Lovesick (31 page)

There are few things I hate more than a closed door. What lives behind it exists only in the imagination, and I tried hard not to envision what was happening back there. There were a few heavy thumps like furniture being moved. Was that a slap? A punch? Was he hitting him? Beating him? As bad as that idea was, it was actually a relief, since my chief fear was that Lonnie had taken Roger to the bedroom to make love. But how could he? It would make no sense. Or did he plan to have sex with Roger and then hold that knowledge over him as a way to blackmail him? Or even worse, would he expect me to share him with Roger?

I tried to divert my thoughts by studying the living room. For Laverne, decorating meant covering every square inch of space with a picture, a fabric, a flounce. She had used a neutral backdrop—plush, Saxony beige carpet, off-white, satin-on-twill brocade for furniture upholstery. She had accented the room with gilt frames and shining brass lamps, and over the fireplace hung the requisite family portrait: an oil painting of Laverne and Roger reproduced from a photo they had taken for the Methodist Church Directory. Laverne told me how she had seen it advertised on Home Shopping. All she had to do was send in the photo and the size painting she wanted and “Zap!” she had an original piece of art. Of course, it was all done by a computer, but still, it was totally customized. I looked at how the painting had washed age and care from their faces, and instead of a photographer's backdrop, the painter had placed them in a rose-covered arbor. Even the flowers were golden yellow and a soft white light radiated from behind them. A hummingbird hovered over Laverne's shoulder as if ready to burst into a spirited rendition of “Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah.” I wondered if Laverne had made those choices as part of the custom job, and what other locations were available? What if I were to have a photo of Lonnie taken with me and then made into a painting? Could we escape together to a courtyard in Italy or a dew-covered meadow by a stream? Would we sit together under an arbor bathed in light?

I traced a pattern with my fingers along the edge of the sumptuous cushion, as if trying to decipher a secret Braille message embedded in the fabric. I could feel fear rise in my stomach, dark bile mixing with the bourbon, leaving a sour taste in my mouth. I had drunk too much too quickly, but I knew that was not the reason for my sick stomach. I was terrified of what was going on behind the closed door to Roger's room. Were those grunts, groans, muffled sobs? Or was that merely my imagining? What if I were to burst in on them—what then? What if they were making love? What if Lonnie was holding Roger in his arms? Kissing him? Caressing him? Things that had never been available to me. What if Lonnie preferred Roger? And then I had a very bad thought—where I had been afraid that Lonnie would hurt Roger, I was now afraid that he might not. I was afraid that he might throw me over. And I could not allow that to happen.

I sat there, watching the ice melt in the bottom of my glass, trying to imagine life without Lonnie, how I would beg him not to toss me out, that I would do anything he wanted me to do—
just don't leave me
—when I heard the door to the bedroom open and Roger and Lonnie's footsteps in the hall. I was hesitant to look up at them, afraid that something would show in my face when I saw them together. Roger came in first. He was still wearing his robe, though I noticed he no longer had on the bottoms of his pajamas or his bedroom slippers—he was bare-legged, barefooted.
He wasn't wearing pants
—
what did that mean?
But there was also something else that was different. It took me a moment to realize that Roger was wearing lipstick and rouge and powder. I almost burst out laughing until I saw that Lonnie had a gun pointed at Roger's back. I would swear that Roger had been crying, but now he just looked like a man who was in shock. I thought of Laverne and her cartoonish face that day I had brought her the casserole.

“You sit here in the chair,” Lonnie said, gesturing to one of the wingbacks flanking the fireplace. Roger didn't say anything but did as he was commanded. “M.R., here, you hold the gun.” And with that, Lonnie handed the pistol over to me. “Keep it pointed at him, and if he tries to run, shoot the son of a bitch. I will be back after I talk to a man about a horse.” When he had gone, all I wanted to do was ask Roger if he had had sex with Lonnie, had seen him naked, had touched his dick, but I was afraid if he said
yes,
I would fire a bullet straight into his heart.

Roger spoke instead. “M.R., what kind of crazy shit have you got yourself tangled up with.”

I wanted to say that I wasn't the one tangled up, sitting in my house looking like Baby Jane, but all I said was, “I don't know what you mean.”

“This man of yours. He's crazy mean and dangerous. What do you know about him?”

I couldn't really tell Roger that I knew practically nothing about Lonnie. From the first day he had stepped foot in my shop till now. I knew he liked Sun Drop better than Coke. I knew he liked fried chicken better than baked, I knew he like his balls sucked rather than licked, but that was about it. What I said was, “He doesn't talk much. And he's never been hurtful to me.”

“Give him time, and then God help you.” Roger paused for a moment. “He said he was going to kill me.”

My stomach lurched. “He doesn't mean that. He's just trying to scare you,” I said.
See, dear friend, I didn't know for certain that Roger was about to die. Or perhaps the truth of it is, I didn't want to believe it.

“Actually, I think he does mean it. But you know what, I'm not scared. Maybe I am too tired and worn-out to be scared.”

I thought of the two years when Laverne was sick, how Roger had nursed her and cared for her.

“I worked my whole life doing what people told me was the right thing to do, and what did it come to? Laverne rotting in a box—taken much too early. Is this all that is left of her, of me and her, of us?” He gestured around the living room. “Good ole Roger and Laverne. The bedrock of the community. If they only knew.”

“But at least you have had this,” I said. Then something I had not ever even dared utter: “I can have that with Lonnie.”

“Jesus, M.R., if you believe that, then you are a fool. You think you are going to settle down with him and live here in Morris and live happily ever after? He wants something from you. He will get it from you, too, by the sounds of it—or take it from you, and then he will be done with you. Do you know he wanted to know about my cash accounts, and where the title to the cars were, and if Laverne had any jewelry? Why would he want to know those things if he didn't plan to hurt me? How will you be able to build a life on that? Are you that desperate for love?”

“Don't lecture me about love,” I barked. “You have had a life. You have had love. I have never had . . .” I didn't finish my thought because Lonnie walked back into the room. I wondered how much he had heard of the conversation.

“So, ladies, what's been going on without me?” he asked. When neither of us responded, he continued. “I thought Roger might want to show off his outfit for you, M.R. Go on there, sir, show M.R. your fancy dress-up.”

Roger didn't say anything, but stood and untied the sash to his robe and opened it wide to reveal what was underneath. He wore what must have been some of Laverne's old lingerie—bra and panties. Even though Laverne had been a large woman, they were still hideously too small for him, and cut into the folds of his flesh like he had been wound too tightly in Ace bandages. If it was meant to shame him, humiliate him, Roger did not show it. Something had happened to Roger. He had crossed over. Whatever was coming was just the final step. I tried to avoid his stare.

“Isn't he purty?” said Lonnie. “As purty as a picture?”

“Why are you doing this?” I asked. “Is it really necessary?”

“I have my reasons,” Lonnie said, “and don't you concern yourself with them or you will find out . . .” His voice trailed off. “I have my reasons. Ain't nobody going to talk about me. Ain't nobody going to be in my bidness that I don't want. You should know that, M.R., and if you don't, you best learn it quick smart. Now, gimme the gun.”

I did as he asked.

“I have a request,” said Roger.

“And what would that be, your highness?”

“I would like to have some music.”

“I don't go in for no hymns or no church bullshit,” said Lonnie.

“No,” said Roger. “Just a bit of music. If you are intent on doing what you said, then please, at least let me have that. Some last bit of something that belongs just to me.”

“You better not be trying to get one over,” said Lonnie.

“No, I'm not trying to trick you.” And before Lonnie could stop him, Roger was loading a CD into the player. He took a moment to find the track that he wanted, then settled back into the chair, closing his eyes. Music filled the room, the sad, beautiful, mournful song of a woman.

“What is this?” I asked.

“Violetta.
La Traviata
. Act Three. ‘
Addio del Passato—So Closes My Sad Story
.' ”

And with that, Lonnie walked over to Roger and fired a bullet straight into his head.

I have felt badly that one of the last things that I ever said to Roger was untrue. It occurred to me in the same instant I heard the explosion from the gun that I
had
known love once. Even though it only lasted a short while. Deep, pure, real love. I was a very young man. And with the echo of the blast ringing in my ears, my thoughts ricocheted back to him. His name was César.

I had gone to New York for a floral design show, and to take the test to receive my certified floral designer qualification. It is very prestigious indeed to be able to put those initials behind your name: M.R. Vale, CFD. It is like being a doctor or a professor—it denotes expertise. Mother had treated me to the trip as a way for me to celebrate my new life, though she feared that I'd find my way into the world outside Morris. She had every right to fear. I was determined to leave at the first opportunity. César provided that opportunity, but that was not why I loved him.

The design show and convention was held over a three-day period with a gala reception on the closing night to honor those awarded CFD status and to honor winners of various floral design competitions. The conference also featured sessions on such useful topics as
How to
Grow
Your Business
and
Falling into Spring: Staying Ahead of the Season.
But they held little interest for me. My focus was to pass my exam and receive my accreditation. In one grueling four-hour practical examination, I would have to prepare and present arrangements from a variety of categories including Sympathy Design, Centerpiece, Wedding, Corsage, and Duplicate. In the last category we would have to reproduce an arrangement from a picture so if we had a call from a florist in another city who had a customer who wanted the Mother's Helper FTD arrangement, I would be able to reproduce it faithfully. To be honest, I doubted any florist from any other city would ever have a customer wanting to send flowers to anyone in Morris, but once I moved on, well, who knew what requests I might get.

Mother had arranged for me to spend five nights in New York, so I arrived the day before the conference began to sightsee, and I planned to stay on the Sunday following the Saturday night gala so I could go to a matinee of
A Chorus Line.
I had the album and knew all the songs by heart, and even though I knew the original cast would have long ago left the show, I didn't care. It was Broadway. “Kiss my ass good-bye, and point me toward tomorrow!”

After I had taken the Grey Line tour of the city, I wandered down to Columbus Circle to the New York Coliseum where the conference would be held. Even though the conference was not scheduled to begin until the next day, the place buzzed with exhibitors setting up displays and contestants arranging flowers for the competitions. I was studying one of the entries in the Japanese flower arrangements competition when I met César. He was just completing an arrangement of tulips, narcissus, iris, and lilies in a shallow black bowl. The card identified it as a Moribana arrangement, and I looked in my index of terms to see what that meant. In my experience I had done only ovals, or domes, or fans—nothing so exotic as this. As I was looking in my index of flower terms, I noticed him—or rather I noticed him looking at me. He smiled, and when he finished, he came over to me.

“You like?” he asked.

“It's beautiful,” I said. “I've never seen anything like it.”

“I'm not talking about the flowers, sugar,” he said, his smile spreading across his face. “Do you like me?” And with that, he stepped back, pointed a toe, and fanned his hand out—
ta-da!
I wasn't quite sure what to say. I knew that I was gay, had been called
sissy
and
pansy
all my life, but my only sexual experience had been masturbating over the models in the underwear section of the Sears catalog. This was the first time a man had ever actually spoken to me like that. I mean, he knew. He saw me and he knew, and even more, he wanted me. I wish I could say that I played hard to get, that I was all
fiddledeedee
with him. But the truth is, I was ripe for the picking and César knew it.

So, without so much as a “May I buy you a drink?” César packed up his tools and whisked me back to his apartment on MacDougal Street in Greenwich Village. I felt like a character in one of Mother's Harlequin novels. The virgin set loose in the big city, seduced on his very first day. Everything was happening so quickly it nearly took my breath away. We stopped at a small grocery on the corner and bought fruit and cheese and two bottles of Chablis. “One for now. One for later,” he said. His apartment was everything I imagined a New York apartment to be: tiny, old, eclectic. César had draped off the bedroom area with a swooping sheer fabric in metallic gold, alternating with layers of purple and maroon. It was like being inside the tent of an Arabian sheik. César was small framed like me, and after pouring the wine, he lay me back on a paisley printed velvet bedspread and began stroking my face, kissing me softly on the neck and on my temple. He was dark complexioned, with soft brown eyes, and he smelled sweet like lilac mixed with cherry blossom.