Hittin' It Out the Park (15 page)

But Clarissa had a rude awakening when she discovered a boy's silver class ring at the bottom of Amanda's jewelry box.

“Is this Nick's ring?” Clarissa had questioned.

Amanda flipped her hair nonchalantly. “Yeah, that's Nick's ring, but I don't know why he's claiming I stole it when he knows full well that he gave it to me. He said it was mine as long as I kept my mouth shut about what . . . uh . . . you know, what he talked me into doing at church.”

Clarissa scowled at the ring, holding it between her fingernails as if it were something too vile and loathsome to touch her bare skin. “Amanda, we have to return this ring to that despicable Baldwin boy.”

“Why should I?”

“For one thing, I don't want it in this house, and furthermore, the Baldwins should be made aware that their son is a pathological liar as well as a degenerate pervert. I want you to tell them exactly what you told me. How he tried to bribe you after forcing himself on you.”

Amanda rolled her eyes heavenward. “What's the point, Mom? I told you that he took advantage of me. To force me to talk about it and to relive that horrible experience will feel like I'm being raped all over again.”

A pained expression covered Clarissa's face. “You're right, Mandy. We should have taken you directly to the hospital, and we should have had that boy arrested, but your father didn't want to bring unwelcome attention to the family.”

“Way to go, Mom. Your parenting skills are on point. Thanks so much for protecting me,” Amanda said with biting sarcasm.

“Oh, sweetheart, I know I let you down, and I'm so sorry.” Clarissa reached for her daughter, but Amanda recoiled, glaring at her mother through eyes filled with accusation.

Amanda's father, an esteemed scholar, could not be as easily manipulated as her mother could—at least not by Amanda. From Amanda's point of view, he'd always seemed mistrustful of her, as if he could see right through her lies. She got the impression that her father expected her to behave badly.

It was a shame that he wasn't as insightful when it came to his wife. He adored and doted on Clarissa and seemed clueless that she was having an affair with Mr. Narducci, a swarthy man who lived in a huge, ostentatious house that was considered a blemish in their prestigious neighborhood. Mr. Narducci wore flashy clothes, drove a Maserati, and was rumored to have mob ties.

One day, back when Amanda was eleven years old, she had come home early from summer day camp and found her mother and Mr. Narducci naked in her parents' bedroom. She'd never forget the utter shock of seeing Mr. Narducci's pale ass pumping as he pounded into her mother. In complete contrast to his white ass, the rest of his body was tanned to a golden bronze.

Startled by Amanda's unexpected appearance in her bedroom, Clarissa yelped and Mr. Narducci jerked around and gawked at Amanda, his bristly eyebrows rising in surprise.

“You can't tell your father what you saw. It would shatter him,” Clarissa disclosed after Mr. Narducci hurried out of the house. Buying her silence, Clarissa took Amanda on a shopping spree later that day. When Amanda's father returned from an out-of-town medical conference, Clarissa prepared his favorite meal, and afterward, the family convened in the living room and Clarissa entertained them by playing something by Mozart on the piano, smiling at her husband all the while with what appeared to be love and complete adoration.

Amanda often associated that day, when she was only eleven, as the time that she learned the art of deception. And over time, she became an expert at trickery.

*  *  *

Yusef's briefs had been in such a bunch when he left for Baltimore, Sexy was surprised he hadn't confiscated her credit card. But since he hadn't, it was as good a time as any to do some shopping. Although she hadn't adjusted to New York quite yet, she had to admit that the shopping experience was unlike anything that Philadelphia had to offer.

Sexy picked up items from several high-end shops, but fell completely in love with the Prada store. Every item she charged to Yusef's card was purchased with Randy Alston in mind. She couldn't wait to put on her new, black lingerie for Randy. One look at her prancing around in the sheer, beaded negligee and Randy would immediately want to serve that annoying wife of his with divorce papers.

She made a mental note to figure out a way to set up a situation where she could hang out with Randy Alston privately—somewhere away from the rest of the team. And most importantly, in a place where her every move wouldn't be scrutinized by Cheryl or any of her friends.

“You don't love me, you never did love me.” Stephen sniffed, before taking a long sip of his Chablis.

“Aw, sweetie—”

“No!” Stephen put his hand up. “Don't even try it, Cheryl. We used to be BFFs. We counted on each other for everything. We talked all the time.” He wiped the beginning of a tear from the corner of his left eye, then pulled a tissue from the pastel box on the sofa end table, and nosily blew his nose. “But since you've married young country boy—”

“His name is Randy,” Cheryl said dryly.

“I know his name!” Stephen shot her a dirty look, then jutted his chin out and pursed his lips while crossing and uncrossing his legs. “I simply choose not to use it.”

Cheryl sighed loudly.

“Anyway,” Stephen blew his nose again before continuing, “as I was saying, since you married . . . him . . . I never see you. You don't care about me anymore.”

Cheryl arose from her chair and walked over to the sofa to sit next to Stephen. “Sweetie, that's not true. We saw each other a few weeks ago at the party—”

“Where you had no time for me,” Stephen snapped.

“Well, you saw that girl who was gunning for Randy,” Cheryl protested. “I had to keep my eyes on him . . . and her.”

“No, I didn't see it!” Stephen rolled his eyes. “I didn't even know there was a problem until I arrived at the game a few days later, right in time to see you get kicked out of the skybox. It's a good thing I was able to keep the press from finding out what happened. Can you imagine the scandal?” He sniffed, and gave her a cold stare. “Although they probably already know more than me.”

“Well, if you want to know about that skank, Sexy—”

“I DON'T WANT TO KNOW ABOUT THAT SKANK AND I DON'T WANT TO TALK ABOUT THAT SKANK! I WANT TO TALK ABOUT ME!!!!”

“Of course, sweetie, of course,” Cheryl said hurriedly, rubbing Stephen's back. “Please calm down.”

“I'm going through a crisis,” Stephen said, shaking his head, and dabbing at his eyes with the damp tissue.

“Well, I'm here for you, Stephen. Tell me what's going on,” Cheryl said soothingly. She gently guided Stephen's head onto her shoulder, and tenderly smoothed his hair. “I'm sure we can work whatever it is out.”

Stephen started sobbing. “Thank you, Cheryl,” he was finally able to say. “I hate to bother you because I do know you're going through so much right now.”

“Shhh, it's okay,” Cheryl said calmly. “Don't worry about me. Let's talk about you. What's going on, sweetie?”

“Well,” Stephen sniffed a few times before continuing, “I can't go on like this, Cheryl. I've had to make a major decision, and I'm going through with it. But it's going to be so hard.” He shook his head dismally.

Cheryl rolled her eyes, knowing what was coming next. She'd been through it a few times in her tenure as Stephen's best friend. Usually after he'd been dumped by a lover, or after he'd come from visiting his parents in Connecticut. Dutifully, she asked: “What decision, sweetie?”

“I'm going to be celibate.” Stephen sat up straight and looked Cheryl in the eyes. “I know I've said it before, but I mean it this time.”

“Oh, sweetie, why?” Cheryl knew her lines well.

“Because what I'm doing is wrong. Men are not supposed to love men—at least not in a physical way. It's against nature.” Stephen burrowed his head into Cheryl's arm and softly sobbed. “But the thing is, I can't help it.”

Okay, it's the parents' thing. Damn!

“I went to see my parents this weekend,” Stephen said, tears in his voice and rolling down his cheeks, “I was thinking, well, you know about how you're always telling me—”

Cheryl nodded.

“—that I should go ahead and let my parents know that I . . . that I—” Stephen paused to wipe his tears, but as soon as he did, more started pouring down. Still, he continued, obviously trying to keep his voice steady. “—that I should go ahead and tell them that I have a . . . an alternative lifestyle. I'm thirty-five years old, Cheryl. And I don't want to live my entire life as a lie, or feeling guilty because of who I am.”

“Right,” Cheryl said, in an encouraging voice.

“Well,” Stephen cleared his throat, “we sat down to a nice Sunday dinner, and everyone was in such a good mood, everyone was so pleasant, that I thought it would have been the ideal time.”

“Sure,” Cheryl said, nodding her head again.

“Well, as soon as I began gathering up my courage, the doorbell rings.” Stephen paused, and then started chewing his lips. “It was my brother. And his wife. His pregnant wife.”

“Priscilla's pregnant?”

Stephen nodded. “They found out last week. That's why they had come over. To tell my parents the good news. That they were finally going to be grandparents.”

“Oh,” Cheryl said slowly.

“So, yeah,” Stephen's voice started breaking again, “Mama and Papa were so excited, they were bouncing off the walls. Rubbing Priscilla's stomach, congratulating Jonathan, and then Mama looked over at me, and she must have thought that I was feeling bad or something.” He paused again. “I wasn't. I might have had a disappointed look on my face, but it was only because I was kinda disappointed that I wasn't going to get the chance to talk to Mama and Papa about . . . you know.”

“Right.”

“So Mama comes over to me, and says, ‘Don't feel bad, Stephen. Your turn will be coming soon. I know you'll find the right girl, won't he Papa?' So then Papa comes over and starts hitting me on the back like some kind of good ole boy. So then he says, ‘Mama's right. You know your Uncle Richard was here a couple of weeks ago saying that the reason you don't have a girl is because you like boys. Well, I got up and told him to get the hell out of my house. Didn't I, Mama? And when he didn't get out fast enough, I got off my chair and threatened to throw him out. Didn't I, Mama? Can you believe he was trying to tell me that one of my sons is a faggot?' ”

Cheryl's eyes widened. “Oh, no.”

“Oh, yeah.” Stephen shook his head. “So then Mama says, ‘You don't need to use that word, Papa. Say homosexual . . . or homo. There's no need to insult those people. God will deal with them when it comes time to face their judgment.' ”

“Oh, no,” Cheryl said again.

Stephen nodded. “And of course that got an Amen from everyone in the house.” He looked at Cheryl and tears once again welled up in his eyes. “Including me.”

“Oh, Stephen.” Cheryl started rubbing his shoulders, then pulled him into her bosom and began rubbing his back. “You poor baby.”

Stephen sobbed loudly for a good five minutes before he could speak again. “My parents think that all gays . . . all homosexuals . . . will burn in Hell. How can I tell them I'm one?” He sat back up, though he was still sobbing, and looked Cheryl directly in the eyes. “Really? How can I tell them?”

“I understand, Stephen,” Cheryl said soothingly.

“I can't do it, Cheryl. I simply can't,” Stephen continued, “they've done so much for me and Jonathan. They sacrificed for us. Taking out second and third mortgages to put us through private schools and college. And they've never asked anything from us in return.” He took a deep breath. “They live by the Bible, and they expect their children to do the same. I can't hurt them by letting them know I've been sinning since I was a teenager.”

“Stephen, you can't be serious,” Cheryl said. “You're one of the kindest and generous people I know. Being gay doesn't mean—”

“Yes, it does,” Stephen said, cutting her off. He sat up and started wiping his eyes, then blew his nose. Cheryl could see that he was trying to compose himself. “Well,” he said finally. “I can't force myself to sleep with women, but the least I can do for my parents is to stop sleeping with men.” He chewed his lips again. “They're going to Heaven, and maybe if I become celibate now, God will forgive me and allow me to be with them when my time comes.” He stopped and seemed to be in deep thought, then took Cheryl's hands in his own and said: “Do you think so, Cheryl? Do you think God will forgive me?”

*  *  *

“Oh come on.” Cheryl tugged at Stephen's arm. “You love Lady Gaga. How about one dance? Please?”

“I don't feel like dancing,” Stephen answered, pulling away and heading toward the bar. “And I don't feel like being around a lot of people tonight. I shouldn't have let you talk me into coming with you.”

Cheryl sighed as she squeezed into the small space at the bar next to him. She hadn't really felt like going out either, but she couldn't think of any other way to cheer Stephen up. He'd gone through “I hate being gay” moods before, but this one seemed so much more severe than any of the other times. Usually he'd throw a four- or five-hour pity-party, get tipsy, and then insist they go out. Sometimes he would dress extra conservatively and try to act so straight it was obvious that it was an act; other times he'd dress so flamboyant he'd be downright gaudy. There seemed to be no rhyme or reason as to which way he'd go, but after they went out and had a few more drinks, he'd always declare, “To hell with it. I'm gay, and I don't care who cares.” But this time was very different. He boo-hooed until he was almost hoarse, and wanted Cheryl to go home so he could stay in the house and boo-hoo some more. But Cheryl refused to leave. He was so depressed she was concerned he might try something stupid. Like maybe suicide.