Eye Contact (20 page)

“But I will say this: It involves the Z-person. And I’m scared. So get your ass up here.
Ciao
.” There’s a click, then a dial tone. The machine shuts off, signaling with a series of beeps that there are no more messages.

Manning and Neil stare at each other in silence for a few seconds. Neil asks, “What do you make of that?”

“For starters,” says Manning, “the Z-person is obviously Zarnik.”

“Obviously.”

“As for the rest, it all sounds pretty goofy.”

“Sure does,” says Neil, “but she was clearly upset, and Rox is as levelheaded as they come.”

“Now that she’s sober.” Manning adds, “Just kidding.” He pauses in thought for a moment. When he speaks, his tone has turned serious. “There’s something I haven’t told you about the files I found in Cliff Nolan’s desk yesterday.”

Neil draws his brows together. “What? You told me he was keeping embarrassing dossiers on people. Cliff was a cad. So?”

Manning looks Neil in the eye. “One of those files pertained to Carl Creighton.”

Neil’s astonished look asks for details.

“The file indicated that Cliff had recently met with Carl, and there were notes containing cryptic references to dates thirty years ago when they were both apparently students at the University of Chicago. My
impression
was that there may have been a cheating scandal.”

“Uh-oh.”

“Uh-oh is right. Carl’s file was only one among dozens that Cliff kept, so I convinced myself that I needn’t be concerned about it. But now these developments with Roxanne. …”

Neil sits on the stool next to Manning’s and spreads his towel on the counter, folding it into progressively smaller rectangles. “So,” he asks, “are you going?”

Manning exhales a noisy, frustrated sigh. He taps a finger on the schedule he’s been drafting. “This is exactly the time when I can’t afford to drop everything and spend a day or two at a resort just because a friend wants to ‘talk.’ Then, too, she raised some enticing possibilities, and she’s not willing to elaborate on the phone, so I guess I’d better go. Funny,” he says, laughing more at the irony than at the humor of the situation, “Nathan Cain all but ordered me to do some traveling this week.”

“What’s left to decide?” Neil asks, unfolding the towel and smoothing its creases with his palms. “Looks like you’re getting a little vacation sooner than you thought.”

“Hey.” Manning’s eyes widen. “Come with me. You could use a little time off.”

“Not now I couldn’t,” Neil dismisses the suggestion. “These days, I barely have time to eat, let alone travel. Don’t get me wrong—I’d love to tag along, and I certainly don’t care for the notion of you and Roxanne spending a night alone together.”

Manning chortles. “Come on. You know she’s safe with
me.
”

“Most likely,” Neil admits, “but I’m not at all convinced you’re safe with
her
.”

“Oh …” says Manning. Neil has a point. It was Roxanne who first brought Manning and Neil together, a social courtesy never meant to lead to romance. To the contrary, she had for some time entertained the notion of her own carnal involvement with both men. Her fantasies had been doomed from the start, but the hopelessness of her plan was not fully evident till she witnessed firsthand a budding friendship, the seeds of which she herself had planted.

She did not deal well with what she’d wrought, so she attempted, only two weeks after bringing them together, to drive them apart. The same morning that Neil returned home to Phoenix from Chicago (his visit cut short by a drunken fight that Roxanne picked with him), she seduced Manning. His sexual history to that point, though sporadic and unsatisfying, had been strictly straight. When Roxanne lured him to her bed that morning, she assumed she had triumphed. Manning willingly capitulated, but their sex was cold and loveless, motivated by frustration. As Manning fucked her, he fantasized about Neil, and he then knew that his life would change. It would be months before he would summon the courage to act upon his desires with Neil, but ironically, it was that last intimacy with Roxanne—plotted to confirm his heterosexuality—that sent him down a different path, one that would change the very core of his self-identity.

It was a change that he had feared. He sensed that it might be coming, and he spoke of it openly with Neil one night when they first had the opportunity to stop flirting and get physical. Instead, they talked. Manning was faced with a “label crisis,” as he called it. He was terrified by the names that have been used to label people like Neil, and he couldn’t fathom taking actions that would attach those labels to himself. Ultimately, though, his own sense of honesty and self-worth won out, and he answered the calling that spoke from within him to love another man—a particular man—Neil. The labels didn’t kill him. In fact, he has been enriched beyond measure by the new identity he feared.

Now, this evening, he wonders how Neil can possibly worry that Roxanne might come between them. He rises from the stool where he has been sitting and steps behind Neil, wrapping both arms around him. He says into Neil’s ear, “Do you seriously think that I could ever stop loving you?”

“No.” Neil lolls his head back, tucking it next to Manning’s neck. “But I’ve known Rox a lot longer than you have. She likes to get what she wants. And she’s always wanted you.”

“We can’t always have what we want,” Manning reminds him.

Neil swivels the stool to face Manning, laughing. “She’s a strong-willed woman,” he says. Then he adds, “Look, it’s not that I think you would ever succumb to her charms, and I doubt if she’d even try it, but I know she’d be
thinking
it, so why create a situation that invites that kind of friction?”

“Because,” says Manning, “it’s important that I go up there. I’ve asked you along—you’re welcome to chaperon—but you’re busy. What am I supposed to do?”

Neil stands. “Take David.”

“That’s not a good idea,” Manning responds flatly, without thinking twice.

“Why not? He’s your ‘assistant.’ Cain’s told you to follow every lead. Take him along—he’d enjoy it.”

“I’m sure,” says Manning, more to himself. Then, incredulous, he asks Neil, “You mean to tell me that you’re reluctant to have me spend a night in Door County with Roxanne, but you’re willing to send me up there with
David
?”

Neil answers nonchalantly, “Rox’ll keep an eye on you. If anything happens, I’ll hear about it.” He laughs. “Seriously, though. We both find David attractive—who wouldn’t?—but we know he’s off-limits. It’s not as if you’re
interested
in him. Are you?”

“Of course not,” Manning tries to answer honestly. “Well … in the abstract, I suppose.”

“Then what’s the problem?”

Manning turns and ambles toward the central space of the loft, straining to mask the wariness of his reply. “There’s no problem. No, I guess not.”

A
T FIVE-THIRTY TUESDAY MORNING
, the sun has risen, but the city sleeps. Manning’s brain is off somewhere on planet Zarnik, where he runs, spinning the orb beneath his feet in hopeless pursuit of the horizon, like a schizoid rodent on a treadmill. Overhead, pink clouds alternately glow and dim with the ceaseless rise and set of a faraway starlike sun. His mind is addled. He thinks of nothing. And then a bitsy beeping noise begins to penetrate his ears, needling his consciousness. What is that?

The clock at his bedside, a travel alarm, was set the night before to rouse him at this early hour. He didn’t want to fuss with the clock radio, leaving it programmed to wake Neil later at their usual time, to the classical music of their usual station. Manning is not quite awake yet, but he knows he should silence the alarm before it gets louder and disturbs Neil. He reaches for the clock, but can’t remember how to turn it off. Fumbling with it, he knocks it off the table. It lands on the carpet with a thump, and the beeping stops. The bed shakes gently as Neil suppresses a laugh.

“Sorry, kiddo,” Manning whispers to him.

“That’s okay,” Neil whispers back. “I was awake. Lots on my mind.” He rolls over, resting the length of his body against Manning’s, then kisses him. He whispers, “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Manning replies, full-voice.

“Shhh.” Neil’s fingers cover Manning’s mouth. “You’ll wake the baby.”

They look at each other with a mischievous grin. Like kids on Christmas morning, they scramble out of bed and pad over to the edge of the balcony, peering down into the main space of the loft. There, sprawled atop a sofa, side-lit by the eastern windows, sleeps the buffed young body of David Bosch. He has kicked away makeshift bedding during the night and scrunches a pillow, rump in the air. He wears boxers, a tank top, and white socks.

Hubba-hubba. Neil turns to Manning. “If we hadn’t cranked the air-conditioning, we’d be ogling more flesh and less fiber right now. If you manage to get a look at that body, I want every detail.”

Manning gives him a thumbs-up.

The cub reporter landed on their couch as the result of last night’s phone calls, planning the quick trip to Door County. Manning first phoned the resort to confirm his reservation and to secure lodging for two—no problem, their deluxe cabin would have two bedrooms. He also received the desk clerk’s message from Roxanne, suggesting he arrive before noon, stay Tuesday night, and leave early Wednesday. The drive takes about five hours, so he would need to get an early start.

Then he phoned David. As Neil predicted, he was thrilled to be included, but lamented the need to rise so early. His apartment’s air-conditioning has been ineffective against the recent heat (“It needs a fresh shot of Freon or whatever”), so he hasn’t been sleeping well (“I’ll be a zombie in the morning”). Neil proposed the obvious solution. If David spent the night at the loft, he’d sleep more comfortably, and he and Manning could get an earlier start together.

So later that evening, duffle in hand, David Bosch arrived. The three talked awhile, then Neil offered drinks. To Manning’s relief—he didn’t want a replay of David’s party behavior—their houseguest responded, “Maybe just a nightcap. I want to be fresh tomorrow.” And everyone was tucked in by eleven.

Now Neil tells Manning, “I’ll get the coffee going.” He throws on a bathrobe and heads down the stairs, then turns back, adding, “You can get started in the bathroom. I’ll wake the child.”

“Be nice.” Manning wags a finger. “I have to work with that ‘child.’” And he snatches his own robe, heading for the shower.

Downstairs, Neil circles the sofa, drinking in different perspectives of David’s repose. Even flumped there in his underwear, face smooshed, limbs flailed, the kid personifies beauty. And he’s no kid—he’s twenty-four, he’s played the field. Neil leans over the back of the sofa. “David?” he says gently.

But David doesn’t stir.

Neil moves to the front of the sofa and squats there, almost stepping on David’s glasses, which were set on the floor. Neil picks them up and examines them. Armani—nice, very nice. David’s face is inches from Neil’s. “David?” Still no response. So Neil shakes his shoulder. “
David
.”

“Huh?” David wakes with a start, bleary-eyed. Disoriented by the surroundings, he struggles to focus on the man at his side who is backlit by the big windows.

Neil slips the glasses onto David’s head, hooking them behind his ears. Neil’s fingers stall long enough to fluff the hair on David’s temples. “Good morning.”

As the whole room snaps into focus, David rolls onto his back. There’s evidence of a morning erection in his boxers. “Oh. Hi there, Neil.”

“Hi there yourself. Time to get moving. Mark’s in the shower already.” Neil stands. “Coffee?”

“Sure.” David sits up. He flexes his shoulders.

Neil steps toward the kitchen, turning back to ask, “Cereal?”

“Sure.” David stands, stretching.

God, what a sight. There’s a bounce to Neil’s step as he retreats to fix breakfast, a chore that he’s wont to perform groggily at best.

By six-thirty, everyone is fed, dressed, and ready to go. Neil sits on a stool at the counter with a last cup of coffee, leafing through the
Journal.
It’s too early for him to leave for the office—he probably couldn’t get into the building yet. But Manning and David are set to hit the road, their overnight baggage readied near the door.

Manning carefully uncaps his Montblanc and writes a note for Neil. “Here’s the phone number at the lodge,” he tells him. “Car phone, cell phone, and pager too, so you won’t need to look them up. Give me a call if there’s anything I need to know—you may hear from Victor Uttley. Anyway, I’ll check in with you later tonight.”

Neil looks up from the paper with a get-serious smirk. “You think I’ll be
here,
holed up alone?” His tone is playful.

With a menacing tone, Manning tells him, “You’d better be.” He smiles. “No, have some fun. It’s important to claim your own space now and then.”

“You’re right. I’ll pee on all the furniture, like a dog marking its turf.”

Manning musses Neil’s hair. “You know what I mean.”

“I know what you mean. You’re a wise man, Mr. Manning.” Neil rises, caps Manning’s pen for him, and slips it into his pocket. Then he wraps his arms around Manning’s waist, preparing for a proper good-bye. He tells David, who is standing by the door, “You can watch, but don’t blush.”

David covers his eyes with one hand, feigning exaggerated discretion while sneaking an obvious peek from the crack between his fingers. He witnesses a kiss that is a routine, daily gesture, not passionate but clearly loving. He has seen men kiss before—he’s kissed a few himself—but never in a context of such domesticated happiness. This is a
home,
he tells himself. He has slept under their roof.

For the very reasons that the kiss is unremarkable, it is remarkable to David. His self-outing (that is, his recognition and ultimate acceptance of his own gayness) has not yet progressed to the stage of openness with others (unless, of course, the vino has worked its veritas). His gayness, then, is still an exclusively
sexual
identity, and he can not yet imagine a life—a normal, nonsecretive, loving, workaday life—with another man. And in witnessing this kiss, which is evidence that such relationships can and do exist, he learns in a flash that men need not always love with their dicks. He is stunned by this revelation. But then, he’s only twenty-four.