Men Who Love Men (14 page)

“Do you know who’s here?” Susan asks me. “Your teacher.”

“What teacher?”

“Mr. Kelly.” Susan seems eminently pleased with herself. “I always liked him. He was always nice to me. But I can tell by how you talk about him that you hate him.”

“So?”

“So,” she says, grinning evilly, “he’s the one that ordered the special bacon double cheeseburger. And I’m going to make
you
bring it out to him.”

“You bring it out to him!”

She smirks. “I’m on cash register. You have to do it.”

Freddie flips the burger onto a roll and slides it over to me to wrap.

I look down on it.

I remember that scene in
Roots
where Leslie Uggams spits into Sandy Duncan’s water.

Of course I don’t do it. I just wrap the burger and place it on a tray.

“Excuse me,” I say to Susan.

I’m pleased she’s given me this opportunity.

“Hello, Mr. Kelly.”

He looks up at me from the booth with some surprise. His wife and three kids are already chowing down their food. I make sure I give him a big shit-eating smile as I hand him his burger.

“Enjoy,” I tell him, knowing he won’t.

A man like him would never eat something a faggot had touched.

I head back into the kitchen. “What do you have against him?” Susan asks as I return behind the counter. “All the cool kids always liked him.”

“Apparently, Susan,” I tell her, “I’m not cool.”

She doesn’t know what to make of this new Henry, who seems so pleased with himself, who seems unable to be rattled about anything. In my mind, I know I have just a couple more months. Then summer will be over, and I’ll be off to college. U-Mass isn’t far away, just an hour up Route 91. But there I will, in fact, be a world away from all this. And my life will begin.

In my sleep, I grab hold of my pillows. That young Henry Weiner had so many dreams. So many plans and hopes and expectations.

He was strong. He was confident.

I’m glad I’m dreaming about him.

I need to remember him, now and then.

F
our days. That’s how long it’s been.

And I was right. Gale hasn’t called.

I’ve seen him twice at the gym. Both times there’s been a big smile and friendly greeting. But no kiss, and no mention of a second date. He just flips that fucking hot little torso round and round on the bar and I pretend not to notice as I struggle through ten reps on the incline press.

“He doesn’t like me,” I say to Lloyd, turning the computer on. It makes a small
ping
. “That much is obvious.”

Lloyd sighs. “Look how you automatically draw negative conclusions,” he says as he arranges black-eyed Susans in a vase, backed by tall sprigs of purple sage.

“Oh, come on,” I argue. “Four days. And no mention, nothing.”

“You could call
him
,” Lloyd says, keeping his eyes on the flowers.

I shake my head. “He was very clear.
I’ll call you
.”

“That’s an excuse, Henry,” Lloyd says, setting the vase on the counter. “If you want to see him again, call him.”

“I agree,” comes a voice from the basement stairs. In seconds Luke is in view, lugging a basket of freshly laundered linens. “He’s probably thinking the same thing, that
you
don’t like
him
.”

The brat is naked from the waist up again. Doesn’t he own any shirts? I’ve objected to the way he flits around here, his shorts hanging off his ass, but Lloyd has overruled me. The guests love Luke, he’s explained. Especially the men.

At his job, Luke has become a pro. I continue to resent the fact that he’s so fucking good. Every day he’s here bright and early. He’s smiling and wide awake, when I’m sleepy and cranky. Whistling while he works, he changes all the bedding in under an hour. Then he sweeps and dusts and polishes without needing to be asked. Goddamn him. If he were screwing up, I could fire him. But Lloyd thinks he’s the best houseboy we’ve ever had.

I don’t respond to Luke’s advice about my love life, hoping he’ll disappear upstairs, but he stops as he passes me, setting the laundry basket down on the counter.

“There was a guy I really liked once myself,” he says, “but I couldn’t figure if he liked me, and so I never let him know. Turns out he was waiting for me, too.”

Lloyd approaches the counter. “How’d you find that out?” he asks, as I shoot him a look as if to say,
Don’t engage him
.

But it’s too late. Luke runs with it. “Oh, man, it’s quite a story,” he says. “If you want to know the truth, he was my
stepbrother
.” The kid catches Lloyd’s wide eyed reaction. “Now don’t freak out. There was no blood relation. But we had to share a room, and well, you know, when your teenage hormones are hopping around and all…”

“Did the two of you actually do the deed?” Lloyd asks.

Luke grins. “Once. It was so hot. I had two stepsisters, too, and they were in the room next to ours, so we had to be really quiet.”

I don’t want to admit that the story is turning me on, so I try to veer it off course a bit. “So tell me, Luke,” I say. “Is West the name you were born with, or was it your stepfather’s name?”

His eyes move over to mine. He knows I’m testing him. Who’s to say what this kid’s real name is? Like so many guesthouses, we’re paying him under the table; there’s been no reason to check him out. I hold his gaze as he seems, momentarily, to consider how to answer me. What will it be, Luke? I wonder. The truth, or some version of it? What will serve your schemes best?

“Well, in fact,” he says, “my stepfather had an entirely different name. I suppose calling him my stepfather isn’t quite accurate.”

“Oh no?” I ask.

Luke smiles. “I guess it was more like foster father. He and his wife took me in to live with them. You see, I had been living in a homeless shelter.”

I see the look of compassion cross Lloyd’s face. “Really? I didn’t know…Where were your real parents?”

The kid makes a sad face. God, he’s good. “My mother was dead, my father had taken off.”

He seems genuinely forlorn for a moment, remembering his past.

“I should admit something to you guys,” he says. “West is a name I made up on my way to New York. That’s where my stepdad—well, the guy I call my stepdad anyway—found me and brought me home to live with his family.”

“This would be on Long Island,” I say, trying to see if I can catch him in an inconsistency.

“That’s right,” Luke says. “Oh, man, what a difference that was. Sleeping in my own bed with real sheets and pillows. Living on the street had been hell. But I have to say it was better than living with my Uncle Louie in the backwoods of New Jersey. I remember the night I left, heading up the New Jersey Turnpike. I was hitchhiking and some guy in a Ford Bronco picked me up. I told him just to take me as far as he was going. We hadn’t even gone a mile before he slid his gnarled hand onto my knee.”

I look over at Lloyd. He doesn’t look back. He’s standing behind the front desk watching Luke as if he’s mesmerized.

“The Bronco reeked of cigarettes,” Luke continues, “though the guy hadn’t smoked at all since picking me up. Still, I remember how the ashtray was overflowing with ashes and butts, and there were several lighters strewn about on the floor. Next thing I know the gnarled hand on my knee is giving me a little squeeze. For a second I wasn’t sure what to do, then somewhow I just knew. I looked over at the guy and made eye contact. He grinned. Some of his teeth were brown. I grinned back.”

“Man,” Lloyd says, “you were taking a big risk.”

“I suppose, but it didn’t seem scary or anything. I was acting almost on instinct.” Luke’s quite into his story, and despite my misgivings, I can’t deny he’s hooked me. He leans his head on the laundry basket as he goes on. “So the guy pulls over at the next rest stop. He didn’t say anything. I just unzipped my jeans and let him slobber yellow nicotine all over my cock. I came, he swallowed. That was it. But I had an idea.”

“What was that?” Lloyd asks.

“Zipping up, I told him that I had no money. Otherwise, I said, I’d be taking the bus, not risking my life hitchhiking like this. I told him that I knew there were psychos out there—men who got off on slicing young boys like me to pieces, but what choice did I have? I had no money, and I had to get away from my uncle and find a new life for myself in New York.”

“Rather shrewd, but still risky,” Lloyd says.

Luke nods. “But it paid off. ‘Here,’ the guy says, wiping his chin with the back of his hand and taking his wallet out of his pants with the other. He thrust three twenties over at me. ‘How old are you anyway?’ he asked. For all he knew I was underage and maybe planning on turning him in.”

“How old
were
you, Luke?” I’m determined to file away all this information for later, hoping to catch him in a lie.

“Nineteen,” he tells me. “I remember that the guy called me ‘practically jailbait’ and told me to get off the street, that I’d discover that not all the guys who’d pick me would be softies like him.” Luke lets out a laugh. “But you know what? They were. Every single one of them. Another guy, who picked me up near Trenton, was a bit rougher, wanting me to blow him. Still, he coughed up a twenty. But the last guy, who took me all the way into Manhattan, gave me fifty bucks just out of the goodness of his heart. No sex. Nothing. I remember he had a rainbow sticker on his back windshield.”

“Quite the adventure,” Lloyd says. “I’m glad you made it through.”

“So you see, Henry,” Luke says, turning to me, “when you told me you had escorted, I could relate.”

I immediately become defensive of my old life. “There is a big difference between escorting and hustling,” I insist.

“Oh?” Luke asks, apparently sincerely. “What is it?”

I have no quick answer. Lloyd takes advantage of my indecision to bring the story back to its original purpose. “So the stepbrother?”

Luke laughs. “Oh, right! It was really pretty hot, because he was gorgeous. All the girls were in love with him. Really pinup material. We kept our feelings for each other private for a long time, but finally one night, sleeping just a few feet away from each other in just our underpants, we started going at it. It was so nice kissing him. I wanted to be just like him, you know—and I vowed right then and there that someday I would be. But afterward we both felt guilty and never said anything about it, even though I wanted so much to make love to him again.”

“So how did you find out he felt the same way?” Lloyd asks.

Luke smiles. “It took a while. It was right before I came up here, in fact. I was part of this writing group that gave a reading of our work at this bookstore in Manhattan. I hadn’t seen Mike in a couple of years, but he must have seen my name on the flyers. So he came, and I read this piece about unfulfilled love, and afterward he asked if it was about him and me. I said yes, and he admitted he felt the same. But it was too late. He had gotten married and had a kid and was committed to being a born-again Christian.”

“No way,” Lloyd says.

Luke nods. “Very sad. Oh, well.” He shrugs, lifting the laundry basket again. “Back to work. But take a lesson, Henry.”

We watch him as he heads up the stairs, his shorts sliding down his butt.

“Did you believe a word of that?” I ask Lloyd after the kid is gone.

“Why shouldn’t I?”

I sigh. “He’s just admitted to being a hustler. He’s hustling us the same way he did those drivers, except money isn’t really his object anymore.”

“And what
is
his object, Henry?” Lloyd asks. “Jeff?”

“I’m not sure. But Jeff’s a part of it.”

Lloyd shakes his head. “Even if he’s telling tall tales, I think he’s harmless.”

“You just think he has a cute ass,” I grumble.

“There’s no arguing about that,” Lloyd says, winking at me.

I turn back to the computer, going over the day’s reservations. I don’t know why I remain so hostile toward Luke. Maybe I’m still just peeved over his transparent ploy to meet Jeff through me. I suppose I should just let that go. But I can’t help being suspicious of him. I simply don’t trust the kid.

I try to busy myself behind the desk, totaling up credit card receipts. It’s been a good summer moneywise. Maybe Lloyd will even give me a raise. Maybe then I can think about buying my own place. I’m tired of living above the guesthouse, tired of renting, of not having any roots. But whenever I’ve imagined buying a house, it’s always been with a lover. To buy a place on my own seems almost a concession to the idea of being single forever.

“Excuse me.”

I look up. Lloyd has left the room, and a man has come in, a backpack slung over his shoulder. He’s got a beefy frame and sports a close-cropped beard. He looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him.

“May I help you?” I ask.

“Hi, Henry,” the man says.

“Hi.” I’m still not sure who he is, but obviously he knows me.

The man smiles. “Wondering if you have a room. Maybe the same one I had a few days ago?”

Then I remember. It’s Bert’s friend.

“Oh,” I say. “I thought you guys had gone back to Pittsburgh.”

“We did.” The man grins, his blue eyes twinkling. “But during my stay here, I fell in love with P-town. I went back home only long enough to quit my job, put my things in storage, and come back.”

“Wow,” I say. “You mean, you’re going to
live
here?”

“That’s my goal. Call it a midlife crisis. But I’ve never felt more clarity about anything in my life.”

He’s got to be pushing fifty. He was probably very handsome once, before he lost most of his hair and began suffering from middle-age spread.

“What do you plan to do to make a living here?” I ask.

“I’m a carpenter,” he says. “I hope to find some work. I thought I’d check in here, then head out and look for a job and a permanent space.”

“Jobs are easy to find, except they don’t pay,” I caution him. “As for housing, well, unless you have a ton of money, there’s not much.”

He smiles. “Thanks for the words of encouragement.”

“I just thought you ought to know.”

“I do. So is the room available?”

“Yes,” I tell him. “What is your name again?”

“Martin Jackman.”

I type his name into the computer. “Yep, here you are. Will you be using the same credit card?”

“Yes.”

“Okay. So how many nights?”

“Three.”

I raise my eyebrows at him over the computer. “Optimistic, are we?”

“Yes,” Martin Jackman says. “We are.”

I hand him the key to the room and he bounds up the stairs.

Once, I took a chance like he did. I quit my job and moved here, too. But I came with a job waiting, and Jeff and Lloyd in place as my support. Still, it was a risk. I think about what my life might have been like had I stayed in that boring, lifeless job back in Boston. Yes, I’d still be trapped in a frantic unrewarding lifestyle—but I’ve come to realize that Provincetown is not an easy place to live if you’re single. In the summer there are lots of guys passing through, but I want more than just a one-night stand. And year round, the pool from which to fish is very, very small.

There I go, thinking about finding Mr. Right again. I had promised myself to cut it out. Get a grip, Weiner. Stop feeling sorry for yourself. So what if Gale hasn’t called? So what if I end up alone in my old age?

So what if I give up all of my dreams?

I need some air. I make my way around the front desk and out into the yard, where I find Jeff deadheading the roses that grow along the fence. He gives me a little salute.

“Not writing this morning?” I ask.

“Too beautiful to stay inside,” he tells me.

I nod, plopping down on a bench to watch him work.

The sun brings out the muscles in his back in stark relief. Every time he wields the clippers I can see the movement of his delts and traps. How does Jeff stay so lean? He’s more than half a decade older than I am. It’s not fair.

“You want to talk about anything, buddy?” Jeff asks, not turning around from the roses.