Xylophone (11 page)

nobody talked about those kinds of things back

then.”

“Hell no. Private matters were private

matters. And kids never tattled about what went on

behind closed doors. First, ’cause they were a lot

more naïve than they are today. Second, ’cause

they were taught to be quiet and respect their

elders. But society’s been busted wide open since

then. Nowadays there’s T & A in every damn

movie, and you can’t turn around without hearing

about another Father Gropy or some celebrity

scandal or men wanting to marry—” Bob’s throat

seemed to snap shut as the sides of his face went

magenta.

“Men,” Dare supplied. “I wish you wouldn’t

worry about saying the wrong thing in front of me.”

“So, uh….”

“Yes,” Dare said. “I am.” He drank some

beer to soothe his nerves. “Does it matter?”

Making a great show of pondering this, Bob

pulled down the corners of his mouth, carving

gullies into his jowls. “Not as long as you keep

playing as good as you do. And don’t drop your

pants on stage.”

“Bob, the only reason I’d drop my pants is

because I hate the damned things, not because I

want to flash a bunch of senior citizens.”

Although his face still bore clown colors,

Bob came close to smiling. He pursed his lips and

held it in. “Don’t wanna make us feel bad by

comparison, huh?”

Dare laughed.

Finally, Bob gave in to his grin.

“Thanks,” Dare said. “You’re a good man.”

“Eh.” Bob dismissively waved a hand. “So,

um… are you and JoJo Day, like…?” Once again

at a loss for words, he made some indecipherable

movements: rocked his head, waggled a hand from

side to side.

“Are those secret signs?”

“Come on, you know what I mean. GG’s been

a friend of ours for years. She’s always been sure

JoJo is, you know….”

Dare made a rolling motion with his hand,

trying to get Bob to say it.

“I don’t wanna offend you.”

“Just say ‘gay’. It won’t offend me. Just like

‘grumpy old fart’ doesn’t offend
you
.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Bob said grumpily.

“You might want to stay away from the three

Fs, though.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“The words
fruit
,
fairy
, and
fag
. Don’t use

those and we’ll be fine.”

Bob huffed. “Well anyway, Mr.
Gay
Man,

GG thinks her grandson kind of has a crush on you.

Even with your
horrrrrible
”—rolling up his eyes,

Bob warbled the word—“red pants in the ‘on’

position.”

“I’m aware of that,” Dare said softly, getting

serious. The reminder, especially in this context,

made his stomach wormy.

“Hm.” Bob’s whole face puckered with

indecision. “So, d’ya like him?”

Dare could tell his Fearless Leader wasn’t

too keen on pursuing this topic. So why was he

doing it? “Yeah, I like him.” He narrowed his

eyes. “What’re you getting at?”

“That maybe you should quit farting around.”

“What?”

Bob let out a dramatic, vocalized sigh. “It’d

make GG happy if you felt the same way about

JoJo.”

“Really? Why?”

“Damned if I know,” Bob snapped.

Apparently he could only take so much homo talk

and heartthrob talk before his crankiness kicked in.

He battled the attitude with more beer. “Listen,

Dare, I think you’re a decent kid. You’re

dependable, you’re a fine musician, and the other

guys like you. I can’t ask for more than that. JoJo’s

a decent kid too. Not many twenty-somethings,

knuckleheads that most of ’em are, would be taking

their grandmas out dancing every week and

keeping an even disposition.”

“And…?” The old man was obviously

burbling his way toward some fountain of advice.

“I know you two got a lot in common. I know

JoJo went through the same kind of shit you did. So

what I’m saying is….” Groaning, Bob pulled a

hand over the slicked-back, graying hair that

barely covered the pink dome of his head. “Christ,

I can’t believe I’m talking about this.” He dropped

his shank of an arm back to the picnic table.

“Maybe you should give him a chance. As more

than a friend. Not that I know my ear from my

elbow when it comes to your kind of thing, but I do

have a wife, and I suppose romance is romance,

regardless.” He finished his beer and got up. “You

can’t ring the bell if you don’t swing the hammer.”

Dare had never been the recipient of folksy

wisdom. In a screwy way, he was moved by it. He

swiveled on the bench as Bob trundled away.

“Thanks for the advice, Granddad.”

Bob kept walking. “Eat my socks.”

Chapter Eleven

WHY the hell can’t I leave well enough alone?

Dare kept shooting the question at himself as he

made the short drive northeast toward Wind Lake.

Specifically, toward the address he’d found in the

phone book.

He’d gone directly home from the Birches,

where Junior and Ernie gladly finished the pitcher

of beer he’d brought inside. He’d brushed his teeth

and showered and thrown on some clean clothes.

I’m trying to ring the bell.
That’s
why I’m

doing this.

Okay, so he’d been right. Jonah was queer.

Which meant he’d always
been
queer. Which

meant he hadn’t instantaneously developed a gay-

on because he’d seen some dude slithering around

with his ass in the air—although the hormonally-

charged atmosphere of the Sugar Bowl might have

contributed to Jonah’s surge of awakened hunger.

Dare

figured

that

mostly,

though,

their

acquaintance had stirred the psycho-emotional silt

Clayton Wallace had deposited on Jonah’s libido.

He’d finally begun to see more clearly what he

wanted and realize it wasn’t the worst thing in the

world.

Jonah was twenty-four. He was on the mend

from a trauma. Sooner than later, his true nature

was bound to emerge. Dare just happened to be the

man he felt closest to when the emergence was

underway. Therefore, Dare had become the target

of Jonah’s wobbly, foal-legged lust.

Or maybe Jonah wasn’t really gay but was

more confused than ever. What was that

phenomenon called? Transference? So maybe

Dare was like a mallard being followed around by

a hatchling chicken that thinks the duck is its

mother.

Or something like that.

Dare did a split-second eye roll at his

theorizing.

“Admit it. You don’t know
what
the fuck to

think,” he muttered as he glanced at the Garmin.

The immediate question remained: Why

couldn’t he just let it go, let them both get on with

their lives? They’d muddled through up to now.

This indefinable relationship they’d gotten into

was only complicating matters that sure as hell

didn’t need further complications.

Nevertheless, Dare turned where the GPS

instructed him to turn, the road where Jonah lived.

He must’ve bought or rented one of the older

cottages that lined the southern and western shores

of the lake and, once upon a time, served as

summer homes. Dare was willing to bet anything

GG lived in one of those places too.

A song rolled through his mind, clear as the

lines on the map. “
And oh, the glorious feeling,

just to know somehow you are near!”

The feeling wasn’t exactly glorious, but Dare

had to admit it fell somewhere between a visit to

the dentist and a date with a Calvin Klein

underwear model.

Heart pattering, he eased into the driveway of

a cozy-looking place, a faux-log-construction

ranch, on a pretty, tree-shaded lot. It was across

the road from the lake, not on the lake. Aside from

that and the usual diminutive size of the properties

around here, it looked inviting.

The front door opened. There stood Jonah,

watching him. Dare didn’t have one of those

won’t-wake-the-baby electric vehicles. He’d

announced his arrival simply by pulling into the

driveway.

“You need a new muffler,” Jonah said,

raising his voice just enough to carry across the

lawn.

“No kidding. That’s why I had to give up cat

burgling.” Dare tried not to trip out of his six-year-

old Chevy Malibu. “Nice place. How big is it?”

“About fifteen hundred square feet.”

“Can I get a tour?” Dare smelled the pine

trees in the yard, the crisping leaves of the

hardwoods, the recently mown grass. “Or are you

busy?”

“Nope. Just got out of the tub.”

Now why did that revelation seem important

to Dare’s dick, which pulsed at the sound of those

words, and at the sight of Jonah’s messy damp hair

and bright green eyes and faded-denim-clad legs?

“You really fuckin’ turn me on, Dare.”

Okay, there was one reason.

The response of Dare’s dick was a fleeting

reaction. He felt too addled to dwell on it.

“So come on in if you want,” Jonah told him.

He didn’t seem warm, didn’t seem cold. He

seemed studiously neutral.

Dare crossed the lawn toward the stoop. “I

need to talk,” he said, the words just erupting from

him. He realized the statement wasn’t merely a

ruse.

Since Bob had brought up that duet, he’d felt

like fresh shit—a neurotic whiner who’d let his

past impinge on his present to the point where he

couldn’t meet his responsibilities. He’d let Bob

down, one of the nicest people he knew, by

essentially saying
fuck that
to the old guy’s simple

dream.

The idea of that duet excited Bob. Like an

optimistic kid, he’d seen something on the Internet

that inspired him, made him want to reach beyond

the norms of his life. And he’d put his faith in Dare

to help him do it.

Faith
. Dare didn’t take that word lightly. Bob

had put his ebullient, unquestioning faith in his

irrelevantly gay clarinetist, who’d then proceeded

to chuck it right back at him.

“AND what made it worse,” Dare said as he sat

on Jonah’s plump tan couch, “was that Bob never

pressed the issue. He deferred to my stupid fucking

hang-up about xylophones. And when I outed

myself, he didn’t give me a single ounce of flak

about that either.”

“You never mentioned the xylophone to me,”

Jonah said.

“I guess not. We never got that far.”

They sat beside each other, not much space

between them. Dare had slid down, his ass near

the edge of the cushion, his legs stretched out

beneath a large coffee table of sleek, dark wood.

Jonah was angled to face him, left leg bent on the

couch and left arm resting on its back.

“Do you feel like going there?” he asked.

Dare shrugged. He wasn’t sure where he felt

like going. To bed with Jonah, maybe, who

smelled so enticing, who smelled like an

aromatherapy candle burning low within a pair of

freshly laundered jeans. Just the nearness of him

both relaxed and revitalized Dare.

A good dream. That’s what it was. Jonah

smelled like a good dream. The issue of their

mutual attraction had either become irrelevant in

the course of the day or had become relevant in a

whole new way.

“I didn’t know GG had a fiancé,” Dare said,

buying time.

Jonah nodded. His eyes were beautiful in the

fading light—the green deeper, richer; the lashes

seemingly longer on his partially lowered lids.

“Hal is a great guy. You’ll probably be playing at

their wedding reception. With the band, I mean.”

“You think so?”

“I’m willing to bet on it.”

Dare faced forward. Longing twined through

him, a cluster of fibers he had difficulty sorting

out. They were different hues of the same primary

color, tinctured by many people, countless images

and events.

“I want to do right,” he murmured. “I want to

be proud of myself. And happy with my life.”

The fingers of Jonah’s outstretched hand

whispered over his hair.

Chapter Twelve

Dare

1999