Where The Boys Are (11 page)

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Authors: William J. Mann

BOOK: Where The Boys Are
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Lloyd strokes my hair.
“But what’s even crazier is that I
give
him answers, Lloyd. I stand there against the bar and I
talk, talk, talk
. I tell him this is the way it is, and all these boys, they fucking
listen
to me, Lloyd. I’m a goddamn fraud, but I get away with it.” I make a bitter face. “Javitz must be laughing his ass off at me.”
“Javitz isn’t laughing at you, Jeff. I’m sure he’s very proud.” Lloyd lifts my chin to look into my eyes. “But he wouldn’t want you to stop writing.”
I look away. “It’s too hard. It’s just too hard. I just can’t seem to get fired up by anything. In a way, I suppose, I envy you, Lloyd. Getting pumped up about this place. You have something to dream about again.”
He touches my face. “Will you share it with me, Jeff? This dream? Will you at least try?”
I look at him. I look at his beautiful deepset green eyes and run my hand over the top of his close-cropped head. I smile. I remember the night we met, so long ago now. I remember how he took me back to his place and drew a bath for us, dotted with daisies. I remember how hard I fell in love with him, how the very thought of him filled up my entire self, sucked the air right out me. I’m about to say yes, yes, of course I’ll try—and although I can’t promise anything, it means the world to hear him ask. In that moment everything disappears: Javitz’s death, my disappointment over Lloyd not moving back to Boston, even the worries about that stranger back in my apartment. I’m about to tell Lloyd that I love him, that more than anything else in the world I want to be with him, but before I can utter a single word, I’m cut off suddenly by a voice from downstairs:
“Yooooooooo-hoooooooooooooooo.
”
Lloyd
God, I hate when she does that.
“What is that?” Jeff asks, looking around for the source of the sound that echoes against the walls far more sharply than even the howling wind.
“It’s just Eva,” I say.
She’s downstairs somewhere. Damn her timing. Why did she have to come in just at that moment? Finally, Jeff was opening up a little and—
“
Yoooooo-hoooooo!
”
I bound to the top of the stairwell. “Eva!
Please!
Stop that! We’re here! Upstairs! We’re coming down.”
I turn and smile resignedly over at Jeff. I regret having to cut off our conversation. “We’ll talk more later,” I tell him. “Okay?”
He just shrugs.
“I’ve brought some dishes over,” Eva’s calling up to us. “Wait’ll you see!”
We find her in the kitchen lifting them out of a cardboard box. I notice she’s tracked snow across the tile floor.
“Eva,” I ask, “should you be bringing stuff in yet? It’s not officially ours for another few weeks.”
“Oh, I know, but Ernie said it was okay if I brought up a few things from New York.” She holds a plate up so we can see. There’s some kind of a crest in the center. “These have been in my family for generations. Made in Dresden. My father’s father brought them over in—”
“Uh, Eva, this is—”
Her eyes settle on Jeff. “Oh, my! Forgive me!” She sets the plate down and hurries over to embrace Jeff. “You must be Jeffrey,” she gushes. She squeezes him tight, wrapping her arms around his torso and resting her head under his chin. He looks over at me with some surprise. “I have been wanting to meet you for so long.”
Jeff tentatively pats her on the back. “It’s nice to meet you, too, Eva.”
She pulls back enough to look up at him. “Do you like the place? It matters to me, Jeff, that you feel at home here.”
“Thanks,” he says, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy.
I sense Jeff’s discomfort. Eva’s intensity is one of the reasons I love her, but Jeff is, after all, a born-and-raised Connecticut Yankee, and Yankees don’t usually go for all that touchy-feely stuff, especially not at first meeting. I try to draw her away from him. “What do you think about eventually cutting out another window here, Eva?” I ask, moving across the kitchen.
Eva does let go, but she takes Jeff by the hand and leads him over to where I stand. “I think it’s a splendid idea,” she says. “Oh, yes. Just fill the house with light.”
“My idea exactly,” I agree.
Eva looks up at Jeff. “It’s uncanny how Lloyd and I think alike,” she tells him. “We’re always finding little moments like that.”
I see Jeff’s eyes flicker away.
She drops his hand and returns to unpacking her plates. “I’m hopeful you and I might find some time to take a walk, Jeff. Just the two of us. To get to know each other.”
I watch as Jeff smiles noncommittally.
Eva keeps chattering. “I’d love to cook both of you a big meal tonight. A celebration!”
She’s trying hard to win him over. Too hard, probably. “Eva, you know my kitchen is so small,” I offer. “Why don’t we just get pizza from George’s?”
She pouts. “But look what I was able to do for breakfast.” She smiles over at Jeff. “I made Belgian waffles with fresh fruit this morning. They’re Lloyd’s favorite.”
Jeff smiles back tightly. “I know.”
She holds a plate against her bosom. It’s that unconscious gesture of hiding her breasts I’ve noticed before. “You know, Jeff, my husband was gay,” she announces. “I don’t know if Lloyd told you. He was gay and he died of AIDS.”
Jeff blinks a couple of times in response. I put my hands in front of my face.
“Yes, he was,” Eva continues. “He taught me
all
about gay culture.” She smiles to herself, remembering something, then returns to placing the dishes in the cupboard. She’s talking fast, almost giddily. “Oh, my goodness, how many times we listened to Judy at Carnegie Hall. And watched
All About Eve.
That was Steven’s favorite. And a favorite of yours and Lloyd’s and Javitz’s, right?”
Jeff looks over at me, then back at Eva. “One of them,” he says.
“Oh, my, how Steven
loved
that movie. I do, too. I can see all the gay parallels. They’re so obvious. Why doesn’t
everyone
see them?”
Way too hard,
I think.
“Do you know we watched
All About Eve
the night Steven died? Of course, he was clear-minded right to the end. Not like Javitz. Gosh, how cruel a fate was that? Javitz, so brilliant. To end up with dementia.” She shudders.
Jeff turns and looks at me again. He seems incredulous. I just manage a helpless little grin.
“You know what?” Eva says suddenly, holding another plate against her bosom. “I
feel
him here.”
“Javitz?” I ask.
“Actually,
both
of them. Javitz and Steven.” She shivers. “They’re
to
gether. Maybe they’re even
lovers
in that other world. Oh, wouldn’t that be wonderful!
I notice a nasty little grin cross Jeff’s lips. I brace myself.
“I think I see them, too,” he tells her. “They’re standing right there, in fact—
behind you.”
Eva lets out a little gasp, dropping the plate she’s holding. It falls to the floor with a shattering crash.
“Oh, dear!” she cries.
Both Jeff and I are quickly down on our knees picking up the pieces. Nose-to-nose, our eyes meet and I shake my head at him.
“I’m awfully sorry,” Jeff says as he hands her three small slivers of ceramic. “I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She smiles uncomfortably.
“I know these plates mean a lot to you,” I say, dropping a few shards into the trash. I look over at Jeff. I hope he’s satisfied with himself.
“No, please. It was just a plate.” She sighs. “It’s just a
thing.
An
object.
Right, Lloyd?”
We’ve had discussions about this. I’ve told her that I thought she was sometimes too attached to
things,
to material possessions. Eva grew up rich and sheltered, accustomed to the fineries of her class. I know Jeff’s deep distrust of the rich; I’m hoping it won’t prejudice him against her.
He does seem genuinely remorseful for his mischief. “Now you’ll always be one plate short at dinner.” He frowns. “I
am
sorry.”
“No, don’t be,” Eva insists. “It’s the first lesson of this house. Don’t be attached.” She looks to me for affirmation. I give it to her with a smile.
“Lloyd has taught me so much,” Eva says fondly, looking over at Jeff. “I am so thrilled to be embarking on this journey. And I’m sure there will be many more lessons to learn.”
She walks quickly across the kitchen floor to embrace me, just as she did Jeff earlier—tightly, with her head tucked underneath my chin. I see Jeff look away.
Jeff
It’s probably a good thing it’s Lloyd describing that scene for you, because—as over the top as I’m sure she comes across—I’d probably have done a whole hell of a lot
worse.
Because she
is
over the top—of Mount
Everest.
Oh, my God, that doesn’t even
begin
to describe her. Over the top, off this planet—I mean certifiably
loony.
But shrewd! I can see that right off. She knows exactly what she’s up against, dealing with me, and she’s got her game plan
all mapped out.
She wants to show me that she’s Lloyd’s partner now, not me.
So I agree to take the walk with her, after reluctantly posing for a quick photo in the snow in front of the house. “Say, ‘If you please, pass the cheese!’” Eva instructs as she snaps a picture of Lloyd and me.
What a wacko.
“I’m going on ahead to return the key to the realtor,” Lloyd says.
“Run along,” Eva says, taking my arm. “Jeffrey and I are going to get to know each other.” We walk out along the beach as the snow continues to fall.
“I was born in Connecticut just like you, Jeff,” she tells me.
“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow. “Whereabouts?”
“Greenwich.”
I smirk. Greenwich is
not
the same Connecticut I was born in. Greenwich is the Gold Coast. I was born in a little factory town outside Hartford.
“My father worked for the government,” she tells me. “He was always traveling all over the world. I wanted nothing more than to be with him always, but our time together was always so brief. Were you close to
your
father, Jeff?”
I’m presuming Lloyd told her my father died a few years ago, and that I regret never having the chance to be fully authentic with him while he was still alive. That’s what she wants me to say: she wants me to start disclosing the way she’s been doing. Just spew out all our emotions and secrets and fears. But I’m being stubborn.
“I knew my father as well as possible,” I say, ending the discussion. Or at least trying to.
“My father was devoted to me,” she rambles on. “He would always bring me a doll from every country he visited. We would sleep in the same bed when he was home, until the time I was twelve. Do you think that improper, Jeff?”
I don’t have any idea how I should respond. I just look at her.
She keeps talking. “Some people thought it was wrong. But my father was the kindest, gentlest ...” She stops talking and looks out at the water. The snow is raising a cloud of mist over the beach. “I still miss him. Just like I still miss Steven. I don’t think we ever stop missing those we’ve lost.” She looks up at me with her big round eyes. “Is it hard for you, Jeff? Being here, in Provincetown, remembering Javitz?”
Her casual references to Javitz are beginning to bug me. She didn’t know him. Okay, so maybe she can relate to his death since her husband also died of AIDS, but she knows
nothing
about Javitz’s life. She knows
nothing
about his queer politics, his campy sense of humor, his delightfully twisted love of sex. She knows nothing of his suspicion of heteros. Javitz would’ve thought she was whacked.
“I’m fine, Eva.” I look over at her. “If I seem distant, it’s just because I’m cold.”
She smiles. “Then maybe we can pop into a café. Let me buy you a cup of coffee.”
Okay, so you’re probably seeing her as really sweet, and me as a real prick. But this is her strategy. Win me over with kindness. Then it’s off
with
my head. Then she can have Lloyd all to herself. You think I’m being too hard on her? You just watch. I’m
on
to her little game.
We take a table near the window in Fat Jack’s. Her feet don’t even reach the floor. She reminds me of a Munchkin. Or the Bride of Chucky.
“Jeff,” she says after the waiter has taken our order, “I
meant
it when I said I want you to feel at home here.”
I raise an eyebrow. “I’ve been coming to Provincetown for
twelve years.
I feel very at home here.”
“Of course. But I meant at Nirvana.
Our
home.”
She’s made the reference to “their” home already a couple times. Don’t think I’m not picking up on her subtle meaning.
“Thanks, Eva,” I manage to say.
“No, seriously. I really,
really
mean it. I want you to know that you are always welcome.”
The waiter places two coffees down in front of us. I drink mine black. Eva doesn’t touch hers. She just sits there, hands folded over each other on the table, staring at me with those round button eyes of hers. She’s so small it’s almost creepy—except for those bazookas she tries to hide under her heavy wool sweater. She’s so busty and short, it’s a wonder she doesn’t topple over face first when she walks down the street.
“So tell me about
you,”
she’s saying.
“What’s to tell?” I smile. “I’m sure Lloyd has told you that he’s been hounding me to get writing again.”
“I’m sure you’re a
brilliant
writer,” she says.
I look at her oddly. “Why are you so sure of that?”
“Just a hunch.”
I sip my coffee. She still hasn’t touched hers. Part of me wants to give in, to
be nice
, but I have the sense that if I open up even just a little, this lady will suck me up faster than a superpowered Hoover.
She fills up the dead air with her own voice. “There’s so much to do, getting ready for this house,” she blathers. “Permits and inspections and this and that. My head boggles sometimes. We have to go over to the bank today and open a joint checking account.” She looks at me intently. “Did you and Lloyd ever have a joint checking account when you were together?”
Okay, I admit I’m on edge, maybe even looking for things to jump on, but there’s
definitely
something behind her words.
“Did you and Lloyd ever have a joint checking account when you were together?”
The implication is that A, we no longer are, and B, Lloyd is with her, and C, their fucking joint checking account makes them a real couple. Because she surely knows damn well Lloyd and I never did have a joint checking account.
“You’re running a
business,”
I say, hoping that word forever dislodges the “our home” from her brain.
She seems, however, oblivious to my chagrin. She just goes on chattering, like Henry at a circuit party. “Well, I was just wondering how you’d suggest we
manage
it,” she says. “You know, if Lloyd prefers to keep a running balance, or if he’d just rather someone else handle those things. I don’t mind. I’m good with figures. I have a feeling Lloyd’s more a big-picture kind of man, and that’s okay, because I do best with details. That makes us a good pair, I guess. You need the big picture and you need the details and you need—”
“So how’d you find out your husband was gay?” I ask, interrupting her. “You catch him in bed with somebody?”
She seems stunned by the question. “No.” She flushes. “He just told me.”
I actually feel bad. It was an impulsive question, designed to shock, to shut her up. I soften. A little. “I’m sorry,” I say. “I didn’t mean to be so blunt.”
“That’s okay.” She quickly recovers. “You know, Lloyd is so much like Steven. Steven was a big-picture man, too. And very spiritual, like Lloyd. You don’t believe in all that, do you? Past-life regressions and psychic readings.”
What has Lloyd told her? I pride myself on passing no judgment on Lloyd’s more mystical hobbies. Sure, I might make fun of them from time to time, but I have an open mind. Why would she think I don’t
believe?
I start to tell her just that, but she’s blabbing again. “I can understand skepticism,” she says. “I was a skeptic, too, but Steven promised to communicate with me—and he
has
. Through Lloyd. Lloyd has taught me so much. I suppose that’s why we’re together now. He needed someone to share this path with him. It’s something to be shared, the journey into spirit.” She stops talking and looks over at me significantly, touching my hand. “Lloyd needed someone to
believe
in him.”
Okay, here it is. She’s crossed the line.
“Are you implying I
don’t
believe in Lloyd?”
She seems unnerved by the question. “Oh, no! Not at all! No way was I implying that, Jeff! I was just talking about myself. I wasn’t thinking about you.”
I watch her for the rest of the time. She has exactly two sips of coffee. She talks only about Lloyd: about how much he’s taught her and inspired her, how much he reminds her of Steven, how wonderful he is, how handsome. “And
gay,”
I want to add but don’t. I just nod my head. All the way back to Lloyd’s apartment she keeps chattering about him, about their future together.
“I’m still learning all of his likes and dislikes,” she gushes, a schoolgirl enthralled by the dashing quarterback. “Do you know he likes ketchup and tomato sauce but
not
fresh tomatoes themselves? Isn’t that
peculiar?”
“Yes,” I inform her. “I knew that.”
But the only thing I find peculiar about Lloyd at this particular moment is the fact that he wants to share a house with
her
.

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