Spider Season (7 page)

“Personalized, of course. Just put ‘To my dear friend, Jason, All my love, Benjamin.’”

“That’s awfully personal, since we don’t know each other.”

His prissy smile turned smug. “Oh, but we do.”

I studied his face more closely. “I’m sorry. You’ve got me at a disadvantage.”

“Jason Holt—the actor?”

“We’ve met before?”

“A long time ago, before I changed my name. I was Barclay Simpkins then.”

“I’m sorry, I’m drawing a blank.”

His yellow eyes flared. “Or maybe you just don’t want to remember.”

I didn’t know what kind of game he was playing, but I’d had enough, and jotted a routine inscription:

To Jason Holt, All My Best, Benjamin Justice

When I handed it back, he was clearly displeased with what I’d written. But the chill in his manner quickly gave way to a self-satisfied smile.

“Now that we’ve been reunited,” he said, “perhaps we’ll be seeing more of each other.”

He turned on his heel and waltzed blithely out, his pointy, reconstructed chin held high, as if he were quite above everything and everyone around him.

Ismael Aragon had waited patiently at the end of the line, and now it was his turn to face me. As he handed me his book, I found myself riveted to his expressive brown eyes, which regarded me with a frankness that surprised me. As a seriously lapsed Catholic, I’d long ago dismissed my feelings for him as confusing and impractical, given his vow of celibacy and allegiance to a church I’d grown to loathe for its hypocrisy and abuse of power.

“Benjamin.”

“Father Aragon.”

“Just Ismael now.” He briefly dropped his eyes. “I’ve renounced my vows and left the Church.”

The news came as a shock, but I can’t say I was unhappy to hear it.

“That’s quite a decision.”

“Yes.” He smiled bravely. “I suppose we’re both making new starts in life, aren’t we?”

Nearby, the manager glanced my way and tapped her watch.

“Listen,” I said to Ismael. “We’re having a little gathering back at the house. It’s only a short walk. Why don’t you come?”

“I’d like that.”

He handed me his book, and I inscribed it:

To Ismael, Who Gave Me Comfort and Understanding When I Needed It Most, Benjamin Justice.

Beneath my name, I jotted the date.

He thanked me and turned away to stand near Maurice and a group of others who were waiting to walk with me back to the house. Maurice had seen me and Ismael talking and engaged him immediately in conversation, introducing him around. As that happened, my eyes were drawn away to the front window where my book was on display. In the background, the Boys Town crowd, mostly young men, streamed past on their way from club to club, as carefree as kids at Disneyland. But in the foreground, close to the glass, was another young man who seemed altogether out of place.

It was the tattooed skinhead with the blond soul patch with whom I’d brawled earlier in the week, his forehead and nose still scabby from our confrontation. He stared at me, unblinking. I wondered how he’d gotten out of jail so quickly, and how long he’d been standing at that window tonight, watching me.

“Mr. Justice?”

It was the manager, holding open a copy of my book to the title page so I could begin signing the remaining stock. I flattened the book on the table, scrawled my name with the Sharpie, closed the book, and set it to one side. As she handed me the next copy, I stole another glance out the window, but the tattooed young man was gone.

SEVEN

There’s nothing quite like the experience of being single and lonely when someone you’ve never forgotten unexpectedly comes back into your life.

It can suggest the possibility of a relationship that might be healthy and lasting. It can trigger boundless optimism and hope. It can be heady, thrilling, and disorienting in the most wonderful way. But it can also be dangerous, a romantic fantasy built on need and desperation that can lead you blindly into places where you shouldn’t go.

As I walked back to the house with Ismael Aragon, just brushing accidentally against his shoulder sent a shiver of pleasure and expectation running through me. Suddenly, the night ahead didn’t seem quite so trying and the days beyond so empty, as if one man, the right man, could transform everything in an instant. Maurice apparently noticed the change in me; he’d discreetly raised his eyebrows for my benefit, as if to tell me he was pleased for me, or perhaps that he’d taken quick stock of Ismael and approved. Or maybe, in his wisdom, he was warning me to take it slowly and be careful.

We passed one of the more popular clubs, where the music pounded and the shirtless bartenders poured drinks as fast as they could take the orders. I could see the go-go boys dancing up onstage, fondling themselves in front to stay mildly aroused and pulling down their bikinis in back to show off their perfect butts, while leering men stretched up to stuff dollar bills into the waistbands along their washboard stomachs and cop a feel of pubic hair. Ismael glanced over for only a second before looking away in seeming embarrassment. In any other gay man, I might have found such prudishness silly. In Ismael, it seemed endearing.

I wanted to know everything about him, past and present. I hung on his every word, and couldn’t take my eyes off him. I learned that he’d gone back to school, earning a graduate degree in social work, that he was living at an old hotel in East Los Angeles, and that he’d joined a gym for the first time in his life, which explained his trim, firm physique. We turned the corner at Hilldale, heading up to Norma Place, where we turned again. As we approached the house halfway down the block, I remembered that he’d been here once before, years ago. He’d come up to my apartment, where I’d punched him in the mouth and knocked him down because I’d wrongly suspected his involvement in a cover-up of child molestation and murder by high officials within his archdiocese.

“I’m surprised you’d want to be friends with me,” I said, “after the way I treated you five years ago.”

“You were in a lot of turmoil, Benjamin, a lot of pain.”

“Still, I behaved abominably.”

He rubbed his jaw, grinning. “You did pack quite a punch.” More seriously, he added, “It was the first time I’d ever been struck by anyone, ever. It was quite a shock.”

“If I didn’t apologize then, I am now.”

“Apology accepted.”

Maurice reappeared, beckoning from the front door.

“Benjamin, everyone’s waiting for the guest of honor. I believe Alexandra wants to make a toast.”

“Coming, Mother,” I said, as Ismael and I turned up the walk.

*   *   *

I’ve never been particularly fond of organized parties. They always struck me as overly orchestrated gatherings for people who didn’t know how to enjoy one another’s company and have fun otherwise, without the arranged atmosphere and requisite alcohol. But I must admit I thoroughly enjoyed myself that night and the party seemed to be a rousing success. Even Fred was up and about for much of the night, seeing to drinks and food. Maurice kept the music playing, mostly disco classics and old gay anthems. Half the crowd was dancing at the first beat of a Gloria Gaynor tune, with Maurice leading the way.

He urged me to circulate and I reluctantly let Ismael drift away. I made a beeline for Templeton, to thank her for taking time from her pressing schedule to join us, and for her touching toast that got the evening going. She was sipping a glass of white wine and chatting animatedly with Cathryn Conroy, who was imbibing her trademark whiskey. Listening to them, I quickly realized they’d been acquainted long before tonight. It made sense—two tough-minded female reporters, both operating out of L.A., no doubt crossing paths from time to time. Templeton was effusive and Conroy polite, but Lawrence Kase didn’t even pretend to be happy to see me. I was beginning to think his animosity had to do with more than just my checkered past or sexual orientation—that jealousy might also be behind it, since I’d known Templeton much longer than he had and shared an easy familiarity with her, an intimacy between close friends that some couples never manage to achieve, no matter how long they stay together.

The four of us hadn’t been chatting five minutes when Kase glanced at his watch and said to Templeton, “We really should go.”

I laughed. “The party’s just started.”

“We arrived at the bookstore two hours ago. Alex insisted we be there early.” He extended a hand and shook mine perfunctorily. “Congratulations on the book, Justice. It’s nice to see you turning things around.” Then he was facing Templeton and saying firmly, “We really do need to get going.”

As I saw them out, I bumped into Bruce Steele, a spectacular physical specimen as dark skinned as Templeton who’d brought along his bearish white boyfriend. Steele was a former collegiate and AAU wrestling champion in the upper middleweight classes whom I’d pursued romantically off and on for years, without success. These days, he worked as a successful investment broker but stayed in shape running the West Hollywood Wrestling Club. He’d pestered me for years to drop by one of the club’s Saturday workouts and conduct a clinic. He pressed me again that night and I finally agreed, feeling obligated since he’d shown up for my reading and even purchased a book.

Maurice grabbed me and dragged me off to meet friends of his and kept me moving after that, while I tried with great frustration to connect again with Ismael. Fred retired early, to a bedroom down the hall where the cats were hiding. While I circulated, Judith Zeitler chatted up anyone she could find who was connected to writing or the media, handing out business cards. Conroy drank enough whiskey for several people and grabbed smokes in the backyard, flicking the butts rudely onto the lawn. The music played, the drinks flowed, the aroma of marijuana permeated the air, and everyone seemed to have a fine time. Then it was after midnight and people were drifting out. The party was finally over.

Ismael hung by the front door until I spotted him, and I walked him to the street. I told him how great it was to see him again, and that we had to stay in touch. We exchanged phone numbers, and promised to get together for coffee. I wanted desperately to kiss him good night but didn’t; I had no idea what his romantic experience had been after he’d given up celibacy, or even if he’d been with another man, or a woman. But when we hugged, I sensed no awkwardness on his part. Quite the opposite; it felt as warm and natural as embracing an old friend.

As Maurice and I cleaned up the house, listening to a Haydn symphony, he told me how much he liked Ismael, that he had a good feeling about him. We talked about what a fine evening everyone had had and how the reading had gone so well. Candles flickered in the living room, where the cats had curled up on the sofa. A sense of calm and contentment settled over the old house, which had been my sanctuary for so many years, and the same for Jacques in the years before he died.

Maurice paused as he washed glasses in the soapy water.

“Try to enjoy this special moment in your life, Benjamin. You have a tendency to see the glass as half-empty. But you have so much ahead of you, dear one. Try to embrace it, won’t you?”

I was about to tell him I was feeling better about things, more optimistic about the future, when the phone rang. It was nearly one, and I couldn’t imagine who might be calling at this hour, unless it was someone who’d left their keys or cell phone behind. Then it occurred to me that Ismael might be calling to say something more, to put a final cap on the evening, and my heart gladdened at the possibility. In the living room, I turned the music down, picked up the receiver, and pressed it to my ear.

“I’ve killed before, just like you.” The voice sounded vaguely male, but it was barely more than a whisper, so I couldn’t be sure. “So, you see, we have more in common than you might realize. You’ve always loved a good mystery, haven’t you? Sniffing about like a bloodhound, sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.”

“I’ve unraveled a few. So what?”

The caller laughed smugly. “Perhaps, if you’re curious enough, you’ll unravel mine.”

“Why would I want to do that?”

The voice turned petulant but also sounded hurt. “We could be such good friends, if you weren’t such a cold, heartless prick.”

I was about to ask for a name when the caller hung up. I hit the star key on the phone, then a 6 and a 9 to reconnect, but the number was blocked.

“Who was it?” Maurice called out from the kitchen as I hung up.

“Wrong number.”

I’ve killed before, just like you. So, you see, we have more in common than you might realize.

Someone who knew at least a little about me knew enough to call me at this number at this moment. I stood staring out the front window, across the broad porch and small yard to the tree-lined street, studying it for some sign of suspicious movement or prying eyes. All I could see was a mosaic of meaningless shapes and shadows, shifting almost imperceptibly as the air moved slightly or nocturnal rodents crept about. The neighborhood, alive with the laughter of departing guests such a short time ago, had grown as still and quiet as a funeral parlor after hours.

I drew the curtains, turned the music up, and retreated to the kitchen to help Maurice finish the dishes.

“Be sure to lock your doors tonight,” I said.

“I always lock up, Benjamin. You know that.”

“I know.” I kissed him on the cheek. “Just be sure, that’s all.”

EIGHT

Several days passed without incident—no violent confrontations, no hate mail, no mysterious phone calls—and the unpleasantness of the previous week began to recede in my mind. With the publicity push for my book winding down and Judith Zeitler on to her next author, my life felt like it was returning to its usual aimlessness.

That’s one reason, I suppose, why Ismael Aragon carried so much weight in my thoughts. There wasn’t much going on in my life, nothing to give it focus or purpose. Ismael’s job as a social worker had taken him to Mexico, where he was trying to reunite immigrant families torn apart by deportation, the foreign-born parents forcibly separated from their American-born children by the laws, politicians, and courts. While he was away, I couldn’t stop thinking about him, couldn’t stop hearing his voice and seeing his face, and remembering how it had felt to hold him close in that brief moment when we’d hugged good night. Before leaving, he’d told me he’d be gone for at least a week, possibly longer. The days stretched ahead like a gaping chasm, so unnervingly that I applied for a new passport so I might accompany him if his work were to take him out of the country again. It was a silly notion—we barely knew each other, after all—but that’s how desperately I needed someone like Ismael in my life.