Lovesick (32 page)

The charm of his scent mixed with the wine was enough to make me swoon. I was inside a dream. And so César made love to me all afternoon and into the evening. Afterward, he ordered Chinese take-away, and we sat naked in bed cross-legged eating egg rolls and fried rice.

“I cannot believe your parents named you Malcolm,” he said. “It is too grim. No, no, no. It doesn't suit you, sugar.”

“It was a family name. My mother's grandfather was Malcolm.”

“It makes you sound like an undertaker. Malcolm Vale. It isn't a name for a florist.
César,
that is a name for a florist, but that is taken already,” he said, bowing his head. “What is your middle name?”

“Rex.”

César erupted in laughter. “Someone has played a nasty trick on you, my sweet sugar. Malcolm Rex. Ha. Ha.” And he began to laugh deeply. “It will never do.” And then he thought for a moment. “M.R.—M.R. Vale. It is very dignified. People will call you Mister, but your friends know you as M.R. Who knows, perhaps you will become more famous than Mr. Blackwell.”

“And what will you call me?” I asked.

“I will call you Sweet Sugar.”

There is no way to elucidate love, to justify its madness. I can't explain it any better than to say I fell hopelessly in love with César. I didn't know how it would happen, but I knew that my whole life would be spent loving him from that moment forward. I had no way to understand that our love would not even survive the weekend.

The next morning, César escorted me to the conference. I told him I needed to go back to the hotel for a change of clothes, but he would not hear of it. He selected some things from his closet—a pair of tight jeans with a Gap T-Shirt. I had planned to wear pleated slacks and a tie for my four-hour arranging examination. It was the same outfit I had worn to graduation a couple of years earlier, and I wanted to look professional.

“You are going to be working for four hours in a room full of queens. Pack yourself into these jeans and they will remember you. Make their little Jack in a Pulpit stand up.” And he flicked his little finger up into the air. Then with a flourish, he tied a fuchsia-colored silk scarf around his neck. “Seriously, you are so serious. Look at me. I am a butterfly. I am a work of art. I make beauty wherever I am. And I know what is what in this world. If you go in there looking like Mr. Malcolm Rex, a hillbilly rube, they will mock you, and no matter how good your flowers are, they will not like them. You have to show them you know how to play the game. Put it back on them, M.R. Vale. Dare them not to like you, and they will think you are a bitch, but they will know you are one of us.”

It may sound odd, but I understood what he meant. All my life I had stood outside the circle, looking into the groups. Here was someone, like me, someone I was in love with, who was showing me how to step inside the ring. I would have worn stilettos if he had told me to. So, at the registration table, I had them change my name tag from Malcolm Vale to M.R. Vale. When the woman at the table sniped that the card had been processed to match my application, I did not apologize or make an excuse. I simply said, “It's a mistake. And you need to do your job and fix it.”

And so for the next two days, we went to the conference, César attending the workshops, me creating casket sprays, bridal posies, and holiday centerpieces. And we would find each other at the breaks for coffee or to go to lunch. Once, he was waiting for me as I exited from the exam room, pulling me close and whispering in my ear as he leaned in for a kiss. “Oh my man, I love him so.” Just like in the song. And we would walk along the aisles of booths at the close of the day critiquing the flowers entered into the contests, me telling him about my own arrangements. César had a sophisticated eye, and he would point out to me how the subtleties of color in a gladiola lifted a pyramid or how height and volume of a crescent had been distorted by peacock feathers. “It looks like a fan for a stripper. No, no no.” Sneaking a peek inside the room where my own arrangements were housed, he returned with positive but constructive criticism. “You have the ability, you are very talented, my sweet, but you lack confidence. That will come in time. I will teach you.”

In the evenings when we would get back to the neighborhood, he would hold my hand as we walked down the street to a restaurant or bar. It wasn't unusual to see men walking arm and arm, but it was new for me. It was if I had suddenly gained substance, become visible. We went shopping for shoes, pants, shirts, even underwear. Gone suddenly were my schoolboy briefs as César introduced me to a world of silk and Lycra. “Does the queen keep her crown in a cotton sack? No, so do not keep your jewels there either.” He showed me inside his small shop, named simply
César's.
“I am the star. It is my name I want them to remember,” he said.

On my third night with him, he made dinner in the apartment, chicken and rice, and then we lay in bed late into the night intertwined in each other, unable, unwilling to sleep, the sounds of the street creeping up through the windows. It was then he suggested that I come to New York. “Where you live is nothing but rednecks and shit-kickers. They will never let you be who you are. And you know that. You couldn't get me there on a dare. Here you can bloom like the rare and exotic flower that you are.” I would like to say that I resisted, that I was levelheaded as a judge, and said, “But we just met two days ago. What do we really know about each other? What guarantees are you offering me? And you know nothing of where I live—the kindness of neighbors, or the quiet of a summer evening sitting on the front porch, or the buzz of a covered dish supper.” But I said none of those things because I knew what César said was true, if not in whole, at least in part, so I simply said, “Yes, yes, yes.”

I have promised to be true in the telling of this tale, dear friend, so I will tell you that I allowed César to have intercourse with me. Oh, I can hear you now—
intercourse,
how very delicate. What you mean to say is he fucked you. Yes, César fucked me, or rather we fucked each other, but there are times when a physical act becomes transcendent. That was perhaps the only time in my life that I have ever made love to anyone. As César began to push inside me, I let out a small cry. “Sometimes love hurts just a little bit, sugar. Breathe out—
one, two, three,
like that. And say, ‘I love you so much, I do this for you.' And then the pain will go away.”

So I breathed out—
one, two, three,
and repeated the words, losing myself in his eyes. And he was right. The pain went away.

The next morning the announcement of who had received certification and the scores for their arrangements were posted on an easel outside the room where we had worked. I had scored in the upper 10% of the group and was given a distinction. César had received an honorable mention for his Moribana arrangement. He suggested we celebrate with a picnic in Central Park, but I told him that I absolutely must return to my hotel. “I haven't even spent one night there. Besides, my suit is there, and my good shoes, and I want to wear them to the gala tonight.”

“A suit. You will look like a revival preacher.”

In truth, I planned to shop for a new shirt and tie—perhaps even an ascot or scarf, but I wanted to surprise him. “You can call for me there. We will have a date.”

“What time do you wish me to call for you on this date, my sweet?”

“The gala begins at eight. Come at seven.”

“I cannot wait that long. I will die.” He held his hands over his heart as if pained and pouted his lips.

“Seven. And then we will go to the gala.”

“And you will never leave me ever again?”

“Never.”

“Then, until tonight,” he said, removing the apricot-colored scarf from his neck and tying it around mine. “
Te tengo en mi corazón mi amor.
I will hold you in my heart, my love.”

I walked the blocks back to my hotel alone, wrapped in the warm glow of love, rehearsing how I was going to tell my mother that I was not coming home. She would be surprised, shocked, hurt, but she would understand. I would make her understand. However, Mother had her own surprise waiting for me.

When I walked into the lobby of the hotel to retrieve my key, the clerk gave me a funny look before handing me a stack of messages. “Someone has been trying to contact you since late yesterday. They say it is urgent for you to get in touch immediately.” As I boarded the elevator and rode to my room, I tried to fathom why Mother's doctor would be calling me in New York. Surely this was not a good thing.

My suspicions were correct. When I called the number on the message sheet, Dr. Everett answered almost immediately. “Malcolm, where the hell have you been? Not that it matters right now, but you need to know your mother has had a stroke.”

“Is she going to die?” I asked.

“No, I don't think so,” he said. “But it is very serious. She has paralysis and some speech loss, but those may be able to come back some with rehabilitation. She wants you here. She needs you here. This is going to be a long, hard road for her—for the both of you. You need to come home right away. She is awake and asking for you.” Then a final exasperated, “Where the hell were you? I have been calling since yesterday afternoon.”

“Out,” I said. “I have been out.”

“I can only imagine,” the doctor replied. I could sense the condemnation in his voice.

“Yes, well, I will get the next plane home,” I said.

“That would be a good thing.”

“And Dr. Everett,” I added, “please don't call me Malcolm. I go by M.R.”

“Whatever,” said the doctor. “Just get your tail home.”

In the movies, there is always the scene where the jilted lover waits—whether in the bustling train station, the empty town square, or the noisy hotel lobby. In my scenario, I imagined César waiting in the hotel lobby for me that night holding a single rose in his hand as a token of his love, what he said when the hotel clerk would have told him I checked out without leaving any message, wondering if he went to the closing night party looking for me, tried to envision him dropping the rose in the gutter. Or did he press its petals in between pages of a book? I played it so many different ways in my head. I did not have the courage to call him, the courtesy to even leave him a message. Besides, what could I say, “Mother is ill. Must leave. I'll keep you posted.” I knew that when I boarded the plane for home, I was closing the chapter on César once and for all. I could not leave any trace of myself for him, could not give myself any hope for return. It would have been impossible to leave if I had. So, I took my suitcase (which had never been unpacked), had the doorman hail a taxi for me, and returned to Morris.

I am not sure what happened to César. I did try to contact him once after Mother had died and I was really down in the dumps. I thought I would tell him that I was free now to leave, to return to New York, to him. I don't know that I expected him to forgive me, to want me to come back, but that shred of hope was all I had at the time. However, the directory assistance operator said she had no listing for a César's in New York City. I knew that César would never leave New York, and it crossed my mind that perhaps he had succumbed to the gay plague that was sweeping the big cities at the time, but decided that the operator had just not been able to locate the number. I did not try anymore after that. But the things that César gave to me, I have kept forever. He was right—customers do call me Mister Vale, and after all these years, I doubt if anyone ever remembers my given name. I wear a scarf every day around my neck just like he did, tied in the same way he tied it that afternoon. But even more, I live by his philosophy, so all the rednecks and shit-kickers and born-again bitches who come into my shop every day cannot touch me or hurt me because I am a butterfly. I am a work of art. I make beauty wherever I am. And I know what is what in this world.
Te tengo en mi corazón mi amor.

 

Lonnie followed me into the house after we parked the van. I tried hard not to remember how the left half of Roger's head had lifted away from rest of his face like a shard of glass splintering off a shattered vase. His eyes had opened at the sound of the explosion in his ear, and as his head fell back against the white brocade of the wingback, it seemed as if he had thought of one last thing he wanted to ask. “Why?”

That was the question burning in my head as well. Why did it have to turn out like this? Surely there could have been another way. I warmed a plate of food for Lonnie, who seemed to have no difficulty eating. In fact, his appetite was as hearty as ever. When he was done, he leaned back in his chair and motioned for me to sit. He took a swig of his beer, and said, “We got some things to figure out.”

I sat down at the table. Perhaps he would explain it to me, give me some insight that would help me to understand.

Instead, he said, “I don't think I can be coming around here anymore.”

“But why? Roger is gone. He won't tell anyone.”

“This is a small town. There is bound to be some talk.”

“Not from me,” I said. “I swear I have never mentioned you to anyone.”

“But from someone. Someone will see me coming here or leaving. And I don't want anyone talking about me like that. You got to understand. Ain't no one can know about me and you. Can't no one see me here or know about me and you.”

I was suddenly angry for Lonnie, sad for the shame he must feel, wanted to protect him.

“Men have . . . special friendships with other men,” I said. “There is no reason to be afraid or ashamed.”

He turned his head sharply toward me, his eye burning. “Don't you think I don't know that? I been around enough to know what's what. When I was—before I was old enough to be on my own, I lived in a place, a place where they put boys like me.”