Where The Boys Are (30 page)

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Authors: William J. Mann

BOOK: Where The Boys Are
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Shane looks a little awkward. “Oh. I’d love to. But actually . . . I’m here to see
Eva.
We’re having lunch.”
I just nod. But of
course.
He didn’t come to see
me;
he came to see
Eva.
I smolder as Ty and I walk down Commercial Street. I don’t say anything, but I sense he understands
exactly
what’s on my mind.
A drag queen dressed as Cher, complete with ass-revealing fishnet stockings, motors past us on her scooter. Straight tourists gasp and snap photographs as she passes. The town is alive with rainbow flags and the smell of cotton candy. A trio of lesbians in leather are listening to a woman play a gigantic harp in front of Town Hall. The summer has begun.
“You want to talk?” Ty asks finally.
I laugh. “I’m not sure what I’d say.”
“Maybe that she’s driving you a little crazy. Maybe that everywhere you turn, there she is.”
I look at him. “Let’s get a burrito.”
We each order the Saucy Tofu at Big Daddy’s, then head out to the picnic tables on the pier. Gulls alight immediately at our side, hoping for a handout.
I tell Ty a little of what’s been going on, but still I try to be respectful. I want to be appropriate. I want to respect boundaries. I want to be all the things Eva isn’t. Ty is
her
friend first, after all.
“I guess the stress of the past few months has just made me cynical,” I say. “I know viewing her every move with suspicion is unfair. Maybe I ought to give her the benefit of the doubt more often.”
“Maybe you should,” Ty responds noncommittally.
I wipe peanut sauce off my chin with a napkin. “Maybe she really
did
innocently fall asleep on my bed. She works hard. I have to give her credit. She’s up at the crack of dawn, making fabulous breakfasts for the guests. She keeps a spotless house, and pays all the bills on time. Do you know we’re already exceeding expectations and the summer has just started?”
“You’ve both worked very hard,” Ty says.
I laugh. “Maybe I’m just cranky because I miss male companionship.”
Ty makes a palms-up gesture with his hands. “I’m all yours, handsome.”
I shake my head. “I don’t think we should, Ty. She was very upset about the last time. I think it wounded her ego. She thought you were in love with her.”
“Lloyd, I’m a
gay
man. She knows that and always has known that.”
I sigh. “Well, it’s not the only delusion she’s had. But I need to respect that you’re her friend first, before me.”
“Actually, I was
Steven’s
friend. To be honest, I’ve never fully trusted Eva enough to call her a friend.”
Okay, so that nearly knocks me off my seat. I just sit there staring at him.
“I could tell you things,” Ty is saying, throwing bread to the gulls,
“that would make your hair stand on end.”
I recoil. “No, Ty. I can’t talk about her anymore. This just isn’t right.”
He shrugs. “You’re a man of great principle, Lloyd. But this isn’t just about you. You have a
business
to run.
Guests
you’re responsible for. Guests who might not come back if Eva pushes too hard.”
I look off at the bay. How peaceful it is out there. The way the boats rock lazily back and forth, the sparkle of the sunlight against the surface of the water. I can’t deny wanting to talk about all this with Ty, but neither can I ignore my discomfort. In my work with patients, I’ve always respected confidentiality to a fault. Talking about someone to a third party without speaking to them first is wrong. Just
wrong.
But Ty’s right: I need to talk to
someone
or I’ll go crazy myself.
“I just think that sometimes,” I begin, weighing my words carefully, “Eva has a little trouble with boundaries.”
“A little trouble?” Ty grins. “Dr. Griffith, you
are
discreet.”
I grow impatient. “You were there the night of the opening, Ty. Didn’t you see her with Ira?”
He sighs. “Oh, I saw her all right.
Heard
her, too. I imagine she
wanted
me to hear. After hearing
us
together several weeks earlier.”
“You think she slept with him simply to get back at us?”
Ty shrugs. “That was only part of it. She has all sorts of motivations and needs. They’re all tumbled together, bouncing off each other and working overtime—as you’ve learned.”
I feel as if I might cry all of a sudden. “But she seemed so
strong
when I met her. I saw her in action, Ty! I
saw
her with Alex—”
“Who died a few weeks ago.”
My jaw drops.
Ty nods. “Yes, he died. I called Eva to tell her.” He pauses dramatically. “She never came for the funeral.”
“Maybe... maybe it was just too hard for her. I mean, after Steven...”
“And maybe she didn’t care. Maybe she had
stopped
caring. Because there was a new man in her life to care about.”
I remember Eva telling me how she might have fallen in love with Alex. I had seen her devotion to him, seen the concern and the care on her face. And she never told me he died. She hasn’t seemed in the least affected by it. The realization hits me:
she had written him off.
She never saw him again after she left New York. She probably never even thought of him.
Because there was a new man in her life to care about.
“It’s all or nothing with Eva,” Ty says. “That’s what’s so disturbing.”
“Maybe,” I say, still searching for a way out of this, “maybe in her grief, she’s shut down parts of herself. Compartmentalized things... I mean, I
know
there’s something good and strong and wise about Eva. The talks we’ve had, the things we’ve shared...”
Ty looks at me gently. “I remember when she started volunteering. I saw that side of her, too.” He pauses, seeming to consider something. “Did you know that, as part of her volunteer efforts, Eva worked as a tutor for the New York school system?”
“No.”
I feel a chilly hand settle on my shoulder.
“She did it for about six months. Then she was asked to leave.”
I lean toward him. “Maybe I shouldn’t—”
But he won’t allow me to cut him off. “She had grown a bit, shall we say, too
attached
to one particular boy. A sixteen-year-old recovering addict. His mother put in a complaint.”
“I’m sure Eva was just—”
He levels his eyes at me. “The mother found them in bed together.”
I haven’t had sex with anyone since Steven.
“Nothing ever came of it,” Ty tells me. “She was just asked to leave.”
I know I shouldn’t have heard that. I have no right to learn of this incident without Eva’s consent. It’s in the past and I shouldn’t hold it against her. Everybody makes mistakes. There are two sides to every story.
But it sure as hell fits the pattern.
“Do you want to talk more?” Ty asks.
“No,” I say definitively. “That’s more than enough.”
He sighs. “I worry about you sometimes, Lloyd. She can be—”
“Please, Ty. No more.”
“It’s just that Steven—”
“No more!” I hold my hands up at him. “I’ll talk with her myself. Anything else that I need to know, let her tell me on her own.” I pause. “But you’re right. I do need to talk to her.”
That’s the only way. The only way this venture of ours can succeed. The only way I can stay with this and not go crazy. If she gets into therapy, really works at things, then we can still make it work.
“Speaking of talking,” Ty says, “have you had any communication with Jeff?”
I frown, puzzled at the change in topic. “No,” I tell him. “Not in a while.”
In fact, since Jeff hasn’t answered any of my E-mails in weeks, I’ve stopped trying to contact him. He must be so busy with Anthony that he can’t be bothered. I heard through the grapevine that he’s down in Pensacola, Florida, for yet another party this weekend.
“Well, I think your funk may have other causes than Eva alone,” Ty says sagely. “Maybe you’d rather we talk about
that.”
He raises his eyebrows at me again, hoping I’ll say more. But I don’t. I just can’t. Talking about Eva is upsetting enough; I can’t start thinking about Jeff, too.
“Well,” Ty says, giving up, “if you ever
do
want to talk more, please call me.” He places his hand over mine. “Remember that, okay?”
Our conversation ends there, because suddenly—speak of the devil—Eva and Shane are behind us, laughing like two schoolgirls. He’s taking her to Tea Dance, he explains, and Drake is meeting them later for dinner. Eva’s wearing zebra-print spandex to complement Shane’s leotard; her fleshy thighs are exposed for all to see. Needless to say, I decline their invitation to join them. I turn down Ty’s offer for dinner, too. I just rent
All About Eve,
watching it alone in my room. I miss Javitz more than I’ve ever missed him before.
A Few Days Later, Mike’s Gym, Boston
Henry
T
here’s no place to hide. Jeff has spotted me. I finish the last of my curls and set the barbell back on the rack.
“I returned your call,” I say, a preemptive strike, even before Jeff has reached me.
He just smirks. “Yeah. A day later.”
I try to smile. “The flowers were beautiful, Jeff. Thanks. I appreciated them.”
“So you said in your message.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Jeff, don’t give me attitude. I
called you back.
The ball’s been in your court, and I haven’t heard back from you.”
Jeff sits down on the bench. “I’ve been in a weird space.”
I try not to react. No, my first reaction is not what you’re thinking. I
don’t
want to put my arms around him and cajole him into telling me what’s wrong. That was the old Henry. The new Henry takes one look at Jeff’s woebegone face and begins thinking up excuses to rush off. I’m
through
letting Jeff O’Brien drag me down. I’m
finished
being his wailing wall, his punching bag. I don’t want to hear any more details about how much he misses Lloyd or how confused he is about Anthony.
Jeff and his men
is a topic that has ceased to hold any interest for me.
But I find I can’t rush off. Maybe the flowers he sent have softened me up a little. I sit down beside him and look into his eyes. God, I hate to see that look there. Every now and again, Jeff gets that look, all lost and ragged-looking, with dark circles under his eyes. Usually it’s when he’s blue about Lloyd, or near the anniversary of their friend Javitz’s death. It makes me weak to look at it. God, I hate feeling weak around Jeff.
“What’s up?” I ask despite myself. “What’s going on?”
He sighs, looking over at me. “I found out some stuff about Anthony.”
“What did he tell you?”
He shakes his head. “I found out on my own.”
Just then some muscle queen taps me on the shoulder, wanting the bench, so I suggest to Jeff we move over to the corner to talk. The gym is packed, as it usually is this time of evening, pulsing with the aroma of perspiration and lubricating oils. It’s a smell I’ve come to find strangely comforting—strange because that very same odor had so oppressed me in high school. I smile at familiar faces as we walk across the gym, but Jeff barely seems to notice them. He just leans against the wall, folding his arms across his chest.
I lean in beside him. “What is it, Jeff? What did you find out?”
He looks me straight in the eyes. “The guy in the photo, remember? Robert Riley? He was
killed.
Murdered. A gay-bashing. And Anthony
lived
with him.”
“No shit.”
Jeff nods. “Anthony would have been fifteen or sixteen. I don’t know why he was living with the guy. The newspaper accounts just called him a roommate.”
“Code for lover?”
Jeff shrugs. “Maybe. But the guy was in his thirties. And Anthony just a kid.”
“So? That’s not so unheard of.”
“But he wasn’t even of legal age,” Jeff says, clearly not satisfied with the scenario. “All I can figure is that the guy must have taken him in. Maybe Anthony got kicked out of his parents’ house. Maybe he was having sex with the guy and maybe he wasn’t. The point is, Robert Riley clearly
meant
something to him, if he still carries his picture around. And the guy was murdered in an antigay crime.”
“Matthew Shepard,” I say.
“What?”
“Remember how Anthony reacted to the PSA on Matthew Shepard. He was really affected by it. No wonder.”
“Yeah.” Jeff looks off into space. “No wonder.”
I sigh. The news makes me feel gentler toward him, and toward Anthony. “It must have been really hard for him,” I say, “being so young and the guy getting killed.” I think of something. “But didn’t Anthony say he’d just come out some time last year? And that he’d never been in a relationship?”
“Yeah,” Jeff says. “That’s what he said.”
“So he must have been lying.”
Jeff sighs. “I gue
s.”
I consider something. “Unless he didn’t view himself as gay then. Maybe the guy wasn’t a lover. And maybe his murder so traumatized Anthony that it really
did
take him all this time to come out.”
It seems logical to me. I feel as if I’ve solved the mystery square on its head, but all Jeff does is put his hands in front of his face and sigh once again.
“So what’s the matter?” I ask. “What’s eating you up?”
He looks at me as if it were obvious. And maybe it is. Maybe I’ve just so detached myself from Jeff’s life that I fail to see it.
“What’s
eating me up,
Henry,” he says, a little impatiently, “is that he’s never talked to me about it. And I can’t let him know what I know without revealing that I went behind his back. We went down to Pensacola for the Memorial Day party, and it was awful. I could barely look at him the whole time. I’m sure he sensed something was up.”
My heart tugs, just a little. I hadn’t even known Jeff had gone to Pensacola. Last year we’d gone together. I try not to dwell on it, to just stay in the moment. “So what did you do?” I ask. “Go back into the old Chicago newspapers?”
“Not quite.” Jeff smiles slightly. “Here’s the really ironic part. All this happened not twenty miles from where I grew up in Connecticut.”
“Connecticut?
How did Anthony get to Connecticut?”
Jeff shrugs again. “I don’t know. But that’s where Riley was murdered. Where Anthony was living with him.”
“So you must remember this case, then, if it happened so close to you.”
“No. I’d already left for college in Boston. But I asked my sister about it. She remembered it vaguely. It was the first big gay story to hit all the Connecticut papers. Apparently, it motivated activists in the state to form an antiviolence project and ultimately led to the legislature passing a hate crimes bill.”
“So it was pretty big. They caught the killers, then?”
“Yep.” Jeff’s face clouds over. “The usual suspects. Straight high school kids who went out looking for fags to beat up. Shining stars of American malehood.”
“Poor Anthony.”
Jeff stretches. “Yeah. So I just have to figure how to process all of it.” He bends over, trying to touch his toes, but fails. “Oh, man. I’ve been out of the gym a whole frigging week. I need a workout something
bad.
”
I smile. “You look fine, Jeff. I thought you said you’d work on that body image of yours.”
He smiles back at me. It’s good to see him smile. “So, buddy,” he says, “you want to grab something to eat with me after this?”
I sigh. “Oh, Jeff, I’m sorry. I have—plans.”
He just smiles and holds up his hand in a “Say no more” gesture. He moves off toward the treadmill. Halfway there, he turns around and says, “Thanks for listening, buddy.”
My heart breaks watching him walk away. I can’t deny there’s still a very large part of me that wants to sit with Jeff all night, consoling him, making him laugh, making him forget his troubles. But that isn’t my job. It never should have been. I have another job now, and a new client. A new,
very wealthy
client on Comm Ave.
I turn and head into the locker room. I check the mirror to see if I’m sufficiently pumped. I flex quickly before anyone spots me. Yes, I look good.
I step into the shower and let the spray hit me full force. I need to invigorate myself, psych myself up for the job. It’s been a while since I’ve taken on any new clients. I can handle the regulars; I know what they want; I’ve got it down to a routine. But new clients take a little more motivation. I have to admit that the edge is off my escorting. Whereas in the beginning it was hot, risky, exciting, empowering, now it’s different. Some encounters still leave me as satisfied as ever, seeing the gratitude on the face of my client. But other times I just feel weary, and going back to my empty apartment I just flop on my bed and fall asleep in Hank’s clothes. Sometimes I don’t even bother to shower until the next morning. I know: how gross is
that?
Maybe it’s the spring, when young men’s thoughts turn to love, or however that old saying goes. Maybe it’s the fact that, without Jeff to occupy my every waking moment, I’ve come to realize just how alone I really am. I want a boyfriend. A husband. Is that so much?
I think maybe I should get a dog.
I step out of the shower and towel myself dry. At the sink, I cup some water in my hands and use it to swallow a little blue pill Shane secured for me. Viagra. “Don’t take it if you’re using poppers,” he instructed. I was a little skittish about admitting I needed it—after all, Hank is such a
stud—
but lately a little lift has been helpful. Me and Bob Dole, something in common. Who knew?
I look at myself in the mirror. I try to see Hank standing there, but all I can glimpse is Henry Weiner. I’m up for a promotion at work: a little more responsibility for a whole lot more money. If I get the promotion, which seems a shoo-in, will I continue escorting? It’s never just been about the money, I know, but the extra cash has been a good rationale for continuing. I sit down on the bench and pull on clean Calvin Klein boxer briefs, the precise brand and style my client asked for. I sigh and begin rolling on my socks.
“Hey, best friend!” The voice of Brent suddenly breaks the silence of the locker room. He drops his gym bag beside me. “You coming or going?”
“Going,” I tell him.
“Oh. Too bad. Thought we could spot each other.” Brent pulls off his shirt, revealing his awesome physique. I wonder again if Brent takes steroids. It wouldn’t surprise me, and might even account for his mood swings and the sprinkling of acne across his shoulders.
“Here’s a funny story, speaking of spotting,” Brent’s saying, chattering along as if he doesn’t have a care in the world. And maybe he doesn’t. “The other day I was at the bench press and I say to this guy, ‘Hey, will you spot me?’ And he says, ‘Baby, I spotted you the moment you came through that door!’ ”
He erupts into his high-pitched laugh. I just smile a little wearily. I watch him step into his gym shorts. “So you going to Gay Disney?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nope.”
“Is Jeff?”
I stop as I’m tying my shoes. “Gee,” I have to admit, “I don’t know.”
“Well,
I’m
not.” Brent moves in closer to me on the bench. “Don’t you want to know
why,
Henry?”
I smile. “Even if I didn’t, you’d tell me anyway.”
“Of course. Because we’re
best friends.”
He grins madly. “And I want you to be the
first
to know.” He grabs me by the shoulders. “Henry, I’ve
met
someone! And this one is going to
last,
I can just tell!”
I manage a smile. “Good for you, Brent.”
“I know you think I’m just being excitable, that you’ve seen me like this a hundred times. But this is
different,
Henry.
Very
different.” Brent beams. “He’s
totally
not into the scene. No drugs. Nothing!”
“Nothing?”
“Nothing more than a beer once in a while. A real guy.
Hates
the club scene. Wouldn’t be caught
dead
at a circuit party.”
I stand. “You seem to have so much in common.”
Brent stands to face me. “That’s just
it,
Henry. We
do.”
He draws closer. “Since you’re my best friend now, I’ll let you in on a little secret. I’ve been wanting to retire from the scene for a while now. You can’t keep at it forever, you know. You’ll end up looking like what’s-his-name—you know, the one we always made fun of? Kenneth! How
tragic
is he?”
I cringe. If Brent only knew I see Kenneth once a week, dancing for him, making his dreams of relevance come true, even if for a night.
“And with
Jorge,”
Brent continues, “I’ve found a
companion.
Someone to come
home
to.”

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