldehyde and boxes under glass. The specimens ranged from creatures as tiny as an aspirin tablet to furry tarantulas as big as a man’s hand, each neatly labeled according to genus, in both English and Latin.

I became so absorbed in what I was seeing that I didn’t realize I was no longer alone, until Holt’s voice startled me from behind.

“I wasn’t aware you had such an interest in Arachnida.”

I whirled to find him standing in the doorway, holding up his cell phone so that it faced in my direction.

“That’s right,” he said. “I’m getting you on video. Starting when you broke into the house and following you from room to room. You must be losing your instincts in your old age, letting me get the drop on you like this. Perhaps I’ll send a copy to that detective, to go with the one I sent him earlier.”

“The one you also sent to DishtheDirt.com.”

“The Internet’s such fun, don’t you think? I just love digital transmission. The push of a button and—presto!—the images are out there for everyone to see.”

I started toward him, but he took a step back, keeping the camera on me. “I’ve already sent the images to a friend, you know, the ones of you breaking in. I’d think twice if I were you before resorting to violence. Burglary is bad enough, don’t you think, without adding an assault charge?”

I froze where I was. I didn’t know if video could be transmitted that way, to someone else’s cell phone or computer, but I suspected Holt was bluffing. In either case, it wasn’t a chance I was comfortable taking. Not at the moment anyway.

Holt waltzed past me to stand over his creature collection, keeping his camera trained on me.

“Spiders are so fascinating, don’t you think?”

“I really don’t know much about them. Unlike you, I never studied zoology in college.”

“Silvio would never let me display them like this when he was alive. I kept them stored away, in the garage. They’re beautiful, don’t you think?”

“Not exactly the word I’d choose.”

“Did you know there are close to forty thousand species?”

“What do you want from me, Holt?”

“They’ve been around for four hundred million years, adapting to almost every environment, which places them among the most successful carnivores in history. They’ll be around long after humans are gone.”

He lifted a jar, studying a preserved spider.

“
Micaria romana,
” he said. “Like most spiders, it has eight legs and two body segments. But it also resembles the ant, its primary prey. Such genius!” He set the jar down and faced me directly. “You and I are not all that dissimilar, Benjamin. Homosexual, roughly the same age, widowers, as it were, in need of companionship. I don’t see why we can’t be friends.”

“You’re much too clever for me, Holt. Spending time with you would only give me an inferiority complex.”

“You see? You still mock me, after all these years. But you underestimate me, Benjamin.” He glanced fondly at his collection. “It’s the same with arachnids. Their brains are quite small, and their nervous systems terribly simple. Most people think of them as ugly and useless, even repulsive. But they’re capable of quite complex tasks—procreating, building webs, trapping and killing their prey with their venom.”

He paused, fixing me with his eyes.

“Do you know what triggers their instinct to kill, what lets them know that it’s the right time?”

“I’m afraid I don’t.”

“The vibrations they feel through the threads of their web when their trapped prey begins to struggle. Tactile sensation—that’s how most spiders know when it’s time to strike.”

“They sound very sensitive.”

“Yes, sensitive. Unlike you, Benjamin.”

“I’m sorry you’re so lonely, Holt. But I’m not the solution.”

“Don’t patronize me! You led me on, Benjamin. Back in college, when I was most vulnerable, you used me like a toy. You humiliated me.”

He was trembling badly. I thought for a moment that he was going to cry.

“I swear, Holt, I don’t recall even speaking to you.”

“You didn’t! That’s just the point. It was the looks you gave me, the sideways glances, stealing my beauty, encouraging my adoration, but giving me nothing in return.”

“Maybe in your dreams.”

“Selective recollection! Like that so-called memoir of yours!”

My patience was gone. I turned and left the room, striding back down the hallway and down the stairs.

Holt chased after me, crying out, “Where are you going?”

“Away from you, that’s for sure.”

“You’d better not! I’ll file charges against you! I’ll send this to the blogs!”

“Do what you have to, Holt.”

His tone became plaintive. “Wait! Don’t go!”

I reached the first floor and turned into the living room. Holt darted around in front of me, blocking my path. He had his cell phone on me again, as if daring me to show aggression. He glanced at the big painting hanging above the mantelpiece.

“I saw you studying the portrait earlier,” he said eagerly. “Are you interested in fine art? I count several prominent artists among my closest friends. Charles Wu painted this one. I’m sure you’ve heard of him. I could introduce you.”

I followed his eyes to the painting while I tried to figure my way out of this without an assault charge.

“Charles started out painting lovely botanicals,” Holt said. “Watercolors that Silvio placed in many of the homes he decorated. As Charles became better known, he began painting portraits, specializing in famous and beautiful people, mostly through introductions that Silvio gave him. Not that I consider myself beautiful, of course. I felt humbled when Charles asked me to sit for him.”

“It sounds like he owed Silvio quite a lot,” I said.

“Only his career! Before Silvio started showing his work no one had ever heard of Charles. He’s strictly into abstracts now. But you probably know that, don’t you?”

“I’m afraid fine art is out of my league.”

Holt couldn’t seem to keep his eyes off the painting. “I was nearly forty when this portrait was painted. You wouldn’t know it, would you? Silvio always said I looked quite young for my age.”

I stepped to the mantelpiece, reaching up. “I believe it’s crooked.”

“No! It’s fine, don’t touch it!”

But I’d already tilted it, setting it at a slight angle. Holt stepped quickly to my side, set his cell phone on the mantelpiece, and reached up to straighten the frame. When he turned back to retrieve his phone, I clutched it securely in one hand, closed and shut off.

“I’m leaving now, Holt. Unless you want me to mess up all that plastic surgery, I’d suggest you stay out of my way.”

I turned and strode out of the house. Holt followed close on my heels.

“Give me that phone!” I ignored him and stepped down into the yard. “You think you’re so smart, don’t you?”

I started across the patio, past the empty swimming pool, but suddenly stopped to face him.

“And if you value your creepy collection of spiders, you’ll leave me alone. Because if you bother me again, I’ll come back and smash every one of your specimens to smithereens.”

He looked aghast at that. I pivoted and picked up the path back to the street. Holt stayed right behind, hissing in my ear.

“Maybe you’d like to know how they court and have sex.”

“Maybe another time, Holt. Say, in the next millennium.”

“Courtship varies among different species, but many web-building spiders communicate through vibration. The male sends out a unique signal along a thread of his web that’s connected to the female’s web. If she’s receptive, she positions herself for sex and lets him know she’s ready through a special vibration of her own. If she’s unreceptive, she shakes her web or simply crawls away.”

I emerged from the dense foliage and continued straight to the Metro, forcing Holt to walk faster.

“But some males are so desperate to mate,” he went on, “they go after the unwilling female anyway, knowing that she might sink her fangs into him, killing him with her venom. The impulse to couple with some spiders is that strong. They want the object of their desire so badly they’re willing to die for it.”

“That’s romance for you,” I said, and climbed into the Metro.

Holt came around by the driver’s door. His chemically plumped lips puckered into an ugly sneer.

“I see you’re not driving your Mustang these days. Did something happen to it?”

I switched on the ignition, released the emergency brake, and pulled out, forcing Holt back. He stretched out his arms imploringly.

“I’m sorry, Benjamin! Please, stay! I’ll make it up to you!”

I tossed his cell phone into the street ahead of the car, took aim, and crushed it like a bug. I could still hear him behind me as I sped from the cul-de-sac. In the rearview mirror, I saw that his hands were clenched at his sides now, like a brat throwing a tantrum.

“I won’t be treated like this, Benjamin! I won’t! You’ll regret this, I promise you!”

Then I turned the corner and he was out of sight, though hardly out of mind.

NINETEEN

Several days passed without further communication from Jason Holt, and I wanted to believe I’d scared him off.

In the meantime, I braced for my final interview with Cathryn Conroy, set for that Saturday evening. But on Friday morning she called to ask if we could postpone so she could finish up another piece she was writing for
Eye
.

“I’m a notoriously slow writer,” she said, “and I like to get my facts right.”

“By all means,” I said, “take all the time you want.”

Later that day, Bruce Steele called to remind me that I was scheduled to conduct a clinic the following afternoon for the West Hollywood Wrestling Club, a commitment I’d completely forgotten. I pretended I hadn’t, and promised to be there at 2:00
P.M.
sharp.

*   *   *

The West Hollywood Wrestling Club held its weekly workouts each Saturday in the Plummer Park Community Center, on the city’s Eastside. When I arrived at the room set aside for the workouts, about two dozen men were already paired up on the mats and going through drills under Steele’s supervision.

They ranged in age from late teens to early sixties, some dressed in standard-issue singlets and lightweight wrestling shoes, others—the neophytes—in more motley outfits comprised of baggy shorts, faded T-shirts, and high-topped sneakers. Most wore knee pads to avoid bruised cartilage and headgear to protect against cauliflower ears. A few looked like they didn’t know the difference between a duck-under and a double-leg tackle, but I was surprised by how many showed genuine skill.

Steele told the group to keep going through escape drills and sauntered over, still in great shape at forty-three, packing maximum muscle and minimal body fat into his skintight singlet. As a wrestler at Oklahoma State, he’d gone all the way to the top, at both the collegiate and AAU levels. From what I’d seen of him competing more than twenty years ago—on television, winning his weight class at the NCAA tournament—he would have made an excellent coach. But coaching for a living isn’t possible for an openly gay man, certainly not in a sport like wrestling, where the close physical proximity between competitors makes so many people uneasy. Faced with living honestly or in the closet, Steele had forsaken his dream of coaching for a living and started the West Hollywood Wrestling Club as an avocation. It allowed him regular workout partners, competition against other amateur clubs, and the chance to stay in shape for the international Gay Games, where he’d won his weight class every time he’d entered.

He thanked me for coming and agreed to serve as my demonstration partner, since we were roughly the same size, give or take a couple of pounds. The other wrestlers formed a circle around us, standing two or three deep. Steele introduced me and mentioned my collegiate wrestling background, making it sound more impressive than it was. When we stood facing each other and locked up, I realized it was the first time I’d been on a wrestling mat in nearly thirty years.