Match Maker

by Alan Chin

  Spencer’s mouth dropped as he stared at Jared’s water-softened face and virile torso.

  “Connor, Spencer, meet Jared,” I said, noticing the tip of Jared’s tongue sliding over his lower lip. “Jared, perhaps our guests would feel more comfortable if you put some clothes on.”

  Spencer cleared his throat. “I don’t mind.”

  A line of red rose above Connor’s collar and spread over his face. Was he embarrassed, I wondered, or jealous?

  “Nice to meet you,” Jared said. His grin widened into a smile, and he winked at Spencer. Turning, he sauntered back down the hallway and disappeared into the bedroom.

  The kitchen was as sparse as the rest of the apartment. Nothing cluttered the green stone countertops, cabinets, or the deep copper sink in the corner, as if gale force winds had swept everything away. Evening light poured through the window above the sink. On fogless days, you could see Alcatraz and Angel Island and white sails dotting the bay from that window.

  Spencer stepped to the sink to wash his hands before handling any food. “Wow, your views are awesome. This place must cost a wad.”

  “Not really. The owner’s a tennis fanatic, and Jared gives him three lessons a week for a break on the rent.”

  “I can’t wait to get my own place.”

  “You don’t like living with your parents?”

  “They’re cool, but I want a place that’s more me and less them.”

  I had him pull dumplings out of the steamer and arrange them on a serving platter and pour the boiled soybeans and unsalted peanuts into serving bowls. While he busied himself with that, I sliced a beautiful red slab of raw tuna and began making sushi. I held a slice toward him.

  “You like sashimi?”

  He leaned toward me and snatched the fish from my fingers with his open mouth. He made an “ummm” sound as he chewed.

  “You’re off to college next year, right? You’ll be on your own?”

  He shook his head. “Stanford is close enough that I’ll stay at home and commute by car.”

  “So where does Connor fit into these plans?”

  “Nowhere. With any luck, he’ll be globetrotting on the pro circuit.”

  “Does he know how you feel about him?”

  A long silence spanned into minutes as he arranged the dumplings around the dipping sauce bowl. He drew a deep breath and said, “Con and I never talk about that. I don’t know anyone I can discuss those feelings with.”

  Jared ambled into the kitchen wearing a red polo shirt and blue jeans, but he was barefoot, and his breath still smelled of whiskey. He came up behind me, wrapped his arms around my waist, and kissed the back of my neck.

  “Honey, you smell great.” He hadn’t called me “Honey” in four years. He growled in my ear that he was starving and reached for a slice of tuna, popping it into his mouth.

  I turned to face him, our noses an inch apart, and I gave him my best who-are-you-trying-to-impress look. He smiled as he chewed, not backing away. The doorbell rang, and I said, “Jared, honey, make yourself useful and answer the door.”

  Jared filched another slice of tuna before strolling to the living room. Spencer’s teal-colored eyes sparkled as he said, “You’re so lucky.”

  I began to tell him that everything has its price, but I stopped myself. Yes, I thought, I am lucky, price or no price. I winked at him and said, “If you ever need to talk about those feelings, I’m a sympathetic listener.” I wiped my hands on a dishtowel and patted him on the shoulder, moving past him to welcome the newly arrived guests.

  Carrie stood inside the front door, introducing a young woman to Jared and Connor.

  I welcomed Carrie, who wore a soigné business suit and high heels that made her tower above everybody. She introduced Shar Paulot. Shar shook Jared’s hand and gave him a bottle of wine.

  She was tall for a woman, slender, perhaps twenty-two years old, and neither black nor white but rather a golden rum color—obviously the product of varied bloodlines. I was struck by the fact that she wore a man’s Homburg hat, dark brown with a small yellow feather tucked into the black silk band. Her dark hair swept straight back, accentuating the thinness of her face, and a purple ribbon held her hair in place behind her neck. She also wore a black one-piece bathing suit, a sheer flower-print skirt that draped from her waist to just below her knees, and lizard-skin high heels. She epitomized the cool and colorful Caribbean look.

  I took her hand and stepped back to look at her—no makeup, serenely immaculate, a flawless figure—chic, I thought, and the hat lent a unique impression.

  “You look ravishing,” I said. “I’m so pleased to meet you. And this is Spencer.”

  Spencer balanced a tray with six glasses of mint-flavored iced tea.

  “Hello, Spencer. And thank you, Mr. Bottega. You have a lovely home,” she said with a smoky, cultivated voice that reminded me of melted chocolate, all sweet and warm and somewhat self-amused. “But when does the rest of your furniture arrive?”

  “Oh, we like to keep things simple,” I said, annoyed. Actually, I was proud of the apartment’s austerity.

  “It’s more lovely now that you’re here,” said Connor, whose face had grown ashen. “I love your hat. It makes you look dangerous, you know, like a gangster.”

  “Dangerous? Oh my, darling, thank you. It belonged to my ex-roommate. She’s a dyke, and she made me wear it everywhere so people would think I was her butch. When I moved away, she gave it to me.” She laughed, covering her mouth with her long and graceful fingers. “It was too embarrassing for her to be seen with a straight girl.” She glanced at Carrie, and I got the distinct impression, from that gleam in her eye and from Carrie’s slight blush, that she was talking about Carrie.

  She turned her attention back to Connor. “And you’re the dear boy who’s to become the best tennis player in the world.”

  Connor said, “I used to pray every night for that to come true, but it’s such a long shot that I gave up hope. I’ll settle for winning a Masters Cup or a Slam.”

  Shar smiled. “Be careful of what you pray for, darling. Saint Therese once said, ‘More tears are shed over answered prayers than unanswered ones,’ and you never know, God may decide to shine Her undivided attention on granting your wish, and that would be dreadful.”

  “Dreadful?” Connor asked.

  “It’s been my experience that as soon as someone achieves whatever it is they desire, dear boy, they no longer value it. I’m afraid that’s human nature. I think most people are only happy when dreaming about what they covet, regardless of what treasures they already possess. It seems their happiness comes from things they lack.”

  “I disagree,” I said. “I believe people are happiest when they are working, inch by inch, toward their life’s goal. But you’re right, as soon as you achieve it, the shine dulls and you take it for granted. The trick is to have lofty goals that you can never attain, like world peace or ending hunger.”

  “Or becoming the best tennis player in the world,” Connor said, grinning.

  Shar noticed the Gauguin painting and sauntered toward it. Her lizard skin shoes seem to ripple as she walked, as if they were still alive. Posing herself at the piano, she studied the painting until Connor gravitated to her side.

  The women in the painting had supple and haughty postures. Connor cleared his throat and told her, “You look like you stepped out of this painting.”

  “That’s my Senegalese blood. Did you know, darling, that Paul Gauguin painted on my home island of Martinique before living among the Polynesians?”

  “You lived in the Caribbean?”

  She smiled. “Oui. Oui. Born on Martinique, high school in New Orleans, college at Stanford.”

  Spencer offered her tea, and as she lifted her glass, he said, “I’ll attend Stanford next year.”

  “My apartment is close to campus. Perhaps we can room together and share expenses?”

  “Wish I could, but I’ll be staying with my folks here in the city.�
�

  “Pity. It would be amusing to live with such a sensitive-looking boy.”

  Spencer blushed as he glanced at his tray of drinks. I became convinced that she enjoyed embarrassing anybody and everybody, and that somehow made me like her.

  “So what’s Martinique like?” Connor asked in an attempt to take back the conversation.

  “You should see for yourself, darling, but you must come during Carnival. Carnival on Martinique is a small affair compared to New Orleans, without the racket and stench and drunks stumbling over themselves.”

  “Sounds wicked.”

  “The sequined gowns and Marie Antoinette wigs, the beautiful men in skimpy costumes, and the rumba dancing ’til dawn are all wonderful, devilishly so.”

  “We can start on dinner if everybody’s hungry,” I said. “Jared, honey, can you pour the wine, and Spencer, will you help bring everything to the table?”

  Dinner was a simple affair: bowls of warm ginger-marinated shrimp and rice-noodle salad, steamed pork buns, shrimp and leek dumplings, four different sushi rolls, and an assortment of raw vegetables arranged on bamboo platters.

  Jared poured wine into bone china rice bowls, explaining that we never drank wine, so we didn’t have suitable wineglasses. The wine, a French Bordeaux, was a shocking ruby red, tannic, and lovely against the pearl white china. The overhead lighting filtered through the wine; the bowls’ insides glowed crimson, a warm sunrise within each rim.

  Raising our bowls with all eyes locked on Connor, I said, “We’re all here to contribute to the career of this talented athlete. His success will be a team effort.”

  Bewilderment spread across Connor’s face. As dinner progressed, his confusion visibly deepened until he asked Shar, “How will you contribute to my success?”

  Shar sipped her wine before answering, “Darling, Carrie has hired me to help with your physical conditioning. Has no one told you?”

  He shook his head. “You sure don’t look like a fitness trainer.”

  Shar’s eyes grew less friendly. She made a slow pronouncement. “I’ve earned a degree in sports medicine. What I bring to this party is the intelligence to create a total fitness program and the drive to encourage you to follow it. But perhaps you’d prefer some jock whose only talent is pumping iron…?”

  Before Connor could defend himself, I added, “There’s another reason she’s on the team. You see, I don’t regret my decision to coach you, but my being gay will make things difficult. People love gossip, and I’m afraid they’ll whisper that we’re an item—the classic older gay seducing the boy scenario. If they suspect you’re gay, they’ll do anything to drive you out. I know because Jared and I lived it. They’ll push and push until you take one little step out of line, and boom, they’ll hit you like a freight train.”

  I locked eyes with Connor and let a silent moment pass before continuing. “But with Shar at your side, people will assume she’s your girlfriend. That should defuse any suspicion about you. So when we play tournaments, we follow all the rules: no drugs, no drinking, no on-court drama, in bed by ten, up by dawn, and you and Shar will be very, very chummy. Agreed?”

  Everybody except Spencer nodded.

  “We need a comprehensive strategy,” I continued, “that will deflect anything they throw at us, and Shar plays a key role.”

  Spencer shook his head. “You’re like, asking Con to live a lie?”

  “I’m suggesting that he spend time with a beautiful woman, which I’ll wager won’t take much arm twisting. Then we’ll let people think what they will.”

  The suggestion of a grin crept onto Connor’s lips, and he glanced up at the Gauguin nudes. “Does this mean we’ll share hotel rooms?”

  Shar tossed her head back and laughed, a harsh and very unladylike sound. “You glutton! You’re getting a physical trainer and a companion on tour at no cost to you. Don’t expect any good fortune beyond that. Besides, I don’t think a man learns how to appreciate a woman before he’s thirty-six. So you see, darling, I prefer older men. The older, the better. I once dated a man who was fifty-seven, and he was utterly charming. Better to be an old man’s sweetheart than a young man’s slave, I always say. Oh, don’t be angry, you dear boy. I’ll be very good to you. Just be sure and bring your Palm Pilot.” She giggled, more ladylike this time. “No worries, darling, you’ll love my post match rub-downs.”

  Spencer bowed his head and glared at his food. I felt sorry for him and began to regret my part in creating the lie. Jared must have felt the same way, because he reached over and squeezed Spencer’s shoulder. He glanced my way. Fortunately for me, looks can only maim.

  Shar spent the rest of dinner describing Connor’s new fitness program, and by the time we had finished the raspberry sorbet dessert, the sunset had colored the houses across the bay. The living room smoldered with golden light. We polished off the last of the wine, and Carrie and Shar said their good-byes.

  The boys grabbed their coats, but I said, “Hold on, men. Spencer helped get dinner together, so Connor pulls cleanup duty.” I wanted a chance to talk with him alone, and to my delight, he smiled and started to clear the dishes. Jared sat at the piano. He ran through some scales to limber his fingers and began to play Mozart, a sonata in A sharp. Spencer folded into the wing chair and closed his eyes, letting the music carry him away.

  I filled the copper sink with hot soapy water. Connor washed and rinsed while I dried and put away. We worked in a comfortable silence, and I became happy that we could be quiet together. I felt a current of cool air moving through my chest.

  Jared finished the Mozart sonata and began another.

  “So what do you think of Shar?” My question brought a rose color to the tips of his ears.

  “She’s pretty saucy, and what a fox. I sure won’t mind her rubdowns.”

  “What’s your girlfriend going to say about that?”

  He gazed at me strangely and told me he didn’t have one. When I raised an eyebrow, he explained, “I dated a girl named Vicky last year. She was smart and pretty and Chinese. Dad loved her. We had good times, but things went bogus. She got jealous because Spence was always hanging around. She accused us of being lovers, so we had this harsh scene and she dumped me.”

  He turned to me with his head cocked to one side and asked, “Why is everybody so hung up on sex? I’m mean, I totally don’t get why it always comes down to fucking. Why are people so obsessed?”

  “Wish I knew.”

  “Is it fear? Insecurity? Stupidity?”

  “I suppose.”

  His brow wrinkled with a troubled expression that made him appear much older. “Everyone assumes that if you love someone, you’re fucking them. But it’s not true. I’m not wired like that, but because everybody assumes I am, I don’t have any other friends. We’re outcasts. All we have is each other.” He paused, becoming aware of me staring at him. “You think I’m bonkers.”

  “No, I’m just surprised that you love him so deeply.”

  That flustered him, and I was sorry I’d said it.

  “So how does Spencer feel? Is he gay?” I said, trying to shift the focus slightly.

  “Duh! Can’t you tell?”

  “Well, yes, I suppose I can. I just wondered if you knew.” So, I thought, he has already experienced the brunt of sexual bigotry, and this is why he accepted my sexuality but was concerned about people assuming he was gay. I felt closer to him. Yes, we were so much alike. “How long has Spencer been interested in you, sexually?”

  “Since about day one,” he said, and he chuckled. “And you’re right, I totally love him. We’re like two halves of the same person: he’s yin, I’m yang.”

  “How will he react if you and Shar become close?”

  “Spence needs to find someone he can roll in the sheets with. Once that happens, he won’t be so possessive. I mean, did you see the stars in his eyes when Jared strolled out wearing a towel? Right then, he didn’t even know if I existed or what.” His voice had a teasing quality, an
d it found its mark.

  I smiled and nodded. Jared finished the Mozart and switched to Beethoven. I fought off the urge to walk in there for a look-see.

  “So that’s your love life. Tell me about your family, about Roy.”

  “He’s on Saturn, I’m on Pluto. He’s like, totally Chinese, like my grandparents, and very proud. He wants to carry on the family traditions, but I couldn’t give a rat’s ass about that stuff. I’m not Chinese; I’m American. I’ve got a sister who ran off with an African American, which is why she and Roy haven’t said squat to each other in like, seven years.”

  “That sounds extreme. There must have been more to it.”

  “As you’ve no doubt figured out, we don’t have any money. It’s not that my folks aren’t making enough, but my dad has some complicated gambling issues. I’m sure that’s the reason he pushes me so hard with the tennis; he thinks it could lead to some fast money. Not that I mind. I mean, I’m nothing without tennis. It’s my only talent, other than being good at school. But if I can’t afford college, what good is that? A high school diploma gets you nada.”

  “So tennis is just a means to get the lifestyle you want?”

  “Tennis is my ticket to being somebody.”

  His words nagged me like a catchy tune as we finished the dishes and ambled back into the living room. Jared still played Beethoven, and Spencer watched him with such a pained expression on his face that I asked if he was feeling well. Connor found my question funny, and I realized that Spencer was drifting in a cloud of Jared.

  The boys pulled on their coats and said their goodnights. Connor’s statement about wanting to be “somebody” haunted me long after they left.

  In bed, I held Jared close and wouldn’t let go, all the time knowing he felt the same, that tennis was his only means to be extraordinary, and he had lost his chance. As I wondered how to give him another chance, segments of a Truman Capote poem surfaced from my memory, the gist of which was something like: to be somebody, to be remembered—that was what everyone was after, wasn’t it?

  Chapter 8