Authors: John Kaye
Stars Screaming (38 page)
“That was Woodrow’s,” Dunlop said, when he saw Burk’s eyes settle on the pillow. “He passed away last year. You remember him, don’t you?”
Burk said, “You were walking him on the night we met.”
“Of course,” Dunlop said, and for a moment he looked dreamily sad. “Woodrow was named after Woodrow Wilson, in my estimation one of our finest presidents. He never really got as much credit as he was due.” Dunlop turned toward Burk. “Would you agree?”
“I don’t remember too much about him.”
“Perhaps he should’ve brought us into the war sooner, but diplomacy in hindsight is always easy to second-guess. I take it that’s your paper,” Dunlop said, nodding toward the envelope that Burk was holding by the side of his leg. “It must feel good to finally get this off your chest.”
“It does.”
Dunlop glanced at Burk with a little grin on his face before he started toward the kitchen. “Why don’t I make us some tea,” he said. “Then we can chat.”
When Dunlop came back into the living room, he found Burk standing in front of a small rolltop desk, staring at a framed black-and-white photograph. It was a picture of a young man dressed in an Air Force
uniform, leaning against the fender of a 1957 T-Bird. Bright wintry sunlight glanced off the lieutenant’s bars pinned on his shoulders.
“That was Mike,” Dunlop said, the teacups rattling on the tray as he placed it on the side table. Then he turned back to the picture with a professional expression. “Quite a handsome lad, wasn’t he?”
“Is he a relative?”
“Oh, no. Nothing like that. He was . . . well . . . more like a friend.”
Dunlop turned away from the picture and took a seat on the couch, and Burk sat across from him in an armchair made out of dark maple wood. “He looks familiar,” Burk said, his eyes straying back to the photograph. “Did I know him?”
“I wouldn’t think so.”
“Did he go to Westside High?”
“No. He was from Colorado. And he was much older than you. He was twenty-four when that picture was taken.”
“I guess he was someone you cared about.”
“Yes. He was.”
For a moment Dunlop looked as though he might cry. Then he took off his glasses, turning his head to shield his eyes while he cleaned the lens with a napkin. After some time had passed— the music on the stereo had changed from jazz to the Broadway soundtrack from the musical
Carousel
—Dunlop said, undramatically, “I’m a homosexual, Ray. In case you didn’t already know. It’s not something I’m ashamed of, but years ago it was quite different. If anyone had discovered I was gay, I would have been immediately ostracized from the faculty and probably dismissed from my teaching post. I could have ended up like Sam Burroughs.”
“Sam Burroughs? You mean the baseball coach?”
“He was just an awful fag.” Dunlop said, smiling sadly. “He couldn’t keep his hands off those boys. Lucky for him he wasn’t sent to prison.”
Dunlop poured tea into two cups, laughing lightly when he spilled a few drops on the table. Still smiling, he sat back and began to talk about life in the fifties, and how difficult it was to be a homosexual man, how careful he had to be. As he went on and on, endlessly, Burk maintained a look of interest on his face while a scene from his past drifted slowly out of the wings of his mind.
He and Gene are throwing a football back and forth on the sidewalk in front of their house. In awhile, Ricky Furlong comes down the block and joins them, laughing and talking away while they take turns running pass patterns in the street. Three birds dive off a power line and land in the patchy summer-brown grass that runs down the side of the driveway. For some reason Burk remembers that, and he remembers he is trying to solve an algebra problem inside his head when a baby-blue ’57 T-Bird pulls into their street, breaking his concentration. The top is down and the man behind the wheel has long dark hair that falls over the back of his collar. His passenger is younger by a few years, with a sunburned forehead and freckles on his muscular arms.
In Burk’s memory it is almost suppertime and he can smell meat cooking in someone’s backyard. Ricky drops the football he is holding and walks slowly over to the T-Bird, which is now parked in his driveway with the engine still running. Burk follows Gene up the sidewalk, but they both stop at the same time when they recognize the driver’s deep masculine voice. He says, “I just came over to say good-bye. Me and my buddy Mike are taking a trip. We’ll be gone for awhile.”
Ricky kicks at the ground with his sneakered foot. “You gonna write me?” he asks.
The driver shrugs, waiting until Ricky looks up before he says, “I’m not sure. We’re gonna be pretty busy. If I get a chance, I will.”
“I just got out of the service,” Mike says, leaning forward in the bucket seat. “George is taking me on a vacation. He’s a cool guy. He says you’re cool too.”
Ricky and the man driving shake hands, and then the man reaches up and touches Ricky’s face in a way that makes Burk feel excited and guilty at the same time. When the T-Bird pulls away, the neighborhood doesn’t seem the same to Burk as it did moments before. It isn’t quite as friendly.
Ricky’s mother, Ada, appears in a side window, her body turned at an odd angle as she gazes out at the street.
Gene says to Ricky, “That guy George is on TV, isn’t he?”
“Sometimes,” Ricky says.
“How come you know him?”
Ricky doesn’t respond. He is watching the T-Bird turn the corner at the end of the block. When the street is empty, Ricky’s mother walks outside. The cardigan she was wearing in the window is now tied around her waist and hips. In a harsh voice she tells Ricky to come inside for dinner.
“Now,” she says from the doorway. “And I don’t want to ask you twice.”
Ricky turns and follows his mother back inside their house. By now the sun is gone, and the only sound Burk remembers hearing is the wind whispering in the trees.
In a moment Gene is standing by his brother’s side. They both look troubled, afraid to say what they are really thinking. After awhile Gene throws his arm around Burk’s shoulder and turns him away from the house.
“Screw Ricky,” Gene said. “He’s a jerk.”
Dunlop slowly got to his feet and followed Burk over to the front door. After they shook hands he said, “I’m sorry if I took you by surprise. I don’t believe I was ever this open with any of my former students.
“Doing your paper over was the right thing. You paid off an inner debt that has been piling up for years. Now you’re free.”
“I don’t feel that way yet.”
“You will.”
Burk was a mile from the Beverly Hills Hotel when he heard his father’s voice come over the radio. Shocked, he made a quick right and parked on a side street south of Sunset.
“I’ve got a lot of things on my mind, things I kept bottled up for years. I need to talk,” Nathan Burk was telling Bill Gleason, the host of
Sportstalk
, the show that replaced
Radio Ray Moore
on KMPC. “That’s why I’m calling you.”
“I’m here to listen, Nate,” Bill Gleason said. “As long as it’s about sports.”
“That I can’t guarantee,” Nathan Burk said.
“Those are the rules, my friend.”
“Bend them.”
“I don’t make ‘em to bend. I’m a hired hand. I do my shift. I talk sports.”
“It’s late at night. There’s more to talk about when it gets dark. That’s when life seems empty and hopeless. Right now, as we speak, I’m sitting in my living room. Through the window I can see a light burning in the house across the street. A woman wearing a bathrobe just opened a cold fresh can of beer that she pulled out of the fridge. Now she’s slicing cheese on a wooden platter. She’s making a snack to eat in bed. I know this woman. She had a boy who played sports.”
“I think we should talk about the boy.”
“No.”
“I’m intrigued.”
“It’s a family. You can’t separate them.”
“I want to put the boy on the field,” Bill Gleason said. “I want to give him a glove. I want to see him swing a bat. Paint a picture for me.”
“That’s not why I called.”
“Then hang up.”
“That’s a cruel thing to say.”
Burk whispered, “Dad, go to sleep. Please. Hang up and go to sleep.”
“Now I’m on my feet,” Nathan Burk said. “I’m standing by the window, looking at the stars blinking in the sky. What I wouldn’t give for a woman to come up behind me and put her arms reassuringly around my shoulders. What a surprise that would be! A man deserves to feel a woman’s arms around him.”
“Sports.” Bill Gleason said the word like a threat.
“Yes, I know.”
“Talk about sports or I’ll cut you off.”
“I’ll talk about life,” Nathan Burk said. “Life is like sports, filled with winners and losers.”
“That won’t work, Nate. Not tonight.”
For a moment there was silence, and Burk tried to imagine the expression on his father’s face: humiliated, perhaps, but not discouraged. “My wife was a sports fan,” Nathan Burk said.
“That’s a start.”
“She loved all sports. Tennis, swimming, baseball, volleyball, Ping-Pong. But especially tennis. I have a picture of her on a tennis court, dressed in white tennis shorts and a white polo shirt. It’s one of many pictures spread out on my coffee table. If I looked over my shoulder right now, I could see this picture. She’s playing a mixed doubles match at La Cienega Park. Her partner is a small balding man named Marvin, a minor comedian from New York who earned a living selling gossip to the tabloids. Ask me how old my wife is in this picture.”
“Tell me.”
“Thirty, maybe.”
“You’re not sure?”
“She could be twenty-nine. If it’s November then she’s thirty. But she looks no older than eighteen.”
“What year is this?”
“The year before she left.”
“Your wife left you?”
“Yes.”
“Where did she go?”
“See. You’re hooked. I’ve got you hooked,” Nathan Burk said, and laughed loudly; then something happened and his voice became frantic. “Forget everything I said! It’s all a lie! She hated tennis! Hated the game with a passion!”
“Wait a second—”
“No! Listen to me! Pay attention! I’m turning around with the phone to my ear. I’m bending to take a picture off the coffee table. Here it is! A
real
picture. The other I made up.
“We’re in Manhattan, my wife and I. We’re in front of the Essex House, this big fancy hotel near Central Park. We’re standing on the sidewalk with the lunchtime crowd jostling around us. The taxi that dropped us off is just pulling out of the picture. I’ve got this silly smile on my face. My wife is standing by my side, her shoulder underneath my arm. Maybe she’s smiling too. It’s hard to tell, because she’s staring down at her feet.
“We just got married that morning. I rented a suite at the hotel for our honeymoon, the newlywed suite on the top floor. Later that night we went to dinner at Toots Shor’s. The Phillies were playing the Dodgers that weekend and several players from both teams were at the bar. In back a bunch of gangsters were sitting around a big
table. When they found out it was my wedding night, they sent over a bottle of the best champagne in the house. Around midnight Aaron came by to help me celebrate.”
“Aaron?”
“Aaron Levine, my cousin. He was a boxer, a two-time New York State Golden Gloves Champion in the welterweight division. That night he drank too much and picked a fight with one of the Phillies at the bar. The man was flirting with my wife. A pitcher, Phil something. I forget his last name. Aaron knocked him out with one punch. A brawl started and the police were called. Aaron was thrown in jail and Esther, my wife, took a taxi back to the hotel.”
“Was Aaron a drunk?”
“Yes. But he was a fine man when he was sober.”
“I don’t doubt that one bit.”
“He taught my son Gene how to box. I think he saved his life.”
It was close to 4
A.M.
when Burk arrived back at the Beverly Hills Hotel. Crossing the lobby he saw the night manager, Carl Jorgenson, dozing in an armchair with his long legs stretched out in front of him. On the carpet nearby was a copy of
True Confessions
, John Gregory Dunne’s fictional retelling of the Black Dahlia murder and a current best-seller.
The elevator dinged, signaling its arrival in the lobby, and the sound caused Jorgenson to blink open his eyes. When he saw Burk looking at him, he pretended to check his watch before he reached for his book and stood up.
“Did I get any messages?” Burk said, as he stepped inside the elevator, holding the door open with his hand.
Jorgenson brushed an imaginary fleck of dirt off his tie and glanced toward the front desk. “Only one,” he said. “Your line was busy for quite awhile, so I had it taken up to your room.”
Burk pointed at the book Jorgenson was holding. “Good read?”
Jorgenson nodded. “Oh, yes. A real page turner,” he said. He displayed Dunne’s signature on the flyleaf. “He was in for breakfast yesterday morning. I had him sign it before he left.”
Still keeping the door open, Burk mused, “I’d like to write a book someday.”
Jorgenson nodded with approval. “Yes,” he said, “you should do that.”
“Would you buy a copy, Jorgie?”
“Absolutely, Mr. Burk. And I would make you sign it, too.” Burk’s smile was genuine as he stepped back and let the elevator doors close.
“Good night, Mr. Burk.”
“Good night.”
Louie was lying on his side, breathing noisily into his pillow, when Burk walked into the room and picked up the phone message from Barbara that was delivered earlier that evening.
“Hey, Louie?”
Louie rolled over and pulled the covers away from his face. “Yeah?”
“Who were you talking to?”
“When?”
“A couple of hours ago.”
“No one.”
“Yes, you were. The line was busy.”
Louie sat up and the shadows shifted on the wall behind the bed. “I called Gene.”
“How come?”
“I don’t know. I was sad, I guess. I wanted to talk about my mom.”
“I’m your dad, Louie. You can talk to me. I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”
“I waited up. I wanted to talk tonight. You weren’t here.”
