Xylophone

by K. Z. Snow

  “By keeping the audience guessing,” Jonah ventured.

  “Something like that. They don’t know quite how to view me, which means they don’t know how to approach me. Am I a straight cross-dresser? Or G, B, T, or I? Or am I just indefinably queer? They can’t pin me down.”

  “The way Pankin did. Or seemed to.”

  Dare flinched around the eyes. “Yeah. I want to assert who I am, but I don’t want who I am to be taken advantage of. It’s as if I’m saying, You can find me desirable, but you can’t truly know me or have me unless I want you to.”

  Brows drawn, Jonah pondered something for a moment. “But you still get hit on, right? Pepper Jack still attracts certain people.”

  “Well, sure. It’s part of my job to be seductive. When I’m not in costume, though, I’m not all that special.”

  Jonah studied him. “Yes you are.”

  They sat quietly for a moment, not making eye contact.

  “I should go,” Dare said with reluctance, bracing his hands on his knees and preparing to rise. “It’s been a long, grueling weekend. In more ways than one.”

  “You sure you’ll be all right?”

  “I’m sure.” Dare wasn’t so sure about Jonah, whose clenched composure had become worrisome. Regardless of what he’d said, he hadn’t drained out.

  DARE had both hoped for and feared an invitation to spend the night. He’d wanted to kiss Jonah but didn’t feel quite right about kissing Jonah. Judging by his confession the night before, Jonah felt similarly torn. All this hesitation, the conflict between approach and avoidance, had an obvious cause. They’d invited two buzz-killing revenants into their relationship, Howard Pankin and Clayton C. Wallace, and the dead men’s presence had led to a kind of sexual paralysis.

  Enough was enough. Time to play past the past.

  When Dare got home, he called his folks in San Diego. He hadn’t expected his father to be around, but by some minor miracle, both of his parents were there.

  “I need to talk to you,” Dare began, “about some important things that’ve happened.”

  “Could this be a long conversation?” his father asked.

  “Could be.”

  “Then let’s reconnect via computer. Where’s Carver, by the way?”

  “Out.” Dare had no idea where and didn’t much care.

  “Good.”

  Dare made a face of pleasant surprise at the phone, then said, “I love you.”

  “We love you too, son.”

  They ended up talking for almost three hours. Dare appreciated the visual connection. For the first time in what seemed like forever, he spoke without censoring himself: about the startling blessing named Jonah Day, the cathartic unspooling of their pasts, the satisfaction of rediscovering himself combined with the growing pleasure of rediscovering trust.

  His mother teared up and sniffled, on and off. His father’s face settled into a contemplative smile. Neither reaction was as simple as it seemed, but Dare didn’t bother to separate and examine all the emotional threads. He knew his parents were happy for him, and relieved. Especially when he said, “I realize I still have a long way to go. But at least I’m moving in the right direction. Finally.”

  His parents were encouraging but not pushy. They didn’t unleash a torrent of advice. It seemed they, too, had learned some valuable lessons over the past three years.

  Then Dare grabbed his cell, stretched out on his bed, and called Jonah. Time to play past the past.

  “Hey,” he said in a voice he never used and didn’t even know he had—marshmallow soft and sweet. “You kissed me. Remember?”

  “You mean—”

  “Not too many hours ago. At your place.”

  “Of course I remember. But I wasn’t sure you did. I wasn’t even sure you’d noticed.”

  “Oh, I noticed. I was just a little frazzled at the time. When I’m that upset I have zero clarity.”

  “So… you’re calling this late to tell me something I already know—that I kissed you?”

  “No. I’m calling to ask you why.”

  Disbelieving laughter, with an undercurrent of anxiety. “Isn’t it obvious?”

  “Not necessarily. I don’t want to misinterpret anything. It could’ve just been a comfort kiss.”

  Jonah paused. “It was.”

  “It was?”

  “Yes. So don’t have to freak out about it.”

  “If you only wanted to comfort me, why didn’t you kiss me on the cheek? Or the forehead?”

  A brief pause. “Your mouth was closer.”

  Dare grinned. “Okay, I’ll buy that. But… are you still attracted to me?”

  Jonah let out an exasperated sigh. “Listen, Dare, I’m not sure what your point is, but I promise you don’t have to worry about—”

  “I’m not worried. Not anymore. I accept the fact you went gay for me. And I kind of like it.”

  “Are you out of your mind? You think you ‘turned’ me because you’re so damned irresistible? I’ve been gay all along, obviously, but I didn’t want to admit it or accept it because—”

  The laughter Dare had been suppressing finally tumbled from his mouth. “Ah, Jonah. Why couldn’t you just say, ‘Yes, I’m still attracted to you’?”

  Jonah let out a flustered sigh, maybe of concession. “And how about, ‘I couldn’t help it if I tried’? You’re smart and talented and alluring as hell, and I’m already half out of my mind because I want to get close to you in a different way. But I… don’t know how. I’m afraid of putting you off again.”

  Dare’s stomach fluttered as his humor fled. “You never put me off,” he said, his tone gentling. “Just the opposite. But it didn’t seem appropriate for me to hit on you. It would’ve been like having unchaste urges in a confessional.”

  A squeaking noise came through the phone. Jonah must’ve been repositioning himself. He was probably in bed, although he didn’t sound as if he’d been asleep. “Speaking of confessionals, that kiss wasn’t completely a comfort kiss.”

  Now we’re getting somewhere. “I’ll tell you what it was—a good start. Would you like to go out sometime, on a real date? Or come to my place for dinner? Then we’ll see what step two is.”

  “You’re sure that’s what you want?”

  “You bet I am.”

  “Can you cook?”

  “I’ve mastered one recipe.”

  “Will your brother be gone?”

  “Even if I have to buy him a plane ticket to Mykonos.” Dare already knew Carver would be at a conference in Kansas City from Thursday evening through Sunday afternoon. He just wanted to impress Jonah with his determination.

  The thoughts that packed Jonah’s silence were almost audible. Does he mean it? What’s he after? Is this the right thing to do?

  “How does Friday night sound?” Dare asked. “Lasagna by candlelight, so you can taste it but not see it.”

  Soft laughter.

  “An old movie or two on a disgustingly decadent, sage-colored sectional sofa. And if you get too tired to drive home, we have plenty of room for overnight guests.”

  “I don’t live that far away, Dare.”

  “I repeat, I have plenty of room for overnight guests. Even weekenders.”

  Dare could hear Jonah breathing, could easily interpret the volume and tempo of his breaths.

  “On one condition,” Jonah said.

  Uh-oh. Dare braced himself. Please oh please don’t say we can’t touch each other. “What’s that?”

  “You have to dance with me.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  ADORABLE. Jonah was just plain fucking adorable as he stood on the front porch, all flushed and soapy-smelling and looking as if he’d been dressed by a proud, fussy mother. And when his arm swept gracefully from behind his back, a warm-hued autumn bouquet clutched in his fist, Dare was so touched he felt his face slide into an aw, gee expression. After a blissful, misty moment, he realized this was how he would’ve reacted if he were twelve again and Rya
n Morgan had told him, “I think you’re the cutest and coolest guy ever.”

  Maybe that’s exactly what Jonah was telling him. Dare hoped so, as silly as such hope seemed for a man his age.

  “Wow” was all he could muster, until “thank you” occurred to him.

  “I thought they’d look nice on the dinner table,” Jonah said shyly. “I know most people would’ve brought wine, but I don’t know squat about wine.”

  “I don’t either.” Dare took the flowers… then realized that his dinner table would hardly do them justice.

  Earlier, he’d tried to recall how his parents had set up for “pig-out parties”—as a kid, that was how he’d thought of them—but his mental images were vague. A gleaming, everything-matches neatness. Structurally-folded napkins. Flickering candles. All atop a double-pedestal table, a veritable barge of a table, that could comfortably seat ten people on its elegant, upholstered chairs.

  The barge was gone, hauled to his parents’ new residence, but Carver had replaced it with a classy oval six-top. Dare’s napkin-folding skills were lacking, and there wasn’t a tablecloth left in the house, but he’d polished the cherry-finished wood, dug up a couple of placemats, and found an unscented pillar candle in a color that didn’t clash with the dishes.

  Now that he held the flowers, he realized he couldn’t fulfill his other host duty. “Uh, I need to get these in water,” he said. “The closet is right there if you want to hang up your coat. Then go ahead and make yourself at home in the living room.” He took a few steps and turned. “Would you like something to drink? Water, juice, soda?”

  “Cranberry juice on ice?”

  “Yeah, I think we’ve got some. Or a blend. You know, with pomegranate or something. My brother’s into antioxidants.” What the hell am I yammering about? Who gives a shit about Carver’s antioxidant intake?

  “That’s fine,” Jonah said, pulling off his jacket.

  Dare hurried into the kitchen and hoped like hell he could find a vase. Clip off the ends of the stems, he reminded himself. Use lukewarm water. Set them someplace on the table where they won’t block—

  Get the fucking lasagna in the fucking oven!

  Oh Christ, why hadn’t they just gone out to dinner?

  Dare was sure he’d originally had a good reason for inviting Jonah to the house. Now he couldn’t remember what it was. Maybe that having Jonah here from the start would eliminate the awkward step of getting him here after a date elsewhere. But why did he even want to get Jonah here?

  Oh yeah. Because he knew Carver would be safely out of town, and he was hoping to take advantage of the privacy and get lucky. Only now he wasn’t sure that getting lucky was either feasible or desirable. He and Jonah both seemed to be on the intact-but-fragile side of nervous wreck. Or maybe only he was.

  What if the opportunity arises but I can’t?

  “One step at a time,” he mumbled to himself.

  He finally managed to get the flowers into a cut-glass vase and pour Jonah’s drink.

  “Can I help you with anything?”

  Dare jumped and slapped a hand to his chest. “Shit.”

  “Sorry. Didn’t mean to startle you.” Jonah stood, smiling, just inside the kitchen.

  “Guess I’m a little anxious. I’m not used to entertaining guests. Not, you know, in this way.”

  Jonah’s smile stretched into a grin.

  Dare froze, looking at him. “You really should smile more often.”

  Up came a blush. Of course. “Here, let me put those on the table.” Jonah walked to the center island and lifted the vase.

  “You look like a Christmas tree.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Bright red cheeks, bright green eyes, glowing smile. A really… handsome Christmas tree.”

  They stood less than a foot from each other. Nothing happened for a moment, yet a whole lot was happening. Dare felt a soft blanket forming, the kind that wrapped around two people at the precise moment their desire for each other deepened into something more, and both feelings became undeniable.

  “That’s probably the lamest compliment you ever got,” Dare said.

  “I wasn’t even sure it was a compliment.”

  “It was. I love Christmas.”

  A more self-conscious version of Jonah’s smile resurfaced. “So do I.”

  THEIR date went smoothly after that. Dare judged his meal tasty if not aesthetically perfect; Jonah not only agreed but ate heartily. Even the store-bought bread, baked in a deli that morning, seemed fresh once it was warmed. The candle didn’t drip, no food fell from forks onto shirtfronts, and (the greatest triumph of all) conversation never sagged into awkward silence.

  Dare caught himself smiling a lot, and Jonah just as much. Sometimes their smiles broke for laughter. They learned more about each other. And Dare learned more about himself.

  From the day Howard Pankin had entered his life, he’d lost sight of what he wanted. Everything he wanted, really. That damp fog of self-blame and shame and secrecy had swallowed all his dreams. Dare suddenly remembered that his sixth grade teacher, Ms. Gunturu, had called a person’s collective aspirations a “hopescape.” Tonight the word seemed especially apt. Throughout his post-Pankin years, Dare thought he’d been trying to retrieve his dreams, but he’d only been going through the motions, groping blindly along.

  Now, his shattered hopescape was re-forming. Its resolution and clarity increased with every minute he spent in Jonah Day’s company. The vision even scintillated with promise. True joy no longer seemed quite so elusive.

  A major component of Dare’s hopescape—at least since early adolescence, when his first crush had consumed him—was a longing for A Boy to Call His Own. As he gazed at his dinner companion and confidant, he realized he might finally be able to realize that dream. Less than an arm’s reach away sat someone who just might fit the bill.

  Jonah didn’t look the part, but that didn’t matter. A boy didn’t need the polish of celebrity to be beautiful or to grow into a beautiful man. He didn’t have to be a photographer’s dream. He only had to be Dare’s dream. And maybe one that could push the nightmares aside.

  Toward the end of dinner, Jonah got to talking animatedly about ballroom dancing. He’d taken lessons for a while, which hadn’t come without mishaps. The longer he talked, the more he gesticulated, made faces, gave in to amused laughter. Dare was more than entertained; he was enchanted.

  “Then there was this woman, Jayne Arthur. She was a freakin’ Amazon. When she wore heels, she was an über-Amazon. One evening she had to do a tango—American, not Argentine—with this kind of portly older dude named Bernard.

  “So they get into their dance embrace, which was pretty comical in and of itself, and I notice Jayne’s earrings, these dangly beaded things, are sort of skating around Bernard’s hair. I’m thinking, Whoa, that could be some hurt waiting to happen. Then Jayne and Bernard do a head snap—you know, like this.” Jonah demonstrated as Dare, smiling, settled his chin into his palm. “And damned if one of those muskie-lure earrings didn’t catch in Bernard’s hair. I winced… but that snag wasn’t the worst of it.” Jonah began laughing. “In like two seconds, this little black pelt is hanging from the earring! And now Jayne’s wincing, not to mention listing to port, ’cause her earlobe is like halfway to her shoulder while her partner’s freakin’ hairpiece is swinging in the breeze!”

  Dare was laughing too, even while he kept gazing at Jonah, even as he knew another something extraordinary was happening. The pond with its thin ice was behind them now. They were making their way through a whole new process, like a baby becoming ambulatory. Lift head, roll around, sit up, belly scoot, crawl, stand, walk, run. Each stage took some getting used to—staggering always preceded confidence—but once the new skill was mastered, damn, what possibilities lay ahead.

  Jonah took a drink, dabbed at his mouth, laid his napkin next to his plate. He rested his forearms on the table and leaned toward Dare. “Do you realize you’ve b
een looking at me kind of strangely for a while?”

  Dare kept looking. “Strangely in what way?”

  “Like….” Smiling self-consciously, Jonah stopped himself. “Never mind. I don’t want to jinx it.”

  Their eyes couldn’t seem to unlock.

  “Come on, I’ll help you clean up.” Jonah slid back from the table. “You still have to make good on that promise, you know.”

  “I don’t recall promising anything.” Dare gathered up their plates, silverware, and napkins.

  Jonah lifted the water pitcher and glasses. “You didn’t. We’re a little too old to pinkie-swear. But the way I see it, you still owe me a dance.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  AFTER the table was cleared and the dishwasher filled, after Jonah went to the bathroom and Dare did the same, Jonah walked to the foyer. He came into the living room holding up a CD case.

  “I hope you don’t mind.”

  Dare stood. He’d been crouched before the shelves of movies in the entertainment center. “What, you don’t trust my taste in music?” In mock challenge, he sauntered up to Jonah.

  “Why should I? Just because you play the clarinet? That doesn’t mean you don’t scramble your brain with techno-pop every chance you get.” He waved the CD just inches from Dare’s face. “So I brought a collection of classic ballads. Streisand, Sinatra, Nat King Cole. Real music.”

  Oooh, he could be a brat. Dare loved the unexpected bursts of sass that splintered Jonah’s usual smooth politeness. They made Dare feel like a member of an exclusive club. Jonah, he suspected, didn’t forfeit his manners and go smartass with just anybody.

  “You’re such a nerd,” Dare said, stepping closer. “But such a cute nerd.”

  “And you’re even sexier when you smirk.” Jonah slid the plastic case into Dare’s hand, stroking a forefinger over one of Dare’s knuckles as he did so.