Men Who Love Men (27 page)

I laugh a little to myself. Is this really me, Henry Weiner, thinking this way?

All of a sudden I’m worried that some cop is going to come up behind me flashing his lights, so I start the Jeep again and pull a wide U-turn in the middle of Route 6. I’m heading back toward Provincetown. But the call from Evan has certainly gotten me thinking.

The joy of being gay, Jeff and Lloyd have taught me, is that we can create relationships however we choose, that we don’t need to fit proscribed patterns. We can build families based on what matters to us, on whatever our own individual tastes and needs might be. Monogamy too restricting? Toss it out! One lover too limiting? Get two! Or three!

Jeff and Lloyd have certainly lived that way at times. There have been other lovers for both of them, even while the two of them have been together. They’ve always made room for change, for experimentation, for challenge. And look at them today. All that nonconformity didn’t make them weaker. In fact, it made them strong enough and committed enough to want to get
married
.

So why am I still playing Cinderella, believing that the only way to find my Prince Charming is to go the ball and get him to notice me above all the other girls?

Rounding the hill in Truro, I observe the panorama of Provincetown that lies ahead: the narrow arc of sand that cuts through the bright turquoise water, the row of storybook cottages on one side, the rolling dunes on the other, the exclamation point of the Monument completing the picture at the far west. This is my home. For better or for worse, this is where I’ve cast my lot, and this is where I’ve got to find my heart.

Oh, I could move. I could quit my job and go back to Boston, where the pool of potential mates is a thousand times larger. But so is the potential for heartbreak. I realize, as I drive back into town, that no matter where I go, my questions and turmoil will follow. This is about me: it’s not about where I live, or who I see, or what kind of games other people are playing. All that matters is what I allow to matter.

And here, everything matters.
No one passes through Provincetown
. Here, there is purpose. Even without a plan, I remind myself, there is purpose.

Still, I hesitate going back to the guesthouse. I still don’t know how I feel about Luke. Maybe Jeff’s right. Maybe Luke did turn to me on the rebound, but he wouldn’t have done so if he didn’t like me in the first place. Why shouldn’t I believe that? He’s a scared kid, after all, and he felt rejected by someone he admired. I’ve been in his shoes many times. Maybe I shouldn’t be so quick to judge him.

Passing Clem and Ursie’s restaurant on Shank Painter Road, I resist the urge to stop for a frozen custard cone—that is, until I spot Ann Marie and J. R. out front. I quickly swing the Jeep into the parking lot.

“Hey!” Ann Marie sings out, seeming thrilled to see me.

“Hey you two,” I say, hopping out of the Jeep and taking note of their cones. “I was being so good in passing by here until I saw you guys. What flavors did you get?”

“I have a swirl,” Ann Marie says. “J. R. got chocolate.”

“It’s the best, huh, buddy?” I ask the boy.

He just shrugs as he licks his cone.

I look over at Ann Marie. She shakes her head as if to say she and Lloyd were unable to get through to him.

“Did you guys take the boat out?” I ask.

“No,” Ann Marie tells me. “J. R. just wanted to come home.”

I look down at J. R., who’s intent on his cone.

“Can I have a lick?” I ask.

He just frowns, avoiding eye contact.

I stoop down in front of him. “Can I just have one lick so I don’t have to buy a whole one for myself? Pretty please?”

He finally eyes me. “That would be
gross
.”

“Come on,” I say, teasing him, my tongue hanging out. “Let me lick.”

I’m like a big old dog trying to lap his cone out of his hands. I succeed in getting a small hint of a smile. “Uncle Henry!” J. R. says, holding his cone over his head. “Get away!”

“Lick, lick, lick!” I cry, pretending to jump.

And the kid’s frozen custard promptly falls from his cone onto the dusty asphalt.

“Fuck!” J. R. shouts. “Now look what you did!”

“J. R.,” his mother scolds. “Watch your language!”

“I’m sorry, buddy,” I say. “I was just horsing around. Here, let me buy you another one.”

“Well, you gotta make it
two
scoops now since you ruined that one,” J. R. tells me.

“Absolutely,” I say, approaching the window.

“With rainbow shots on it too,” the boy adds. Then he pauses. “No, just make it chocolate shots. No rainbow.”

I smile tightly. Rainbow shots, rainbow flag. Wouldn’t want to get a frozen custard cone that looked too gay.

I order double-scoop chocolate cones with chocolate shots for both of us. The three of us sit down on a bench and lick away, looking up at the late afternoon sky.

“So if you didn’t go out on the boat,” I ask, “where did Uncle Lloyd take you today?”

J. R. doesn’t answer, so his mother chimes in. “We went shopping in Chatham—”

“Boring,” J. R. intones.

“Then went swimming at the Wellfleet pond,” Ann Marie finishes.

“That must have been more fun,” I say, looking over at J. R.

Ann Marie is beaming. “Yeah, we saw one of those huge turtles—”

“What’s so great about seeing a turtle?” J. R. asks.

“Was it fun to be with Uncle Lloyd?” I ask.

The kid shrugs.

“Did you guys have a good talk?”

Ann Marie leans in. “J. R. wasn’t really in a talkative mood.”

I look down at the boy. “Seems like you haven’t been in a talkative mood for a while.” I take a long lick of my cone. “I can relate, you know. I’ve been feeling pretty shitty myself lately. And you know what? When you feel like that, nothing feels quite so good as feeling sorry for yourself.”

I notice a small flicker of the boy’s eyelashes, but he doesn’t look up from his frozen custard.

“Yep,” I continue, “wallowing in a puddle of self-pity is like being a pig in shit. You’re just rolling around in all your own bullshit and that’s all you want to do—no matter what anyone else tries to tell you.”

“Henry,” Ann Marie whispers, “the
language
…”

I ignore her. “But finally, you know what happens, J. R.? You realize shit
stinks
. Phew! Oh my God, it
reeks!
And you find you’ve got it smeared all over yourself.”

Finally the kid looks up at me. Despite himself, he’s smiling. The sure-fire way to get a nine-year-old boy to smile is to talk about stinky shit.

“So you know what I’m going to do?” I ask him. “I’m going home after I eat this delicious frozen custard and I’m taking the hottest shower I can. I think it’s time I cleaned myself up, don’t you?”

“You’re weird, Uncle Henry,” J. R. says, but he’s still smiling.

“Yes, I am weird,” I agree. “It’s both a blessing and a curse.”

I finish my cone and bid the two of them good-bye. I hop back into the Jeep, honking the horn as I pull out of the lot.

I’m not sure this is the best time to talk to Lloyd about what happened with Luke, given that he’s probably disappointed he didn’t have much success with J. R. today. But I can’t put it off any longer. I’m determined to move on, to stop wallowing in my own shit, just as I told the boy. I need to own up to what happened, and then try to figure out where—if anywhere—Luke and I might be heading.

Yet when I walk in, the guesthouse has an odd stillness hanging over it. I can’t quite figure out what it is that I feel when I step inside. No one’s at the front desk—but since all our guests are already checked in, and we’re notexpecting any others, no one needs to be. Still, Lloyd is usually somewhere nearby. There’s usually some sound, some stir of activity somewhere.

“Lloyd?” I call.

No answer. I flip open my phone and call over to his house next door. I get the machine. Maybe he and Jeff have gone out.

Then I notice the light on in the basement. I take a deep breath. If Lloyd’s not around, I do have one other task to attend to.

I need to talk with Luke.

It’s time for him to be honest with me.

Who
are
you?

And who am I
to
you?

I want to know.

Heading down the stairs, my heart is beating fast. I’m not sure why I’m so nervous. Nothing’s really changed since our talk this morning on the breakwater. All that’s happened is that I found out that he put the moves on Jeff. So what? Who cares? I just need to clarify that what happened between us was real, and figure out if he’s really someone I might want to—

I hear a sound.

A groan.

I step up my pace. Once again, Luke’s door is ajar. I hurry into the doorway.

And inside, on the bed, Luke is in the arms of Lloyd.

I
t’s Luke who notices me first. Once again, he doesn’t seem surprised to see me. His eyes seem to dance over Lloyd’s shoulder, almost as if—could it be possible?—he’s
glad
that I’ve caught him.

Lloyd, however, is a different story.

“Oh, man,” he says, rolling off the bed and staggering to his feet, fastening the buttons on his pants.

“Sorry to interrupt,” I spit, turning on my heel and hurrying back through the basement toward the stairs.

Lloyd is quickly behind me. “Henry, wait!”

“Why? Looks like you weren’t quite finished in there. Carry on!”

I rush up the stairs. Only at the top do I turn around. Lloyd is following, pulling his shirt on over his head.

“Henry,” he’s calling. “Listen to me, please!”

“Why?” I shout back at him, standing at the top of the stairs arms akimbo. I’m sure I look and sound like some old fishwife. “Why should I listen to you? So you can spout all your feel-good wisdom? Your stupid mumbo-jumbo? Goddamn you, Lloyd! Of everyone, you’re the one I always thought I could trust!”

He’s reached the top of the stairs. He grabs me by my arms and directs me into the room behind the front desk, where he shuts the door and locks it. “Henry,” he implores. “Please sit down.”

“I prefer to stand.”

He sighs. “I’m sorry, my friend. I know we agreed not to fool around with the staff. I don’t know what came over me—”

“I know what came over you! That fucking little temptress and his big sad eyes and cute little stomach!”

“Henry, please—”

If I’d been a bitch to Evan earlier, I’m a raging harpy with Lloyd.

“
Jeff
turned him down!” I shout. “
Jeff
was able to keep control! Goddamn you, Lloyd! You’re getting married in a couple of weeks!
Married
! You fucking asshole!”

Lloyd looks at me as if I’m making no sense. “Henry, this has nothing to do with Jeff—”

“Yes it does! Do you know how he’s been feeling lately? He’s been so inspired by the idea of marrying you that he’s not wanted to even
look
at another guy! When that little tramp downstairs threw himself at him yesterday, Jeff turned him down!”

Lloyd sighs, not saying anything. I can tell he didn’t know about Luke’s attempt to seduce Jeff.

I approach him, my voice still just as shrill. “Do you have any idea how special it is that you and Jeff are getting married?” I poke him in the chest. He moves his eyes to look at me. “Do you? Any idea? Standing up in front of the world and saying, ‘We love each other and we’re committing to each other for the rest of our lives’?”

“Of course I know how special that is,” Lloyd says softly.

“And still you went and did—
that
.” I can’t even say it. “With that fucking little tramp, who we should have kicked out of here weeks ago.”

Lloyd maintains his calmness in the face of my venom. “Henry,” he says, “I know you had feelings for Luke. I didn’t realize they were still so intense.”

I laugh. So there’s something else about which Lloyd is still in the dark.

“Luke didn’t tell you, did he?” I ask.

“Tell me what?”

I just laugh harder. There’s no point now in telling Lloyd about my night with Luke. The sooner I forget it, the better.

“Henry, please,” Lloyd says. “I know I shouldn’t have done it. He was just upset, and he was near tears, and I was comforting him, and…and things got carried away.”

I look at him hard. “Did you ask him what he was upset
about
?”

“I tried, but he wasn’t saying much. He started to cry and I put my arms around him.”

“Oh, man.” I cover my face with my hands and move as far away from Lloyd as I can.

“Henry,” he implores. “What did I say?”

I face him. “That’s what happened with me, wasn’t it? When you and I made love all those years ago. Do you remember?”

“Of course I remember.”

I look at him. “I was upset that night, too. Near tears. Maybe I even shed a few. And you took me in your arms and we made love.” I laugh, bitterly. “So once again Dr. Lloyd to the rescue. Do you enjoy playing the savior to lost boys?”

“Henry, you and I were
friends
. I cared about you. That’s why it happened between us.” He gestures toward the door. “I care about Luke, but not the way I cared about you then, or certainly not the way I care about you now.”

I can’t bear to hear any of this. “You know, nothing matters at the moment. I just need some time away from this place.” I bend over, typing in a few keys on the computer. I find the information I’m looking for. “There are no reservations until next weekend. I’m going to take a couple of days off. Is that okay?”

“Yes,” Lloyd says calmly.

I turn and face him bitterly. “You’re free to go back downstairs now and finish your ministrations.”

He’s looking at me without any emotion. “That’s it? You just want to cut this discussion off like that?”

“Actually I do.”

He’s angry at me for shutting down, for closing him off. “You don’t want to talk about this anymore? You just want to leave without telling me what’s really going on for you?”

I won’t budge. “That about sums it up.”

“Fine.” He turns to leave, pausing at the door. “Have it your way then, Henry. Enjoy your days off.” He closes the door behind him.

Whether Lloyd goes back downstairs to Luke, I don’t know. I doubt it—but who’s to say? Maybe he just can’t help succumbing to the crafty little Lolita. Either way, I really don’t care.

I pack quickly, not wanting to run into anyone. I have no idea where I’m going, just that I want to get out of Provincetown. I want as much distance between myself and all of these people—Luke, Lloyd, Jeff—as possible.

It’s not until I cross the Sagamore Bridge that I realize where I’m going.

It takes three hours, and three repetitions of Pearl Jam’s
No Code
, to get to my parents’ home in West Springfield. As always, it looks the same. A two-story colonial with a front façade of white brick, carefully trimmed hedges along the driveway, a rusty old basketball hoop over the two-car garage. My father’s green Buick LeSabre sits outside.

Why did I come here?

Maybe because, at this moment, I have nowhere else to go.

“Henry?”

My mother’s on the front step, making a great show of surprise to see my Jeep pulling into her driveway.

“If that’s my son, I’m not sure I’d recognize him,” she’s saying to no one in particular. “We might have to fingerprint him just to be sure.”

“Hello, Mom.”

I give her my cheek. She kisses me on the lips instead and grips me by the shoulders.

“Oh, it’s him all right! It’s my Henry!”

She pulls me into her embrace. She smells of talcum powder. For a fleeting moment, I’m glad I’m home. I’m glad my mother is hugging me.

“Herbert!” She’s calling into the house as we enter. “Your son is home!”

My father, no doubt holed up in the basement watching TV, makes no reply. My mother’s gesturing for me to sit as we walk into the kitchen. There’s a pot of chicken soup bubbling on the stove. The place reeks of boiled chicken. How perfect is that? I come home, feeling lost and adrift, and my mother’s got a pot of chicken soup waiting for me.

“That soup’s not for you,” she says, apparently observing the flare of my nostrils. “It’s for Mrs. Pilarski down the street. Her husband just dropped dead. Sixty-two.
Sixty-two
! That’s not old anymore! They found him out in the backyard. He’d been cutting back his tomato plants. And poof. He was gone.”

She shakes her head and walks over to the stove, where she gives the soup a stir. I notice how thick her hips have gotten, and the hint of hunched shoulders. Her hair is almost all gray now, which only a few strands of her once vibrant auburn.

“How long can you stay, Henry?”

“Well, I’m heading into New York,” I lie, “and thought I’d just stop and say hi…”

“So a few days then?”

“Well, I don’t know…”

“Herbert! Come upstairs! Your son has deigned us with his presence for the next few days.”

One of the big events of my childhood was the refinishing of our basement. Carpeting was rolled in over the concrete floors. Paneling went up along the walls; a drop ceiling was put in. A toilet with a very loud and powerful pump was installed in a closet sized bathroom. Once the thirty-six-inch television was built into the wall, my father was all set. He could practically live in the basement, coming up only for meals. He sometimes even slept down there on the couch.

I hear no sign of him stirring, and for a moment I have a flash of old Mr. Pilarski dead among his tomato plants. But if Dad’s watching television—probably some History Channel documentary on the Great War—then he’s not going to stir no matter who’s just arrived upstairs.

“Why are you going to New York?” my mother asks.

I think fast. “To see some friends.” I can’t tell her the real reason I left Provincetown, that I’m a lonely miserable slob who feels he can’t trust anyone. But she probably already guesses that anyway. “I have a couple days off, so I’m on no set schedule.”

My mother makes that clicking sound in her throat. “After the summer, you
need
some time off, Henry,” she tells me. “I know how hard you work running that guesthouse. Lloyd should make you part owner of the place, if you ask me.”

“I don’t
want
to be an owner,” I tell her, for the hundredth time.

“Henry, will you
ever
own your own house? You’re thirty-
three
.”

“Mom, what do you have to drink in the fridge?”

She’s immediately opening the refrigerator door, peering inside and ticking off the contents. “I’ve got tomato juice, seltzer, whole milk—sorry, Henry, I refuse to buy that skim—ginger ale, and cranberry juice.”

“Would you pour me some ginger ale?”

“Of course, baby. Do you want a sandwich? I’ve got some turkey.”

“Sure, Mom.”

She pours me a tall glass of ginger ale and busies herself making the sandwich. “Did you see the new pictures of Rachel and Rebecca when you walked through the living room?”

Rachel and Rebecca are my sister Susan’s twin daughters. “No, I didn’t,” I tell her.

“Well, go back in there now and look.”

“I’ll look in a minute.”

“They are adorable! They’re twelve now. When was the last time you saw Rachel and Rebecca, Henry?”

I sigh. “Last spring.”

“Well, they’ve grown even since then. They are beautiful girls. Beautiful!”

“I know they are,” I say. “I wish I could see them more often. But Susan lives so far up in the Berkshires—”

“Yes, I know she does, but she gets down to see us, and she’s nearly as far away as you,” Mom says, employing her usually exaggeration. “Go in and look at the twin’s pictures!”

“Can I eat my sandwich first?” I ask as she places it in front of me.

Her tone quickly changes. “Of course, darling. Are you hungry? Why didn’t you say so?”

The phone rings. I take my first bite as my mother rushes to answer it. The caller appears to be some neighbor, for she immediately launches into the account of poor old Mr. Pilarski dropping dead amid his tomato plants. “I know! Right there in the backyard! And Evelyn found him! She’d been calling and when he didn’t come in, she went out to look and there he was…”

I decide to take my sandwich and my ginger ale downstairs. My father, no surprise, is in his recliner, feet up. He’s watching TV as I imagined, but instead of World War II, it appears to be a feature on the Loch Ness monster.

“Hey Dad,” I say.

“Henry.”

I look at the screen. “So do you believe in Nessie?”

He shrugs. “I believe she’s made quite a bit of money for some obscure village in Scotland we otherwise wouldn’t know a damn thing about.”

“This is true.” I sit down just as the show turns to a commercial. “How’ve you been, Dad?”

For forty years, Dad was a claims adjustor for an insurance company. It’s why I went into insurance myself. Every day Dad tied his tie and put on his sports jacket and drove to his office in downtown Springfield, arriving at eight thirty sharp. He did his work, ate his lunch, and was home by five forty-five. About ten months ago, he accepted an early retirement package. Now he’s here in the basement stretched out in his recliner nearly round the clock. Mom usually brings his meals down to him.

“Can’t complain,” Dad says. “Things aren’t bad.”

I notice a stack of DVDs on the table next to his chair. Old
Honeymooners
reruns. The TV miniseries
The Winds of War
. And the complete Benny Hill collection.

I smile. “Looks like you won’t run out of viewing choices.”

“Your sister is always bringing me something new. She worries about me down here. Thinks I’m just going to rot away and get Alzheimer’s if I’m not engaging the brain.”

I look around the room. My hideous high school picture sits in a frame on a bookshelf. “You pretty much keep to yourself, huh?”

“Well, your mother comes down with supper and once in a while she’ll sit here with me if there’s something good on the tube.” He shrugs. “But she’s got the upstairs and I’ve got this rec room here. So it works out.”

I sit back in the chair looking over at him. When did the tall, distinguished man who was my father become this old, overweight, gray-haired codger in a recliner? It’s not that his life was ever very broad, but Dad had his friends. He liked a game of cards once in a while with his buddies. Now, according to my mother, ever since his retirement he’s content just to sit down here watching television. Yet he doesn’t seem unhappy.

“Look, you see there,” he says, pointing at the TV screen. The Loch Ness monster documentary has resumed, and it’s showing the famous image of Nessie’s long neck sticking out of the water like a brontosaurus. “They’ve done some kind of, what do you call it, digital enhancement of that picture, and they can see it’s a fake. Some guy cooked it up fifty years ago, and they’re still showing the damn thing.”