Where The Boys Are (29 page)

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Authors: William J. Mann

BOOK: Where The Boys Are
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My mouth opens in surprise.
“Oh, but I do. I remember you very well, sitting over there, reading all day, when you could’ve been outside playing with the other boys. I pegged you then as a special one. One who was going to go
far
in life.” She winks at me.
I smile. “I was always harassing you for books from the special collections.”
“That you were.” She removes her glasses to look up at me. “And don’t think I didn’t notice when your byline started appearing in various places. I took some pride in that, thinking maybe those afternoons here in the library had helped get you to where you are.”
I nod. “They
did,
Miss Crenshaw. They certainly did.”
She beams. “I especially enjoyed that piece you did in
The Advocate
a while back on elderly lesbians. Thought it was right on target.” She looks at me significantly, her old eyes twinkling. “I convinced the board to finally subscribe to
The Advocate
after that. Now anybody can read it over in Periodicals.
Anybody.
”
I feel my throat tighten a little. How awesome would
that
have been for my ten-year-old self?
“Here you go, Jeffrey,” Miss Crenshaw is saying. “I hope this means you’re researching another fine article. Or a
book.
I would
love
to catalog a book from Jeffrey O’Brien on these shelves someday before I retire.”
I take the volumes from her. “Thank you, Miss Crenshaw. Maybe you will.”
Yeah. Maybe she will at that.
“But do me a favor,” she says. “Don’t be one of those writers who gets all sensitive and prickly when someone calls you a
gay author.
Whenever I hear someone bitching about how the label limits them, or ghettoizes them, well, I just want to slap them upside the head.”
I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. Miss Crenshaw just gives me a look. “It’s just such a culture-hating thing to say,” she says. “Don’t be like that, Jeffrey. Now go do your research.” She turns back to her computer.
I’m smiling all the way over to the table, where I sit down and open the index in front of me. Very quickly I find what I’m looking for.
And then some.
Robert Riley is indeed listed in the index.
September 15, 1986: RILEY, ROBERT. Man found
bludgeoned to death in yard. A-14: 3–5 (photo).
But there’s more, too: a whole list of related articles about the investigation into the death and the arrest of suspects, continuing through December. I eagerly pull over the Index for 1987, and sure enough, the stories continue. Almost a year after the murder, sentencing was held for the two killers. Ortiz and Murphy were their names. They pled guilty; one got thirty-five years; the other turned state’s evidence and got twenty.
My mouth is as dry as if I’d had three hits of X. I can hear my heart beating in my ears.
Robert Riley was murdered.
Even before I know for certain, I intuit a gay-bashing. I copy down the notations from the index and hurry over to the metal cabinet that contains the rolls of newspaper microfilm. I locate the correct reels and slide open the drawer. It makes a loud squeak, causing several people at nearby tables to lift their eyes from their books and glare over at me. Miss Crenshaw puts her finger to her mouth. I carefully extract the reels I need.
Into the microfilm reader I maneuver the film. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve done any research, but I still remember how the thing works. I can’t deny how pumped I am. It’s always like this when I find myself hot on the lead of a good story. Except this isn’t an assignment for
The Advocate or The Boston Globe.
This is about
Anthony.
Anthony’s
life.
I stop. I sit back in my chair. Can I really do this? I swore off it, not wanting to go behind Anthony’s back. He said he’d tell me when he could. I promised myself not to snoop.
But I
have
to know. Lloyd’s belief in fate has rubbed off on me: I was
meant
to realize the
Courant
connection. That’s why I’m here at the library today. I was
meant
to find this information. All sorts of questions suddenly flood my mind. The bus schedule I’d found, making me consider that Anthony’s overnight disappearances weren’t in Boston. Did he come here, to Connecticut?
I can’t stop now. I
have
to find out why he carries Riley’s picture. I begin turning the crank on the microfilm reader as fast as I can, watching the edges of the film for the date. Finally, there it is. Monday, September 15.
I make a small gasp. There, staring out at me, is the same photo that Anthony keeps laminated in his wallet. Robert Riley, smiling and staring at me.
A West Hartford attorney was found bludgeoned to death in his front yard early Sunday morning. Police are looking for two suspects a neighbor saw fleeing the scene several hours earlier.
Robert Riley, 36, was pronounced dead at the scene after a call was made to state police by his newspaper carrier, who discovered the body facedown in the grass at 6:55 Sunday morning. Mr. Riley’s head had been repeatedly struck with a blunt object, and his mouth and hands were bound with duct tape.
A neighbor, Mrs. Franklin Toomey, told police she was awakened by the sounds of shouting around 2:00
A.M.
, and observed two persons running through Mr. Riley’s yard. They drove off in what she described as a “white two-door vehicle.”
Police at this time have no suspects and are not speculating on a possible motive for Mr. Riley’s death.
Mr. Riley was a well-regarded corporate attorney, working for such clients as Aetna and the Travelers. Friends are remembering him today as a committed, caring community member.
Riley was recently recognized with a community service award from Junior Achievement for volunteering his time teaching about the law to students at Lewis Fox Middle School in Hartford.
Riley was a bachelor who had “many friends and no enemies,” according to his roommate, Anthony Sabe.
I sit back in my chair hard, as if I’d been pushed.
“Anthony,” I whisper.
After that, I can’t read straight. I keep trying to finish the article but can’t seem to focus.
His roommate, Anthony Sabe.
But Anthony would have been only sixteen.
Roommate?
He cared about young people.
What does it mean?
I think of one other thing.
I’m the same age as Robert Riley when he was killed.
“Unca Jeff!”
I look up, startled. Jeffy’s been crying. His little checks are red and blotchy.
“Unca Jeff,” he sobs. “Charlotte
died!”
“Yeah, I know, buddy,” I say, trying to bring myself back to his reality. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” he says, drying his eyes as I put my arms around him. “It was just a story.” He’s talking loud, but then remembers he’s in a library. He cups his hands to his mouth and whispers: “And besides, she left lots of babies to keep Wilbur company.”
I kiss the top of his head. “Yes, he’ll always have them.”
He grins, moving from sad to glad effortlessly, as only children can do. “Mommy said we’ll meet you in the car,” he chirps. “Okay?”
“Okay,” I manage to reply. The boy runs outside, Miss Crenshaw cautioning him to take it slow. I turn back to the microfilm reader, in somewhat of a daze. I quickly find the next article, not stopping to read it, just hitting the PRINT button on the reader. I find each successive story listed in the index and print them all, right up through the sentencing of the killers. It costs me $3.20, ten cents a page. I hand the money over to Miss Crenshaw, who places it in a little box on her desk.
“Don’t forget, now,” she tells me. “I want to see a book from you one of these days.”
I smile but say nothing. Outside the library, the sun is low in the sky. It’s still warm, and the leaves have popped on all of the trees, tender and bright and green. I punch in Henry’s number on my cell phone, desperate to share all this with someone, but of course all I get is a message that “Hank” is unavailable and to leave a message. I do, begging him to call me back
right away,
but of course, it’ll be over twenty-four hours before Henry returns the call.
By then, I know so much more.
Memorial Day Weekend, Nirvana
Lloyd
I
t’s an awesome start to our first summer season. A beautiful warm day, the sky an unbroken umbrella of blue. In the harbor, dozens of white sailboats dot the turquoise bay, and the street is thronged with tourists. Ty is one of our guests for the weekend, surprising us by filling the house with the most fragrant white lilies I’ve ever smelled. He also left a single red rose on my pillow. If not for all the complications in my life, I might welcome his persistent advances. But as it is, I simply said good night and shook his hand when it was time to go to bed last night.
Now it’s Friday morning, and I’m sitting in our office, behind the front desk, going over the payroll account. We’ve hired three houseboys to help run the place. Believe me, we need them. Poaching eggs, flipping pancakes, washing linens, turning mattresses, changing sheets, and folding towels for four or five visitors each week was one thing. Doing it for ten to fifteen people
per day
is quite another.
We’re booked to capacity for the whole holiday weekend, and despite our
NO VACANCY
sign out front, bedraggled tourists still wander in, asking if we’ve had any cancellations.
I hear the bell on the front door tinkle; another forlorn lot of bad planners, I presume. “Just a minute,” I call.
“Take your time,” comes the reply.
I know the voice. I try to place it, then shake my head in disbelief. I walk out front.
“Innkeeping becomes you, Lloyd. You took great.”
Drake.
“Thanks,” I say, a little wary. Two cloth suitcases sit at his feet.
“I was
thrilled
that you had a room available at the last minute,” he says, leaning in over the counter. “My lucky day.”
“Drake, I’m afraid to say your luck has run out. I don’t have a reservation for you, and we are completely full.”
He smiles. “Not according to your partner, you aren’t.”
I frown. “Eva? When did you talk to her?”
“A couple of days ago. At first, she told me you were booked, but then I reminded her how we’d met at the opening party, and she suddenly said there was a room.” He smiles. “It’s a beautiful day out there, Lloyd. Maybe I can persuade you to take a break and join me on my boat?” His eyes twinkle. “Did I mention I bought a boat?”
“No,” I say. “You didn’t mention that.” I hold up my hand to him. “Wait a second, okay?” I pick up the phone and press Eva’s extension. She answers cheerily. “Eva,” I ask, keeping my voice level, “could you come down to the front desk, please?”
I hang up and look over at Drake. “I’m being up front with you here, Drake. I don’t know why she said we had a room. We just
don’t.
We’ve been booked solid for months, and there have been no cancellations.”
He shrugs, seeming so fucking cocky in the belief that I’ll be eventually proven wrong. Eva comes down the stairs. When she spots Drake, she beams, rushing over to embrace him tightly. “How
good
it is to see you again,” she enthuses.
“And you, too, Eva,” he says. “Now, maybe you can explain to our friend here that you really
did
find a room for me.”
She lets him go and turns to look at me. “I did. Come into the office with me for a moment, Lloyd. I’ll show you which one on the house diagram. Drake, we’ll be right back.”
He gives us a jaunty little salute.
Eva closes the door behind us. “Lloyd, I cleared out
my
room so he’d have a place to stay.”
“Your
room? Eva, that’s crazy! You can’t give up your room!”
She offers a brave little self-sacrificing smile. “It’s okay. He’s your friend. I’d like to do it for you.”
I’m flabbergasted. “This is absurd. Where were you thinking
you’d
sleep?”
“In the attic.”
“The attic!
With the
houseboys?”
“There’s an extra cot,” she says simply.
I grip her by the shoulders. “Listen to me. I don’t
want
Drake here! Do you understand? He wants to see me romantically, and I’m just not interested.”
“Oh.” Her brow furrows. “I see.”
I sigh. “You need to explain to him that you made a mistake.”
She looks at me with some anxiety. “Oh, I can’t do that, Lloyd. Everything’s booked up all over town. He came down here expecting a room.” She puts a hand on her forehead. “Oh, dear, I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I? It was just that when he said he was your friend, I figured you’d be
glad
to see him.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about it?”
She smiles wanly. “He thought we ought to surprise you.”
I just shake my head.
Her smile changes a little. Suddenly she looks more sassy than distressed, as if she’s just thought of a plan. “Well, you don’t have to worry about him, Lloyd. I promise I will keep him away from you.”
“Eva, we have a houseful of guests. You can’t be patrolling Drake all weekend.”
She grinned. “I’ll get him to take me out on his boat. He told me all about it when we talked. That will keep him occupied for at least half a day.” She looks off in the direction of the door. “He is awfully handsome, isn’t he?”
I look at her sharply. “Oh, is
that
what you’re thinking?” I lean down close into her face. “Do you want to sleep with
him,
too? Not all gay men are as easy marks as Ira, you know.”
Okay. I suppose I need to take a breather here. Just talking about it gets me worked up. Because ever since that night I walked in on her and Ira, things just haven’t been the same between Eva and me. All of my old fears about her state of mind have been revived. When I confronted her about Ira, she acted surprised that I knew, and immediately burst into tears. She claimed she’d just gone in to check on him and discovered him lonely and depressed, and they’d started talking, and before she knew it they were kissing, and well, one thing led to another....
“But he’s a gay man, for God’s sake!”
“I know, I know,” she said, tears dripping off her chin. “He said I was the first woman he’d slept with in fifteen years!”
“Are you planning on seeing him again?” I asked.
She was trembling. “No. Not if you think I shouldn’t.”
I sighed. “You can’t be seducing guests, Eva.”
She burst into a new torrent of tears. I found myself consoling her. “Did you at least use a condom?” I asked.
“No,” she whimpered, and that set off a round of paranoia and a long discussion of safer sex. She hadn’t had sex since Steven, she said. She should have known better.
“It will never happen again,” she promised shamefacedly. “Even though I think Ira has feelings for me ...”
Even though he’s a gay man.
I needed to talk with someone, so I described the situation to a friend, a therapist practicing here on the Cape. Without naming any names, I asked her what diagnosis she might make in this case.
“From what you’re telling me, I’d say this person is a little delusional,” my friend told me. “There’s definitely a personality disorder. She might even be borderline.”
I shuddered. No, that much isn’t possible. I’m a trained psychologist. I’d have recognized a borderline personality. There’s
no way
I could have missed that.
No way? None at all? I force myself to remember what my own frame of mind had been like when I met Eva. I was depressed myself, drowning in my own confusion and grief. I was looking for a lifesaver, and it seemed that Eva tossed one in the water for me to grab on to. When you’re
this close
to drowning, you don’t take the time to inspect the thing to see if it has any holes.
What makes this even more troubling is the fact that I’m starting to think Eva
lies
to me. I don’t think she’s in therapy. She said she was, but I don’t think she went
for even one session.
In the past couple of months, she’s rarely been far from my side: if she’s been seeing somebody regularly, I can’t imagine
when.
She’s never talked about her therapy, either, and for someone who discloses as easily and as often as she does, I tend to think that’s significant. No, I don’t think she’s in therapy, and that troubles me a great deal.
But if she
is
personality disordered, then so much of what I’ve been observing makes sense. Every male guest—gay or straight, young or old—has been practically smothered with attention from Eva. Some love it, singing her praises and promising they’ll return for more. Others seem puzzled by it, often finding themselves trapped for hours looking at her scrapbooks and listening to her stories. One night I came downstairs to find her on the couch with a very handsome guest in his forties, and she was crying. The man was consoling her about something. I just bit my lip and walked back upstairs.
It’s as if she’s this black hole of emotion, sucking into her void every male who happens to cross her path. I ponder my evolving diagnosis. Just suppose those bedtimes with Daddy weren’t as innocent as she makes out. Sexual abuse would help to explain a good deal of her behavior. I’m beginning to feel Eva’s dependence on me isn’t just about her grief over Steven’s death. It goes back much farther than that.
I don’t know what to do, how much more I can take. Every time I turn around these days, there she is. Forget the solitary walks along the breakwater I once so treasured. Now a quiet half hour alone in my room is hard enough to achieve.
Can I talk to you just a minute, Lloyd?
I’m sorry to bother you, Lloyd.
I don’t know how to fix the toaster, Lloyd.
Lloyd, can you take a look at this, please?
I am so frazzled, Lloyd. I need a shoulder to cry on.
Please???
Her clever little machinations to coerce what she needs from me have only increased. Like that day of the opening, when she’d
supposedly
twisted her ankle. I wonder about that now. Then there was the fainting spell at the Unitarian Meeting House, where I carried her downstairs and tenderly placed a cold cloth on her head. A few nights later there was an episode of sleepwalking. I found her staring out from the front door in her nightgown and gently escorted her back to her room. “Thank you, Lloyd,” she said as I tucked her in. “Thank you for taking care of me.”
Another evening she sat on my bed, talking dreamily and playing with her hair, eventually falling asleep, apparently hoping I’d simply crawl in next to her. No, thanks. I’m not Ira.
This
gay man does not sleep with women. I took my pillow and headed down to the couch.
It’s you she wants. Not a guest house in Provincetown. You could be opening up a laundromat together and she’d be just as into it.
“Lloyd?”
I blink. She’s looking up at me with those big round eyes.
“Lloyd, what do you want to do about Drake? I’ll do whatever you say.”
I give in. She wins. She convinces me that we simply can’t turn him away; he does indeed take her room. But I can’t bear the thought of her sleeping up in the attic with three randy houseboys. I give her my bed, and instead, it’s
me
who climbs the ladder up to the attic and takes the cot beside Ian, Justin, and José. Queer, isn’t it? I trust
myself
with them more than I do her.
The next day I barricade myself in the office, not wanting to run into anyone. But forget that: there’s always
somebody
knocking at the door.
Around noon I hear a voice. “Lloyd?”
I look up. It’s Ty. I give him a small smile.
“I had dinner with your friend Drake last night,” he says. “What a charmer.”
I shrug. “If you say so.”
Ty smirks. “I tried to show him some charm myself, but all he wanted to talk about was you.” He stares down at me. “Not that I blame him.”
I run a hand over my buzzed head. “Ty, I’m kind of swamped with work right now....”
He moves around behind me and begins giving me a shoulder massage. “You’re missing a fabulous day. Can I entice you into a walk?”
“Really, I can’t—”
“Just to clear your head. Get out of this place for a while.” He pauses. “Before Eva gets back from the grocery store.”
I look up at him. He raises his eyebrows.
“Yeah,” I say. “A walk might do me good.”
We’re on our way out the door when we run into Shane coming up the front steps. He’s dressed in a pair of leopard-print Lycra shorts and a Bundeswehr tanktop. I like Shane. He’s not filled with attitude the way so many of Jeff’s circuit friends are.
“Hey,” I greet him. “In town for the weekend?”
“Sure am,” he says, snapping his fingers like a drag queen. “Kickin’ off the season!”
“And in
style,”
I say. He pirouettes for us. “We’re going for a walk,” I tell him. “Care to join us?”

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