Authors: William J. Mann

Where The Boys Are (51 page)

BOOK: Where The Boys Are

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“Jeff, I mean it. I owe all of this to you. And I don’t just mean you paying for my plane ticket. I mean, all of it. My whole life. My whole gay life.”

I’m overcome. “Did you
ever
plan on confiding in me?”

He looks away. “I thought maybe . . . maybe after it was all over. When I didn’t have to report to the parole board anymore. When I was finally free.”

“If you had trusted me earlier . . .”

He spins on me. “Why should I have trusted you, Jeff? Any of you? Those shouts from the gay activists standing outside the courthouse still ring in my ears. And you and Henry and Brent—don’t you remember what you called Matthew Shepard’s killers? Fucking self-repressed, self-loathing closet cases.” His eyes are blazing. “You called them
scum
. Brent said they should have been killed the same way they killed Matthew. Beaten and tied to a fence and left to die in the cold.”

“But we disagreed with him,” I defend myself. “Henry and I both.”

He closes his eyes. “Don’t you see, Jeff? A part of me felt Brent was
right.
That’s what was so bizarre about all of it. I
agreed
with him. I
should’ve
been put to death! Or rather, Brian Murphy should have.” He opens his eyes. “You see, I had become somebody new. I was
gay
. And a
part
of all the gay people around me. The tribe. The extended family you taught me about. I was
part
of something for the first time in my life. I loved you all. Even Brent.”

“If you had only told me—”

“You still don’t get it, Jeff. Part of me was
glad
you felt the way you did. It was the way I wished I could be, self-righteously hating gay bashers. That way I would really, truly be gay,
really
be a part of all of you. To tell you about my past would have allowed Brian Murphy to live again. And you wouldn’t have liked Brian Murphy very much.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Come on, Jeff. I remember what you said.” He looks at me. “I’ll quote you.
‘The bottom line is, they killed one of us. I suppose I wouldn’t have been sorry to see them fry.’ ”
He narrows his eyes, studying my reaction. “Isn’t that it, Jeff? Isn’t that what you said?”

My words, back at me. I feel almost as if I might faint. “Yes,” I admit. “That’s what I said.”

“And do you still feel the same way?” He draws closer to me. I can smell the soap on his skin, the leather of his coat. “Be honest with me, Jeff. Do you still feel the same way?”

New images begin assaulting me.

Mrs. Riley in her chair, staring out into her garden and calling her dead son’s name.

Cynthia Cassell sitting across from me: “Some guy’s bludgeoned to death in his own home, and the killers are kids from a Catholic school, and all these church leaders come out to say what good boys these two really are, with no mention of the dead fag. Well, that just rubbed a lot of us the wrong way.”

Brian sitting there reading a
Far Side
comic book while Ortiz went with Riley upstairs.
“We were hesitant about ripping the guy off because we thought he was kind of cool. But since we were already there, we decided to go ahead with it. ”

My eyes flicker over to the man standing in front of me, the man whose body I’ve explored every inch with my tongue, who once sang a silly love song to me in a moment of spontaneous joy.

“Frankie told me to tape his mouth and I did. I got blood on my jean jacket as I was doing it. Frankie picked up the log and hit him one more time in the head. The guy shook and made a noise. While we were driving away we talked about if the guy was dead or not. We decided to turn around and make sure. ”

“Well, Jeff?” he asks. “The last time you saw me, you insisted that no matter what, you
did
love me. Knowing what you know now, do you still feel the same?”

I look at him. “I don’t know,” I say honestly.

He smiles. “If you had said anything else, I wouldn’t have believed you.” He looks away. “There was a time when I allowed myself to dream. To imagine that I might have a life with you. That you could love me the way you love Lloyd, that the two of us could build a life together, a home.”

I take a step closer to him. “I
did
care—I
do
. . .”

“If nothing else, Jeff,” he implores, “please be honest with me.”

I can’t speak.

“What I want,” he says, “what I think everyone wants, is what I’ve seen between you and Lloyd. Two people trying to work out a life together. Struggling and accommodating and making
dreams
actually happen.”

“You’ll find it someday,” I manage to say, my voice cracking.

He shakes his head. “I’m not so sure. I don’t think it’s possible for me, with you or anyone else.” He smiles tightly. “Why should it be? Why should I have what I took away from Robert and Anthony?”

I have no reply for that.

“Good-bye, Jeff,” he says softly.

“Where are you going?” I ask. “Will you remain in Provincetown?”

He smiles, looking up at the sky. “I can go anywhere now,” he tells me.

I watch him walk off down the beach until he’s nothing more than a tiny speck, the waves eager to lick away his footsteps, leaving no sign, no trace, that he was ever here.

A Week Later, Boston, The Westin Hotel

Henry

I
know he makes his way through here every evening on his way home, and I’m counting on his adherence to routine. Sure, he might’ve had an appointment, or stopped off for dinner, but I trust that I’ll see him.
If it’s meant to be
, Lloyd said,
he’ll be there.
And I believe strongly it’s meant to be.

See, I want to surprise him. I want to be standing here with this big array of balloons, looking like some geek from the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes waiting to surprise the big-money winner. But there’s no cash prize tucked inside my pocket, just the thirty balloons I hold in my right hand. The yellow ones are emblazoned with
HAPPY BIRTHDAY;
the pink ones read,
YOU LOOK MAH-VELOUS.

I check my watch. It’s a quarter after six. He usually passes through here between six-fifteen and six-thirty. I find a spot near the escalator and stand with my balloons. People passing me either smile or completely avoid my eyes. That’s what happens when you let yourself look like a fool.

Did I mention I’m wearing a clown suit? And a putty nose? And an enormous wide-brimmed pink hat? Well, I am.

Finally, I spot him. I honk the horn that’s strapped to my belt.

“Shane!” I call. “Happy Birthday!”

He approaches me warily.

“Happy Birthday to you!” I sing. “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear Shaaaaaaaane! Happy Birthday to you!!!”

His face reddens. Do you know how delightful it is to see Shane embarrassed by
someone else’s
antics for a change?

“Henry?” he asks, peering in at me past the red nose and white makeup. “Is that you?”

“In the clown flesh!” I say, honking my horn again. I thrust the balloons at him. “Take ’em, sweetheart! They’re yours!”

He just looks up at them in disbelief. Several passersby stop to wish him happy birthday.

“And many moooooooore!” I sing.

Shane looks down at me with a crooked smile on his face, folding his arms over his chest.

“Henry,” he says, “today is
not
my birthday. My birthday was
months
ago.”

I grin. “Figured that would be the case. The odds were stacked against it being today. Actually, about three-hundred-sixty-four to one that I’d get it wrong.” I draw in close to him. “But I’ve known you almost a year now and I never knew the actual date. You never told me and I never asked.” I pause, my voice going serious. “I’m sorry about that.”

Shane’s eyes suddenly grow moist. “Henry. Why did you do this?”

I place my putty nose against his. “Because friends celebrate each other’s birthdays. And because I figured I’d missed yours. So I wanted to celebrate it tonight.”

He’s staggered. He can’t speak. Some kid walking by with earphones hoots, “Hey, happy B-day, dude!”

Shane gives a little laugh. “Henry, I’m ... overwhelmed.”

“See?” I slap my knee with my free hand, delighted my idea has worked so well. “You’re not the only one who can come up with a gimmick.” I grin, my big clown mouth stretching across my face. “Got you to notice me, didn’t I?”

He’s shaking his head, his eyes locked on to mine. “You went to all this trouble . . . just because . . .”

I touch his face with my polka-dotted clown mitt. “Because I thought maybe you’d give me another chance.”

A mischievous smile slips across his face. “Wanta go back to my place and fool around?”

“Yeah,” I tell him. “Right after I make you a fabulous birthday dinner.”

“Well,” he says, easing back into his cocky old self again, “make sure you scrape that paint off your face. I’m not getting pancake on
my
tongue.”

“You got it, buckaroo. I’ll run back home, take a quick shower, and pick up the wine and the groceries. Give me half an hour. Forty minutes, tops.”

Shane twinkles, heading toward the escalator. “The clock’s ticking,” he says.

“Hey!” I call. “These are
yours.”

I hand him the balloons. He takes them and then impulsively leans forward, kissing me on the mouth. “Hell,” he says, laughing. “A little pancake never hurt anyone.”

I’m still laughing when I head back out through the mall and into the skywalk.

That’s when I spot Jeff coming toward me.

I could, of course, just let him pass. He’ll never know it’s me under the clown suit. I’ve gotten so accustomed to dodging Jeff whenever I see him that it almost comes automatically now.

I’ll just let him pass by. I’ll be late to Shane’s if I dawdle, anyway.

But I can’t. I can’t let him just walk by me. If I’d been planning for days how to make things right with Shane, I’ve been thinking as much about Jeff. About the friendship I treasured so much and then pushed away.

I once asked all of you not to judge him, to hear him out, to see him in his entirety. I asked you to give him a chance, but I did exactly the opposite. For the past few days I’ve been thinking about it all. About the way we often blame other people for the very things we do ourselves. About how much I’ve missed Jeff, whether I’ve allowed myself to admit it or not.

“Jeff,” I say.

He appears startled, glancing over at the funny-looking clown with big, floppy feet calling his name.

“It’s me,” I say. “Henry.”

He approaches me, a smile on his face. “Dare I ask? A client with a

Bozo fetish?”

I laugh. “No. I just surprised Shane with balloons. For his birthday.”

“That was sweet of you.”

I shrug. “I’m trying.” I pause significantly. “How have you been,

Jeff?”

His eyes wander away. “Well, it’s kind of hard to say.”

“Look, Jeff, I know we’ve been distant. I know we’ve had some harsh words between us. But I also know you’ve been really struggling about your feelings for Lloyd and Anthony. I know it’s not been an easy time.”

He raises his eyebrows. “You’re right. Easy it hasn’t been.”

“I just want you to know . . . that I care. About you, I mean. And if you ever want to get together and talk—”

Jeff smiles. “Henry, are you suggesting we might be friends again?”

I look at him.
Yes.
Yes, I am. I am indeed suggesting we be friends.
Sisters
, the way we once were, or claimed ourselves to be. For the first time, I feel as if I can honestly, truly be
friends
with Jeff. I’m suddenly hit with a freight train of memories, from that first night on the dance floor to working out with him in the gym to him telling me that I have so much to offer and to stop selling myself short. I had blocked out all that was good, refusing to remember it. I was
terrified
of it, really. Terrified of remembering that it was Jeff who was the first person in my life to tell me I could be anything I wanted to be.

“Jeff, I was wrong,” I blurt. “You
can
be a good friend. I’m sorry I said what I did.”

He shakes his head. “No, you were right, Henry. I haven’t always been the best friend I could have been.”

I look him deep in the eyes. “Well, maybe we can both do better from now on. I want to
really
be friends with you, Jeff, with all that real friendship is supposed to mean.” I hesitate, knowing how guarded he can be, but I decide to plunge on. “I know how you took care of Javitz, how you were there for him. How awesome that must have been. You were there for him in a way that defines what friendship is all about. What an honor that must have been. For both of you.”

Jeff seems moved by this little speech. I see the moisture well in his eyes.

“That’s what I want, too, Jeff. I want us to be real with each other. I know you think you’ve shared stuff with me, confided in me, but you’ve always been so guarded, Jeff. You’ve held back when it got too deep. You wouldn’t admit when you felt vulnerable, when you felt weak.”

“You’re right,” he admits. “I’ve drawn a line and lived pretty insistently behind it.”

“Why, Jeff? Because you didn’t trust me?”

He can’t seem to hold back the tears. “It was never about that, buddy. Never about trust. I’ve trusted you more than I have anyone since Javitz.”

“Then what was it?”

He’s crying now.
Jeff is actually crying.

“I thought you wouldn’t like me if I were weak,” he manages to say.

“If I wasn’t the hero, the mentor, the know-it-all.”

“Oh, Jeff . . .”

I put my arms around him, wrapping his torso in my puffy sleeves and polka-dotted clown mitt hands.

“You’ve taught me so much,” I tell him. “Now let me use it.”

He pulls back a little to look me in the eyes. “Javitz always said eventually the student teaches the teacher.”

“You’ve been an excellent teacher. Now be my friend.”

He gives me a smile. “I’m sorry, Henry. Sorry for everything.”

“Jeff, there’s no reason to apologize. I’ve been caught up in my own struggle, my own drama. I let myself forget how you’ve been there for me.”

He’s shaking his head. “I wasn’t always as sensitive as I could have been.”

“As if any of us are.” I smile wryly. “Why do you think I’m trying to make things right with Shane?”

Jeff is clearly touched. “Henry, I would
love
to be friends with you again. I’ve missed you so much, buddy.”

We hug. “I want to be the kind of friend Javitz was,” I tell him. “I know I can never replace him, but I want it honest like that. Real. Where you
know
things about each other. Where you trust each other completely.”

“You know an awful lot about me, Henry,” Jeff says. “Sometimes more than I know myself.”

It means so much to hear him say that. “Thank you Jeff,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

He smiles. The smile bubbles up into laughter as he takes a step back from me. “Henry,” he says, “as poignant as all of this is, you do realize that it’s very difficult not to crack up looking at you standing there dressed like Ronald McDonald.”

I laugh. “And if I start to blubber, I’ll look like one of those crying-clown velvet paintings my aunts have hanging on their walls.”

Jeff looks over at me and lifts one of my mitts to his lips. “I love you, buddy.”

“I love you,” I reply.

“You want to go dancing this week?”

I beam. “Yeah. I so
totally
want to go dancing.”

“Alex Lauterstein is spinning at Machine on Thursday,” he tells me.

“Alex Lauterstein? The hunkiest DJ on the entire planet?”

“The very same.”

“Well,
of course
we have to be there,” I say, grinning.

Jeff grins back. “And bring Shane,” he tells me.

Shane.
I realize I have to hurry. “I’m making him dinner. I have to go. . . .”

Jeff nods. “Don’t keep Shane waiting. You never know what he’ll do. Drop a bucket of water on your head or zap you with a stun gun.”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise.

We embrace again. I must make quite the sight. Big old gay clown kissing all these boys in the middle of rush hour. Jeff keeps laughing as he looks back to wave as we continue in opposite directions. I’m grinning so hard myself that my painted cheeks start to hurt.

If it’s meant to be,
Lloyd promised,
it’ll happen.

It was meant to be.

BOOK: Where The Boys Are

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