I think about calling Gale, but I reject the idea almost as soon as it enters my mind. That relationship is over. Done. Kaput. It’s no use going anywhere near there again. But Gale’s words do come back to me:
Let me know if you ever figure out what’s the most important thing you need in a lover.
What the hell did he mean?
I spend the day by myself. Something draws me back to Luke’s writing, which I pick up from the floor. I hold the binder in my hands, staring down at it.
“Darryl’s Story.”
Gale seemed to think my answer to his question wasn’t enough. But honesty
is
what I want.
Truth.
That’s what obsesses me about Luke. I want to know who he is. Why the truth of his story matters so much, I’m not sure. But I want to know.
I read the second story in the binder.
This is how my dream begins: the sound of shovels, the stabbing of earth.
A dark blue night. The moon as odd voyeur, its light glinting off the blades of the silver shovels. It is the eye of the sky, a hole into the heavens, perchance the passageway from which he might return.
I have had the same dream over and over ever since he died: I peel away my sweat drenched sheets, placing my feet against the cold of the wooden floor, feeling my soles stick. I push myself to stand and pull on a pair of jeans, plunging head first into the blue of the night. And once there, embraced by a sweet, damp, blue fog that cools my skin, I dig up his grave, and pull him out of his coffin. He is dressed in a blue jacket and white shirt and red tie, the clothes we buried him in, clothes that smell only a trifle musty now, like the old hand-me-downs my mother would keep in her hope chest, in our basement that flooded every spring. I shake him as if he might wake, and I am not surprised that he has not decomposed: he is perfect, in death as in life.
Finally his eyelids begin to flutter, like little moths.
When I awake, which I always do precisely at that moment, I feel neither disappointment nor relief. It is just the endless rush of nothing that I feel, and I am always conscious of how wet my sheets are.
Was this how they found Marilyn? Nude? Drenched in her own sweat?
I lie here, like Sebastian Venable, my flesh eaten from my bones.
I feel sick. I can’t read anymore.
Is he writing about Darryl—or himself?
I hide Luke’s manuscript under a pile of papers. I need to get it out of my head. All those disturbing images. Cockroaches, people screaming, suicide attempts, dead bodies, digging up graves.
What lives inside that boy’s head?
Suddenly all I want to do is wrap my arms around him. I want to tell him everything’s okay, that the pain doesn’t have too be so bad, that I can make it go away for him, if only he’d let me. I ache to feel his body next to mine, my lips pressed against his ear as I whisper soft reassurances and promises of love. I want to taste his sweet skin, inhale deeply the fragrance of his hair. I want to make everything right for him, and in the process, make everything right for myself.
But how crazy is that? Why should I be feeling this way about Luke? Why has he so gripped hold of my emotions?
Because I was scared and confused like him once.
I remember another young boy, trying to find his way in the world. I remember another scared kid who tried to make his way in the world of adults. It was little Henry Weiner, crying in some stranger’s Trans Am after his first night at a gay bar. Little Henry Weiner from West Springfield, unsure of who he was or where he was supposed to be.
But if Luke’s writing is any indication, what he went through was far more traumatic than anything I ever experienced.
I go about my day trying not to think about what I’ve read. In the early afternoon, Jeff and Lloyd drive up to Boston to meet with their friend Naomi, who’s going to be marrying them. They’re planning to go over their vows and the order of the ceremony. As their best man, I offer to go with them, trying to stick to my promise of being supportive. But we have a new guest checking in this evening, so I need to stay behind.
Of course, the other reason I need to stay here is that Ann Marie doesn’t get back until six, and we can’t leave J. R. alone, no matter how adamant he gets that he’s old enough to look after himself. We’re all still worried about the kid, in fact, who remains sullen and withdrawn. No matter how often we try to cheer him up, he resists our efforts. School has started again, and on his first two papers he brought home Ds. Lloyd worries that the boy may be clinically depressed, and there’s been talk of J. R. seeing a family counselor. Poor kid. I wish I knew what to say or do to get through to him.
Since the day is so beautiful, I wait outside for our new guest, who arrives around four, a dithery redheaded woman with six large suitcases and a very prominent Bronx accent. I check her in, give her some maps and restaurant guides, and decide then, free at last, to get the hell out of the house. With Ann Marie home, I’m suddenly at liberty—and in that moment, a walk along the beach at sunset with my Walkman playing some classic nineties grunge seems mighty appealing. What better way to crowd out all my confusion of the past few days?
“Yeah,” I murmur to myself. “Smells like teen spirit to me.”
I grin, gathering up my CDs. A walk on the beach listening to Nirvana.
Perfect.
It’ll be like I’m back in college, when my whole path was still in front of me, when I still believed I’d be happily partnered and settled down by twenty-five with a man named Jack.
But if the Walkman is going to play, I need batteries. I find none in the drawer in the kitchen, so I head into the basement, where I notice a light is on in Luke’s room. His door is ajar; usually he keeps it closed. I’ve told him many times to turn the lights off when he leaves; the electric bill is already too high. I approach, intending to shut it off.
But what I see inside stops me in the doorway.
Luke is on his bed, lying on his stomach. He’s humping a pillow.
And he’s wearing Jeff’s blue and white Speedo.
In that instant, all my sympathy for him vanishes.
“You perv,” I say, before I even have a chance to think.
Luke sits up at once. He glares at me.
“Why am I a perv for jacking off?” He’s angry, belligerent. “Don’t
you
jack off, Henry?”
My lips are curling in disgust. “Not in Jeff’s bathing suit, I don’t.”
“This isn’t Jeff’s,” he insists, acting outraged at the suggestion. “It’s
mine.”
I glare at him. “I saw Jeff wearing it today. He left it outside. That’s
his
.”
“It is not!”
“You are one fucked-up kid,” I say, turning to leave. Suddenly all those weird images from his writing repulse me. No longer do I want to comfort him, tell him everything will be okay. I want to get as far away from him and his warped mind as possible.
But Luke is on me from behind. His arms snake around my chest and he pulls me into him. His lips are on the back of my neck.
“Don’t go, Henry,” he whispers urgently. “Make love to me again. You don’t know how much I want you, how much I’ve wanted you ever since I first laid eyes on you.”
“Fuck you, you liar,” I say, but I make no effort to extricate myself from his grip.
“It’s true, Henry,” he’s whispering in my ear. “It’s
you
I want. Fuck this job. I’ll give it up if it means I can have you again.”
I turn around. I’m intending to tell him to fuck off, to push him away from me, hard and fast.
But instead, I kiss him.
Gripping his waist, I force Luke back down on the bed. Into the air I roughly lift his legs, yanking off Jeff’s Speedo in the process, tossing it onto the floor. Meanwhile Luke’s undoing my shirt, and with my free hand I’m dropping my pants. Naked, I crush down onto Luke’s body, forcefully bringing his head up to meet my chest, where he sucks on my nipples. “That’s it,” I tell him fiercely. “Get me rock hard.”
I assume he has condoms and lube in the drawer of the table on the side of his bed, and I’m right. For the briefest of seconds I imagine who else Luke’s had down here, but thoughts don’t last long in my mind. Except this one:
I want to fuck Luke.
If I can fuck him, some crazy part of me believes, everything will be better.
And so I do. It’s the first real sex, I realize, that I’ve had since the last time I was with him. Gale has always stopped me before our pants were off, I never orgasmed with Evan and his crew, and I just can’t count Martin’s blow job at the dick dock. So once again: it’s Luke.
Luke
—who I flip over onto his stomach and whose legs I spread apart roughly, who gets no foreplay, no tender affection, and inside whom I finally climax, my semen filling up the condom. The sheer sensation of my orgasm seems enough to make Luke shoot as well, as suddenly the sheets beneath us are covered with his own slimy goo.
I remain on top of him, silent, immobile, for several seconds.
“Don’t leave, Henry,” Luke suddenly whispers, our hearts beating in unison.
I look down at this boy beneath me. I
should
leave. I should get out of here right now, as fast as I can. This is wrong—on so many levels—wrong, wrong, wrong. But something in Luke’s voice compels me to stay.
I do what I imagined earlier. I wrap my arms around him. In his ear I whisper, “Everything’s going to be okay.”
He says nothing, so I repeat the words.
He simply folds himself into my embrace, and I pull him as close to me as possible.
I’ll protect you,
I’m thinking.
I’ll protect you from the screams in the night, from the dark shadows that creep through your life, from the memories of that horrible father who hurt you so badly.
But no further words are exchanged. I am left with only my thoughts, and the sweet scent of Luke’s hair in my nostrils.
Not until the next morning do I finally leave his bed.
And by that time, my whole word has been turned upside down.
W
e’re sitting here, Luke and I, on a rock halfway out across the harbor, part of this majestic bridge of granite that keeps the waters of the Atlantic from destroying the fragile final finger of Cape Cod. The sky threatens rain, and out here in the middle of the harbor the breeze is a good ten degrees chillier than on shore. Luke and I huddle close to keep warm.
“I’m glad we’re friends again, Henry,” he says, close to my ear.
I smile, kissing his cheek. I suppose hard, intense sex, followed by a dreamy, sticky night in each other’s arms, would tend to smooth over whatever hostilities had existed between us. As soon as the sun was up, I’d slipped upstairs, not wanting to be discovered in Luke’s room by Lloyd. But not before we made love again, this time going more slowly, savoring every moment. I kissed his neck, he licked my nipples. He buried his face in my armpits, I made slurping noises on his tight, flat stomach. And I fucked him again, gentler this time, but with just as shattering a climax.
Once more I close my eyes and rest my face in his sweet, sweet hair.
I’m not sure what I’m going to tell Lloyd. What makes it even more difficult is that I’m not sure what’s going on between Luke and me. We’ve had wonderful sex—but exchanged precious few words. So I’m left wondering how he really feels about me. He called us “friends.” Is that what we are? Friends who have sex? Or might it be more? Might he share these feelings I’m having, this rush of emotion that makes he want to sit here all day, just holding him in my arms? Have I imagined all of Luke’s manipulation, exaggerated his obsession with Jeff? All I know for sure right now is that it feels awfully good sitting so close to him.
“So,” Luke says, “you said we needed to talk.”
“Yeah,” I agree, but I voice nothing more.
He turns his face so he can look me straight in the eyes. “I meant it when I said I’ll quit the job,” he tells me, “if that’s what will allow us to continue seeing each other.”
I try to see the truth of his feelings in his eyes. “Is that what you really want? To see me on a regular basis?”
Luke smiles. “Why is that so hard for you to believe?”
“Luke, it’s been obvious that your interest is in Jeff.”
He stiffens. “That was
not
his Speedo, Henry! We just have the same suit. That’s why I was staring at him yesterday. I thought I had an original.” He looks at me as if I don’t believe him. “Go over and look on his deck and you’ll see. I was over there this morning, and his Speedo is sitting there. Mine is put away in my drawer.”
I sigh. Of course, Luke could have gone next door and replaced the bathing suit on the chaise lounge this morning just to cover his tracks. But maybe he’s telling the truth. I just don’t know anymore.
But I do know the sex with him was awesome. And I just can’t seem to keep from kissing him. Never has a boy tasted quite this sweet.
I pull back gently to look into his eyes, keeping my arms tightly around him.
“Luke,” I say, “I have a confession to make.”
“Oh?”
“I read some of your writing.” I wait for him to react, but he doesn’t. He just keeps looking at me with those mysterious eyes of his. “The stuff you threw in the dumpster. One binder had fallen on the ground and I picked it up, intending to throw it away, but I…”
“But you took it back into the house,” he says. “You read my work without my permission.”
I feel terrible. “I’m sorry.”
Luke only smiles. “It’s okay, Henry. What part did you read?”
“I’m not sure. Seemed like it was a short story, or maybe two short stories…”
“Well, what was it about?”
I look at him. “Well, you titled it ‘Darryl’s Story.’”
“Oh, that. What did you think?”
I’m not sure what to say. “Well, it was disturbing.”
“Good. I wanted it to be.”
“You succeeded.”
He smiles. “But did you think the writing was good?”
“I can’t judge,” I tell him.
He pouts. “You hated it. Just like Jeff.”
“No, no, no. It fascinated me. It…” My voice trails off until I can find what I want to say. “It made me want to know who you really are.”
“So you
did
like it.”
I shrug. “Like it? I’m not sure. All I know is that I haven’t been able to stop thinking about it.” I look intently at him. “Or you.”
Several seagulls screech in their amazingly human-like voices. They land not far from us in the water, batting their wings angrily.
“Well, I’m glad I got you hooked, Henry,” Luke says, suddenly energized. “That’s what a writer hopes to be able to do.”
I shake my head. “But is it true, Luke?”
He smirks. “Jeff usually answers that question with a line about his work being emotionally true, if not always literally true.”
“But much of what Jeff writes
is
literally true.”
He nods. “Exactly.”
I sigh. “You’re a mystery, Luke.”
He makes a little laugh sound in his throat. “I don’t know why you think that. I’ve told you far more stories of my life than you’ve ever told me about yours.”
“Well, that’s just it, Luke. They all
sound
like stories. What you write, what you say…I’m never sure what’s the truth. What’s real. What isn’t.”
He grunts. “So you’re saying you don’t believe what I’ve told you about my life?”
“I’m saying what you’ve shared so far doesn’t always seem to add up.” I sigh. “Your stories read as if they’re about this person you say was your lover, this Darryl, but part of me thinks they’re really about you.” I look at him and raise my eyebrows. “Maybe I’m just suspicious by nature.”
“Well, answer me this, Henry,” he says. “Do you at least believe that I like you?”
I start to reply, but find I don’t have the words. Why is it so hard for me to believe that this attractive young guy wants to be with me?
Maybe because I grew up never believing
anyone
would ever want to be with me. “Henry,” my mother would say. “You need to be more manly. You should be out playing baseball. No girl wants to date a sissy boy.”
And then, in high school and college, I was always the pencil-necked geek, my yearbook pictures still embarrassing to look at. No wonder Jack never looked at me that way. My shirt never fit quite right; my hair was always too long or too short.
Then, when I came out as gay and started trying to find my way in the gay world, I immediately felt out of place in the world of the Body Beautiful at the clubs. Only when I met Jeff did I start to improve my body and my wardrobe—but then I always had my mentor to compete with, and when one competes with Jeff O’Brien, the outcome is always predetermined.
Except maybe this time it’s different. Maybe—just maybe—Luke is telling me the truth. It really is
me
he likes. Not Jeff.
“Okay,” Luke says, almost as if he’s psychic, “I’ll admit to you that I’ve been very attentive to Jeff. Maybe even ass-kissing a bit. But it wasn’t because I wanted him, Henry. It was because I hoped he’d help me with my novel.”
“Well, that’s been very obvious. Even to him.” I narrow my eyes. “But I suspect it was a bit more as well…”
“No! It was all about Jeff reading my work.” He pouts. “Well, that was a big mistake. He just cut me right down.”
“I think you might be over-reacting…”
Luke leans his head on my shoulder, not listening. “But
you
think I have talent, don’t you, Henry?”
“Sure…”
“So do you think maybe Jeff’s afraid of a little competition?” Luke laughs, and the sound unnerves me a little. “Especially from someone younger, with more years ahead of him?”
I look over at the top of Luke’s dark blond head. “Why don’t you tell me exactly what Jeff said about your work?”
“It wasn’t
what
he said, but
how
he said it.” Luke sits up, immediately assuming an impression of Jeff, all chin and attitude. “‘You’ve got a ways to go,’” he says, mimicking Jeff quite well. “‘Don’t be arrogant and think your first draft is all it will take.’” The kid sniffs in indignation. “Arrogant! Who’s he calling arrogant? Maybe he ought to look in the mirror!”
I’m amazed at how quickly Luke has turned on his idol. It’s a little chilling, in fact. From soft and warm he’s suddenly hard and defensive. I feel myself tense. I actually pull back a bit from him.
“Well,” I offer, “criticism is supposed to be tough or it isn’t helpful. You didn’t just want him to say ‘Great job’ and not mean it, did you?”
Luke is indignant. “My writing professor thought it was brilliant! She thought it was publishable just as it was!”
I make a face. “But has
she
published anything? Jeff
has
, remember.”
Luke scowls. How dark his face seems now. Gone is the light that had drawn me just moments earlier.
“I’m
glad
you read my work, Henry,” he says. “Because it shows
some
people appreciate what I’m trying to do. I’m not writing bland, boring commercial shit like Jeff.”
“But I thought you said Jeff’s work was—”
“Authors like Jeff are afraid of the new generation,” Luke says loudly, cutting me off. “We see things differently than they do. We say it a new, fresh, exciting way. We’ve had a different experience of being gay and they’re afraid we’re going to put them out of business.”
“Luke, I don’t think Jeff feels—”
“But
you
found my work fascinating. You said you can’t stop thinking about it.” He beams. “That proves I’m on the right track. So I’m going ahead with it! Full speed ahead!”
I sigh. “Well, I’m glad you’re not discouraged any more.” I give him a small smile. “But you threw all your work away.”
He tosses a hand at me. “That was just my hard copies. All my work is still on my computer. Did you really think I’d be that stupid? Maybe Jeff has no faith in me, but I know
you
do, Henry.”
Do I? I say nothing.
Luke doesn’t appear to notice. “Just watch. My novel is going to be
huge
. I’ll show Mr. Jeffrey Fucking Arrogant O’Brien.”
I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t like the way this conversation has gone at all, in fact. “Really, Luke,” I tell him, “I don’t think Jeff meant to discourage you.”
“Oh, yes, he did. He wants to wipe out all the competition. But he’ll see. I’m not going to give up!”
Suddenly sitting so close to him doesn’t feel so good anymore. Luke seems edgy, even dangerous, where just moments ago he was soft and comforting.
But he seems unaware of my change in feelings. “If
you
believe in me, Henry,” he says, “that’s enough.” He kisses me, lots of tongue. I try to kiss him back, but he just doesn’t taste as sweet as before. When he pulls back, he looks directly into my eyes and asks, “Shall I go back now and give Lloyd my resignation?”
“No.” I need to think this through. This is all happening very fast, and now I’m very confused. “Let me talk to Lloyd,” I say. “He should hear what happened between us from me.”
“Okay,” Luke says, slipping his arm back around me and returning his head to my shoulder.
We sit there for a few minutes in silence, watching the gulls circle overhead and listening as the water trickles between the rocks. The tide is moving inexorably back in toward shore. In the distance there’s the low steady foghorn, warning ships not to come too close to this place.
“Hey, Luke,” I say, my mouth in his hair.
“What?”
“Do you ever listen to Alice in Chains?”
“Alice in what?”
“Never mind.”
My bruised thigh is starting to ache from sitting in one position. I suggest we head back to the guesthouse. I assure Luke that I’ll handle things with Lloyd. We walk back through town holding hands. But when we get to the guesthouse, I can’t find Lloyd anywhere, though Jeff is once again pruning the rosebushes. I send Luke inside and head out to talk with Jeff.
“Where’s Lloyd?” I ask.
Jeff lowers the shears. I can see he’s concerned. “He went on a drive with J. R. and Ann Marie. I don’t know when they’ll be back.”
“Is everything okay?”
“No, actually, it’s not.” Jeff resumes deadheading the faded blossoms. “Ann Marie’s very worried about J. R. Whatever is bothering that kid, Lloyd is hoping to get to the bottom of it.”
“Why didn’t you go with them?”
Jeff turns to look at me. He’s near tears. “Because for whatever reason, I seem to be the root of J. R.’s discontent. He’s distant to Lloyd, too, but it’s me with whom he seems to have the real issue.”
“Why you?”
“Who knows? Because I make him do his homework? Because I won’t let him go into Internet chat rooms?”
I sigh. My problems are going to have to wait. This conversation is long overdue.
“No,” I tell Jeff. “It’s not because of any of those things. It’s because you’re gay.”
Jeff looks at me as if I’m crazy. “What?”
My self-absorption these past couple of weeks embarrasses me all of a sudden. “You know, I’ve been wanting to talk with you about all this, but so many other things keep getting in the way.”
“So tell me now.”
I pause, glancing up at the window above us. Sure enough, I sense movement behind the curtains. Is Luke there, eavesdropping? “Come on,” I say to Jeff, taking his arm. “Let’s go over to your house.”
Inside Jeff’s living room, where privacy is assured, I sit him down on the couch and position myself in the chair opposite him. Mr. Tompkins, Jeff’s big old fat cat, jumps up to cuddle in his lap.
“What’s going on, Henry?” Jeff asks.
I take a deep breath. “About a week ago, I had a chat with J. R. It was short, but I think I got some insight into what’s bugging him.”
“And you didn’t immediately tell me?”
“I’m sorry, Jeff. I admit I’ve been too self-obsessed lately.”
He sighs. “Just tell me.”
“Well, it’s hard to put it in words. J. R. was very worried about the newspaper taking a picture of the wedding and him being in it.”