Spider Season (9 page)

“Yes, and exclusively when I was drunk.”

“Is that an excuse?”

“An excuse for what?”

“For lying to so many women. For deceiving them, exploiting them sexually, using them to help maintain your charade.”

I glanced at her tape recorder. “It’s more complicated than that.”

“Oh, really?”

“I was young, still finding myself. I was in deep denial about my sexuality.”

“An identity crisis.” She said it like the term was a joke.

“More or less.”

“You were a college senior in 1980,” she went on. “The gay revolution was in full swing. Homosexuals were coming out of the closet in droves. Yet you were still lying to women, using them as both a cover and a sexual outlet.”

“I’m not proud of that part of my life, if that’s what you want me to say.”

“What I want is the truth.”

“I just told you the truth.”

“You must have been very attractive to certain women back then. Crusading student reporter, captain of the wrestling team, and probably a very decent fuck when you’d worked up your courage with enough alcohol.”

I glanced at the drink in her hand. “Is that where your courage comes from, Cathryn?”

She flinched but came back at me tougher than ever.

“I’m not the subject of this interview, Justice. You are. You’re the one beating the publicity trail to sell your book. My job is to fill in some of the holes you conveniently dug while writing it, burying some inconvenient facts.”

Our Caesar salads arrived and I started in on mine. Conroy ignored hers, having at me.

“You were even engaged once, weren’t you?”

“For about two minutes, my senior year in college.”

“To Cheryl Zarimba—attractive brunette, Polish-American, English major, one year behind you. Rather high-strung, from what I gather.”

“I don’t see the point of—”

“The point is that the two of you were to be married and you didn’t even bother to mention it in your life story.”

“I’m not sure it was really headed toward marriage. That was more her fantasy than mine.”

“So it
was
deliberate deception on your part? She was in love with you, and you led her on, bought her an engagement ring. That was just part of your heterosexual act?”

“A lot of men were confused about themselves back then, unsure of who they were, what they wanted. For some of us the idea of suddenly acknowledging our feelings for other men, of leading a gay life, didn’t seem remotely possible.”

“Because you were too cowardly to face the truth?”

“Because of a lot of things.”

“Do you know how many women have been deceived by men like you?” The tone of Conroy’s voice had become sharp and accusing, a far cry from her usual ironic cool. “Do you realize how many women have sacrificed years of their lives, suffered terrible confusion, been irreparably hurt, even blamed themselves, because men like you didn’t have the balls to be honest with them?”

I’d heard that Conroy had been married, many years ago. I glanced at her right hand but saw no ring.

“Is it possible that you’re one of those women, Cathryn? That that’s what all this is about?”

“Don’t try to turn this on me, Justice. This is about you. You and Cheryl Zarimba, your old college flame, the last woman you slept with before you decided that you preferred cock to pussy.”

I slowed down, took a deep breath, then said quietly, “I’d appreciate it if you’d leave Cheryl’s name out of your article. It’s been nearly thirty years since I saw or spoke to her. Yes, she was hurt when I broke off the engagement just before graduation. I felt lousy about it. I’d change the way all of it went down if I could, but I can’t.”

“How noble of you.”

“But I don’t see the point of hurting her again after all these years. So if you’ll promise to leave her name out of your article, I’ll be as forthcoming as I can about anything else you want to know. Just not her name, that’s all.”

Conroy finally put down her pen and picked up her salad fork, spearing a leaf. The anger went out of her voice, replaced by bemusement.

“Oh, I don’t think she’ll mind if I mention her by name.”

“You spoke with her?”

“Spoke with Cheryl? Not possible. Cheryl Zarimba languished for years, brokenhearted and bitter about what you’d done, before she finally committed suicide ten years ago. I don’t know much else about her, but I still have more phone calls to make.”

The news hit me hard. I must have blanched, because Conroy smiled a little.

“You’re certain about that?” I asked. “That Cheryl took her own life?”

“Oh, yes. Quite certain. I even have a copy of the death certificate, if you ever want to see it.”

I hadn’t thought about Cheryl Zarimba in years, except in passing as I wrote my memoir, before deciding to leave her out of it. Suicide, Conroy had said. One more casualty strewn along the path of my reckless life. And Conroy was surely going to use it for all it was worth, condemning me for ignoring Cheryl in my book.

I stood, tossed some cash on the table, and left just as the steaks were arriving, still sizzling on their iron platters. I could hear Conroy’s smoky voice behind me.

“You still owe me an interview, Justice. I’ve got more questions, if you’ve got the gonads to answer them.”

I strode back up Beverly Boulevard, furious with Conroy for nailing me with such calculated and cruel effect. But I really couldn’t blame her. She was a certifiable bitch, no question of that, about as nasty a journalist as I’d come across. But I’d written a book and was cashing in on my ugly past and she had every right to probe and question and judge. Cheryl Zarimba, dead—at least partly because of me. I walked faster, pounding the pavement harder.

I crossed Santa Monica Boulevard into the dark, narrow park and turned east toward home. I’d walked for a minute or two when the steady rumble of a nearby motorcycle caught my attention.

To my right, I saw a figure in a leather jacket but without the required helmet cruising slowly in the nearest lane, which put him on the wrong side of the boulevard, facing oncoming traffic. The lanes ahead of him were clear for the moment, but he didn’t seem concerned about them at any rate; his eyes were fixed on me. Even in the dark, I could recognize the rider, with his strong jaw and cleanly shaved head. There was no doubt now that he was stalking me. He must have been watching my apartment, I thought, and followed when I left for my dinner meeting.

He continued riding parallel to me, slowly enough to match my pace. As I emerged from a maze of hedges, his eyes never left me. We kept on like that, our eyes locked, as the seconds ticked away. As I broke eye contact and glanced ahead, a traffic light changed from red to green and vehicles began moving in our direction. I saw a municipal bus coming straight at the skinhead in the same lane. Still, he stayed his course, seemingly oblivious to the danger he was in. More vehicles were approaching from behind, as eastbound traffic caught up with him. If he was even slightly concerned, he didn’t show it.

As the westbound bus bore down on him, catching him in its headlights, he turned his front wheel to the right and hit the throttle. More headlights struck him and horns blared. At the last moment, he shot into the eastbound lanes, squeezing between cars, as if to show me I wasn’t the only one who had a taste for recklessness and danger.

TEN

The next morning, I called Detective Haukness to complain about Motorcycle Boy and his attempt to intimidate me the night before. I didn’t like going to the cops about such matters; I’d always preferred handling them myself. But Haukness had warned me I was already on thin ice. I couldn’t afford to tangle with the skinhead again, not with a possible assault charge dangling over my head.

Haukness was out in the field, so I left a message on his voice mail. He got back to me that night, just before he went off-duty at eight. He was abrupt, and sounded vaguely irritated.

“I can’t arrest a guy for riding past you on a motorcycle,” Haukness said. “It’s like I told you—”

“I know, Detective. He has to approach and threaten me.”

“He does that, call nine-one-one and report it. Anything else I can do for you, Mr. Justice?”

“I’d like a copy of the police report on the original incident.”

“Why would you need that?”

“To learn as much about this guy as I can, since you don’t plan to do anything about him.”

“I’ll think about it,” Haukness said.

“As the victim of record, I’m not entitled to a copy?”

“It’s not pro forma, no.”

“Do I need to make a stink about this, Detective? Go over your head to get a copy of a police report that led to a conviction?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He hung up before I did.

*   *   *

Over the next few days, the baby doves grew surprisingly fast, and began to stretch their fragile wings. By week’s end they were perched on the edge of the nest, their beady eyes big and dark in their skeletal heads, their matted down starting to fluff and grow into feathers. The father returned more often and for longer periods, sitting on a nearby power line where the chicks could see him, flapping his wings until they began to raise and lower their own in imitation.

Fred and Maurice were careful to keep their two cats inside, worried that a baby bird might fall from the nest, which sometimes happened. They’d learned long ago from the experts to gently pick up the grounded chicks and place them back in the nest, that the old caveat about a human smell scaring away other birds is just a myth. Over the ensuing days, Fred took to sitting on the patio for hours, watching the rite of passage taking place at the top of the stairs. He’d witnessed it countless times in springs and summers past but seemed more intrigued this year. He often dozed off in his patio chair. Maurice would appear from the house to check on him, looking weary and worried. As it turned out, he had good reason.

“His heart’s quite weak,” Maurice confided to me privately, one morning when Fred had nodded off. “He needs a quadruple bypass, but he’s too frail to qualify for the operation. Don’t mention that I told you, Benjamin. He doesn’t want anyone to know. Too proud and all that. Doesn’t want anyone feeling sorry for him.”

More and more often, I looked out my upstairs window to see Maurice sitting beside Fred as he snoozed on the patio, quietly holding his hand and gazing pensively into the yard. I didn’t know how to comfort either of them, feeling caught between a secret and the truth, and never much good during times like this at any rate. So I just helped around the house the best I could, acutely aware of how the atmosphere had subtly changed, as if all the bright colors had slowly drained away, leaving only somber shades of gray.

Toward the end of the week, I opened the mailbox to find a few items for Fred and Maurice and a single plain postcard for me. This one was addressed to
Benjamin BJ Justice,
in the same florid handwriting as the others:

HIV comes to the promiscuous, who by definition are shallow and self-destructive. (Yes, there is a God!) Just remember: HIV now, AIDS tomorrow. Don’t linger too long, and don’t forget your pills! (I keep looking for your book on the Fag Bestseller List but have yet to see it. With any luck, you’ll be dead before that happens.)

So it had started up again. At least this one didn’t mention Jacques, I thought, which made it less offensive. Maurice appeared from the house to get his mail and I tucked the postcard away where he wouldn’t see it. He’d mentioned something about a letter in my files, dated eighteen years ago, that might have a connection to the hate mail I was receiving now, and had promised to find it for me. Given the situation with Fred, I wasn’t going to bring it up, and decided to forget about it.

Maurice reached out and touched the old mailbox lovingly, as if remembering the day Fred had installed it decades back, and how Maurice had later added the rainbow colors, which had since begun to fade.

“Do me a favor, will you, Benjamin? Let Fred get the mail from now on. He’s written out a list of chores he wants to do—collect the mail, rake the yard, feed the cats. Little tasks that allow him to stay active, to feel useful.”

“Of course, Maurice. Whatever he wants.” I handed Maurice his mail. “How are you doing, by the way? You look a little worn-out yourself.”

He smiled for my benefit. “I’m doing fine, Benjamin, but thanks for asking.”

I watched him trudge back into the house with sagging shoulders, and my problem with the hate mail seemed less significant than ever. If there was a jerk out there so desperate for attention that he had to send me messages like this, I figured, he deserved my pity more than my anger. I’d just ignore him, and go about my life.

Besides, at that moment, I had something considerably more important on my agenda: Ismael Aragon was finally back in town, and we were meeting for coffee that afternoon.

*   *   *

At the appointed time, I found Ismael waiting for me down on the boulevard at Tribal Grounds. We dispensed with the handshake and hugged straightaway, and I even managed a quick kiss on the nape of his neck that he didn’t seem to mind.

“It feels like you’ve been gone forever,” I said.

“To me as well,” he said. “It’s good to be back.”

Inside, I ordered my usual dark roast, drinking it black, while Ismael chose herbal tea. We settled in at a small table by the window, facing each other. Sonny Rollins was playing in the background, a slippery tenor sax solo on the easygoing side.

“You look great,” I said. “Your work must suit you.”

“It can be heartbreaking at times, trying to help families torn apart by borders and immigration laws. But it’s important work, I think. I feel blessed to have the opportunity to do it.”

He told me he’d begun working with undocumented immigrant families as a priest—more than seventy percent of the Catholic population in Los Angeles was Hispanic—and he’d continued after leaving the Church. It had given him a sense of continuity and community, he said, that had helped in his transition.

“Still,” I said, “your break from the Church must have been painful.”

His eyes grew somber. “It was agony, Benjamin. I felt like I was being ripped from my own skin.”