Authors: Nick Nolan
Like a rock from a slingshot.
When he brought his eyes up to meet his uncle’s, they were brimming with tears. “Why couldn’t she have just stopped drinking, Uncle Bill?” he asked. “Why?”
“Because she was a drunken whore, that’s why.”
Jeremy nodded in agreement and stole a glance at Carlo—and while doing so detected that his expression was slightly less horrified than it had been a minute ago—then saw that the gun’s barrel was no longer pushed directly into his side.
“I know she was,” Jeremy sniffed. “Sometimes I think she’s better off dead.”
Like a rock from a slingshot.
“Don’t we all,” Bill spat. “But my sources tell me that I’m under suspicion of embezzling, from charges levied by my own wife!”
“Now, Uncle,” Jeremy said, smiling. He only had three steps now to go to the floor. “Her bank made her file those charges, probably because they were stealing from us and wanted to blame it on you. Everyone knows that no business is run by the book.” He shrugged, while reciting the words his uncle had once used himself. “Aunt Katharine still says how brilliantly you handle the money, and that’s how you were able to build her fortune for her. That’s exactly what she told me.” He stepped down another stair and began to slowly bend his knees, as if he were going to sit down for a comfy chat. “She even said, ‘Jeremy, I’m sure the accountants can explain everything. I trust my husband implicitly. I just wish he’d come back home so we could work all of this out.’”
“Well, she’s right about that. If I’ve told that woman once, I’ve told her a thousand times that—”
Like a rock from a slingshot, Jeremy sprang from the step as he’d done a thousand times from the starting position at the pool’s edge. His outstretched arms hit his target full force in the chest. The gun clattered to the stone floor at the same instant that Bill’s head hit the jagged quartz of the fireplace and cracked like a watermelon. He slid to the floor convulsing and bubbling foam from his mouth, his legs kicking the floor like a spoiled brat throwing a tantrum.
“Carlo, are you OK?” He snapped his head urgently toward him.
“I guess!” He was shaking. “What do we do, Jeremy?
What do we do?
”
“Go call 911! My phone’s in the kitchen.
Hurry!
”
He galloped away.
Was he gone?
Bill’s eyes blinked wildly at the ceiling, and his mouth twitched in a horrific grimace. His arms flopped like someone falling off a cliff backward.
“You fucker!” Jeremy screamed, leaning over his writhing body. “You goddamn murdering son of a bitch!” Bill’s eyes were beginning to roll up in his head, and he sounded as if he were choking on his tongue. His pants darkened from the spreading urine as it was let forth, and a foul stench clouded the air.
“Look at you, you son of a bitch! I fooled you! You’re gonna die, and nothing can save you!” he bellowed over him, his spittle landing on the wrinkled, paling face. “Jeremy Tyler fucked you! This little faggot fucked you! Ha-ha!” He stood up and did a lewd dance around the prostrate body as its spasms crested then began to wane.
And then Jeremy dropped to his knees and got within an inch of Bill’s face, their noses nearly touching, his yells turning now to sobs. “I hate you for what you did to my father! I hate you for what you did to my mother! I hate you for what you did to Darius and tried to do to me!” Jeremy saw that trickles of blood dribbled from the old man’s ears, making little pools like spilled nail polish on the stone floor.
It won’t be long now.
“Die, you goddamn murderer,” he cried. “Go burn in hell! You deserve it! Die! Die! Die! And never forget that I was the one who killed you!”
The old man farted and gasped, then was still.
“You don’t have to hurry,” Carlo spoke calmly into the phone. “I think he’s already dead.”
Jeremy glanced up through his tears at the buffalo head above the mantel and noticed, for the first time, that it seemed to be smiling.
“Just a sec, he’s almost done with his laps.” Carlo pressed the compact silver phone into the cushy white towel around his shoulders, waiting for Jeremy to reach the side of the pool and come up for air. “Hey!” he yelled, as the wet brown head finally broke the surface, looking around. “Hey!” he called out again.
Jeremy looked up, grinning and blinking, then shook the water gloriously from his hair.
“What?”
Carlo held up the phone. “Your fairy godmother.”
Jeremy reached up and Carlo leaned over and handed him the phone. “Hey, old buddy,” he said while bobbing in the pool like a buoy.
“Hay is for horses,” Arthur’s familiar voice corrected. “So what no good are you two bums up to?”
“Just finishing my laps. Then we’re going into Honolulu for dinner and to try out this new club we heard about; supposedly the go-go boys don’t wear anything under their hula skirts.”
“Oh, the scandal of it,” he laughed, then continued,
sotto voce.
“Listen, I need to talk to you about something. Serious.”
“Oh, no.”
“It’s nothing bad. Do you want to call me back when you’re finished?”
“Let’s talk now. You know I can’t take the suspense.”
“OK then. The ghost of Bill is alive and well.”
“Is blood running out of the faucets again?”
“Unfortunately, it’s nothing that simple. Business stuff, some loose ends that need tying up.
Immediately.
”
“Anything I can do from here?”
“Unfortunately, you can’t. This has to do with some big coffee grower in Brazil who goes by the name of
el Gigante.
He’s got some huge real-estate development that Bill had started to invest a lot of your family’s money in. And your aunt admits that it does look promising on paper, and in the photos. But before she throws any more money at it, she wants you to go down to see how it’s progressing.”
“But I don’t know anything about real-estate development,” he protested.
“Apparently she was so impressed by your supervision of the chalet’s refurbishing that she believes you may have a future in development,
if the young man should decide to pursue one, of course.
”
They both giggled at his uncanny impersonation of her.
“I thought she was through making decisions for me,” Jeremy noted absently, while ogling Carlo as he leaned over to pick up his magazine and sunglasses from the chaise, his square-cut Speedo stretched enticingly over the perfect curves of his ass. “Will you be going too?”
“Of course. I haven’t taken a single vacation day since Danny’s death, and I’ve even got some Bureau contacts down there that’ll help ensure our safety.”
“Why would we need their help?”
“You don’t know much about South America, do you?”
“Only that it’s kind of poor in most of the places,” Jeremy answered.
“And where there’s poverty, there’s always corruption, young man. But we should be gone only a couple of weeks at most, so we shouldn’t get into too much trouble. And after we’ve finished with what we need to do, I’d love to show you around Brasilia. We could see all those beautiful utopian government buildings like the Palácio Planalto and the Panteão—that is, if you’d like to.”
“Sure, I guess.” He shrugged his shoulders. “But can Carlo come too?”
Arthur sighed. “I guess that might be for the best.”
“What’s that mean?”
“Never mind. It shouldn’t be a problem, so long as the two of you are…discreet; Brazil isn’t West Hollywood, you know.”
“Don’t you mean the three of us?” Jeremy snorted.
Arthur laughed. “No, I mean the two of you…because you’re the ones who are lovers.”
“I’d almost forgotten,” he replied dreamily. “When do we have to leave?”
“The sooner the better, but I realize you’re thousands of miles away. Can you be back by this weekend?”
“I’ll have to talk it over with him. There’s stuff we still want to do here—we’re going snorkeling tomorrow and then we have windsurfing lessons the day after that. And we haven’t even been to one of those cheesy luaus yet.”
“I know, I know. But just so you know, Jeremy, your aunt says there are immediate decisions that need to be made. And she’s waiting for you to make them.”
He looked over at beautiful Carlo standing at the pool’s edge, then up at the coconut trees with their fronds brushing lazily against the silhouette of their gleaming hotel, and beyond that to the brilliant tropical sky and the savage beauty of the coastline. He vowed to memorize this scene; if there was one thing he’d learned, it was that perfect, peaceful moments are hard to come by. “I guess we can be home by Saturday night.”
“Katharine will be pleased. I’ll have the paperwork and our travel arrangements set up by then. Does your boyfriend have a passport?”
“Carlo, do you have a passport?” Jeremy yelled (and two thousand miles away, Arthur pulled the phone away from his ear).
Carlo nodded enthusiastically and began trotting over to him.
“Yep, he does. Is there anything else, Arthur?”
The silence on the other end made Jeremy think he’d suddenly lost the signal.
“Arthur?”
“Yeah. Sorry. No, there’s nothing else—except that…that I’ve missed you, Jeremy. More than I thought I would.”
Jeremy looked at Carlo, and when Carlo saw the sudden grin on his face and the sparkle in his eyes, he noisily kissed the air between them.
Jeremy returned the gesture silently. “Me too,” he answered finally. “More than I thought I would, too.”
I had the idea to write this tale after attending a book fair for young adults. I watched the youngsters scrutinize the various books for sale—the girls choosing, for the most part, stories about school drama and cute boys and vampires, while the boys chose books about cars or haunted houses. Then Brian—a nice kid whom I’d counseled more than once on how to handle the taunts he sustained due to his effeminacy—asked me to help him find a book, as there was nothing he could find that he wanted. But after examining the offerings on the shelves, I saw what he saw: there was little, if anything, that might spark his interest. Thus an idea began to gather in my mind:
write a gay teen romance novel—something that Brian, or the countless other kids like him out there, might enjoy reading.
And so I began writing my first book. But then over time,
Strings Attached
grew into something bigger than what I’d originally intended. For one thing, I found that I couldn’t accurately portray the anguish that a gay teenage boy goes through with his sexual self-discovery without including a somewhat graphic self-gratification scene—and that made the story adults only. And since I was now writing a story intended for adults, I figured I should make the language more “grown-up” as well. And finally, since I was now writing a full-fledged adult novel, I decided to throw in a couple of other sexy scenes and a smattering of violence to jazz things up.
And then I asked myself:
how will I make my book different from all the other kind-of-sexy-sort-of-scary coming-of-age novels out there?
One night at dinner, my partner, Jaime, and I were discussing the progress on the manuscript (over the years, he’s heard every incarnation of each page as I’d read them aloud to him). He was telling me how Jeremy’s character, as a neglected teenage boy, didn’t seem angry enough, and I tried explaining to him that children of alcoholics often display codependent characteristics, which means that in order to survive, they must put the needs of their alcoholic parent before their own. “They react instead of act,” I told him as, ironically, I downed the last of my wine. “They’re pretty much out of touch with their own needs and desires. It’s kind of like they’re puppets.”
And then it hit me: have Jeremy’s story parallel the story of
Pinocchio,
where instead of a puppet wishing on a star to be a
real boy,
this codependent gay teen wishes on a star to become a
real man.
And then the fun began.
I had to draw the parallels with
Pinocchio
without knocking the reader over the head with them—except for the title, of course. So I decided to drop hints instead.
Pinocchio
was written by Carlo Collodi; I used “Carlo” as a name for one of the central characters, and the Gallery Collodi is Katharine’s art gallery that features elegantly simple wood carvings. She even makes a
Pinocchio
reference when explaining the gallery’s name to her nephew. Other hints to Jeremy’s identity can be found when she instructs the slouching young man on his posture:
“Hasn’t anyone told you to walk and stand tall, imagining a string is holding up your head?”
“A string?”
“Yes, a string, such as that which holds up a marionette. If you accustom yourself to visualizing this, you shall, with practice, never slouch.”
Katharine is herself Gepetto, the carpenter and clockmaker who creates Pinocchio, only she tries, and nearly succeeds, to “carve” Jeremy into the image of what she likes to think his father was—and might have become had she not given him too much freedom (or
cut his strings
) in the first place.
The story takes place in Ballena Beach;
ballena
is Spanish for “whale,” and when a whale
beaches
itself, it dies—which portends what happens to Bill Mortson, whose last name is an anagram. His name is also a double reference, as it points to the French word
mort,
which means death, combined with “-son,” which is a reference to the demise of Jonathan, who was, in essence, Bill’s son. His selfishness and wealth make Bill immense and unstoppable, like the ravenous shark who swallows Pinocchio in the Collodi version; and like this shark, he nearly succeeds in “swallowing up” both the Pinocchio and Gepetto characters.
Another reference to
Pinocchio
is when Jeremy, after being confronted by Carlo about his inability to love, looks down at his own hands and realizes that “…his fingers might as well be made of wood, for they’d never caressed anyone or been held lovingly…” Even Jeremy himself considers dressing as Pinocchio to attend Ellie’s Halloween party but then decides against it.
Perhaps the most telling and somewhat comical parallel to the
Pinocchio
story is when Coby confronts Jeremy with his suspicion of the other’s homosexuality. “I know your little secret,” Coby tells the terrified boy when they are alone together. But, of course, Jeremy denies this assertion, and in a mimic of the original puppet boy’s “physiological” response to telling a lie, with each denial Jeremy makes, the more sexually aroused he becomes.
Another carry-over from the original story is Arthur Blauefee;
blaue
and
fee
are the German words for “blue” and “fairy.” And although Arthur is gay, he is no “fairy” in the derogatory sense of the word, but seems to have almost supernatural abilities with regard to the “magic” he works on Jeremy, and how he sees to the youngster’s needs. He is perhaps the most instrumental influence on the boy, and hence is the one who is best at bringing forth the teen’s true self. And he is the quintessential “fairy godmother,” providing him with everything from a costume for the “ball,” to protection from “the great shark,” to the role model of a homosexual male who is the embodiment of a real man in the semblance of a loving father. At one point Jeremy says, rather sarcastically, “Thanks, Mom.” And Arthur replies under his breath, “I prefer Fairy Godmother.” Finally, when Arthur encourages a despondent Jeremy about how controlling Katharine is, the man tells him, “…your aunt may want you to be just like your father, but he was his own man; he was nobody’s puppet.”
But where is the cricket? For one thing, Carlo Collodi made that original talking cricket appear in his novel for all of a page or so. And in the original story, Pinocchio, having nothing but a wooden noggin for a brain, becomes alarmed by its vociferous behavior and smashes it on the cottage wall—just like that.
So there.
The
Pinocchio
references provided some solid leads to the reader, I felt, without being overly derivative. But what about the star? How could I incorporate something as childish—or even foolhardy in a modern-day novel—as someone wishing on a star then having that dream come true?
First I had to look at the custom of star wishing. Where did it originate? Why do so many people—albeit mostly children, as instructed by their parents—still do it? I started by looking back at cultures with deities as constellations and the concept of
apotheosis
—man becoming god—and figured that the only difference between a wish and a prayer is whom you believe is listening. And then I looked for a constellation that might have elements of my story and found Gemini and the tale of Castor and Pollux. If you read some various accounts of the myths surrounding them—and there are many—you may be as taken as I was with the overriding commonality of them all: familial male-male love that survives eternity in spite of mortal treachery. And it’s also true what I found about myths being changed to suit the climate of their times, so I took some artistic license with the Gemini Boys and tailored it to parallel Jeremy’s story as a vehicle for warning the reader as to the impending dangers. But back to
the star
: when Jeremy and Jonathan are on the beach in the dream, and the boy can’t decide on one wish so he wishes for them all, each does come true. At the end, his mother stops drinking forever (she’s dead), his parents are together again (we see them on the boat during the memorial service, but more on that later…), and he proves that he is a
real man
after all, as he is able to give and receive love, he pursues his true desires and needs, and he defends himself and the one he loves against a foe intent on inflicting immeasurable harm.
So what about that mysterious schooner? The young man aboard it reminds Tiffany of Jeremy somehow because he’s the ghost of Jonathan who, in the fashion of the traditional Irish banshee, has come back to forewarn Tiffany of an impending death in the family (remember, the Tylers are mostly Irish, as noted by Katharine). Tiffany reports the troubled boater to 911, but when they send out an escort to look for the craft, as well as its captain, it appears to have disappeared without a trace. Then, when the schooner reappears during Tiffany’s memorial service, it is now Jonathan
and
Tiffany—as their younger, better selves—on board, and the message on the stern guides the reader as to the true captain of their ship:
Kay + Ron’s Ferry Tail
is a reference to Charon (pronounced
kay
-ron), the ferryman who carries the souls of the dead across the river Styx, as well as a reference to this story being a “fairy tale” in many senses of the word.
And finally, what’s going on between Arthur and Jeremy? Throughout the story, they maintain an almost constant level of love, affection, and positive regard for each other without ever getting
nasty.
A friend who began reading the story told me, “I’ll bet Arthur has Jeremy in bed by the end of chapter five,” to which I only smiled. Their relationship is holy to me, and I wanted to show that a mature, virile gay man can mentor a gay youngster without any sort of prurient agenda whatsoever on either’s part. They have a perfect father-son relationship, one that mirrors the one I had with my own grandfather—who, by the way, used to call me “old buddy.”
But what about the phone call at the end of the story, when Carlo and Jeremy are in Hawaii? For the first time, Arthur refrains from using his pet name when addressing the young man. And at the end of the conversation, Arthur hesitates before telling him, “…I’ve missed you, Jeremy. More than I thought…” to which Jeremy answers, “Me too…more than I thought I would, too.” And when Carlo sees the sparkle in Jeremy’s eyes, he assumes that his boyfriend’s loving look is meant for him. But is it? Now that the reader sees that Jeremy is a real man, we must assume that Arthur sees him that way too, so I thought I might open that door for some added pizzazz/conflict in
Double Bound,
because you know they really aren’t related after all…
Ballena Beach is, of course, Malibu. I’ve enjoyed many afternoons there with a notebook in my hands, my back against the rocks, and my feet buried in the sand. There really is an El Matador State Beach and even an old, immense Mediterranean villa on the cliff overlooking the ocean. And Lake Estrella (
estrella
is Spanish for “star,” by the way) is a thinly disguised Lake Arrowhead. I’ve spent plenty of time over the years on the banks of the lovely lakes up in the San Bernardino Mountains and did my best to portray the natural beauty of both locales.
The astute reader will find many other—sometimes obscure—references to puppetry and stars and death and magical realism, as well as foreshadowing, peppered throughout this book, so I will leave that task of discovery to those who enjoy searching for it. Suffice to say that I had such fun writing this story and hope that you have found yourself entertained while being immersed in these pages.
I want to thank Jaime, my partner of twenty-two years, for supporting me and encouraging me and listening to me and offering his invaluable input into this novel. Jaime, you believed in me, and for that I cannot thank you enough. You have been the gasoline in my tank and the helium in my balloon. This book is for you, as much as it was written by me. And a big cuddly thanks to the late, beloved Margaret, whose snuffly snores emanated from beneath my desk on many, many a late night; you are my little Margie Doodle, and I will love you through all of eternity. I want to thank Margo for her tireless cheerleading and Arlet and Art for reading the entire manuscript without me asking them to, and Claudine for your friendship and support during a very difficult time; thanks to Sita White for almost becoming my agent and for giving me wonderful advice along the way; an oath of gratitude to Ayofemi Folayan for being the first person on this planet who told me I could write, and who promised to hunt me down (in her wheelchair) if I stopped, and to Jason Tanner for the wonderful photo of his friend Jeff that graced the original
Strings Attached
cover. Thanks to my parents and my sister Kathy for their support, in spite of the fact that I was writing a gay-themed novel that would be published with the family name on its cover. I also thank brilliant author Kathleen McGowan, as well as the divine orchestra that made our meeting, as well as our collaboration, so harmonious; your input and guidance have helped make my wish come true, and I will forever thank my lucky stars that we met.
And finally, I will be forever grateful to the visionary (and wickedly funny) Mr. Terry Goodman at AmazonEncore for plucking Jeremy’s story from obscurity, then giving it a bigger life; thanks to AmazonEncore’s hardworking marketing specialist Sarah Tomashek; while huge thanks go out to my supremely knowledgeable, friendly, and courteous agents Kevan Lyon of the Marsal Lyon Agency and Taryn Fagerness of the Fagerness Agency. I’d like to also thank my copy editor Cheryl Della Pietra, who suffered through my grammatical ignorance and made my manuscript sparkle; and thanks also go to the folks at Melcher Media, especially Duncan Bock, Shoshana Thaler, Bonnie Eldon, Daniel del Valle, and Kurt Andrews; also Ben Wiseman and Silja Goetz for their work on my amazing cover. You all have no idea how honored I feel to be engaged in this venture with professionals of your high caliber.