Guilty Little Secret

by F M Land

  “Come on, Jeff,” I groaned, reeling from all the pot and cocaine I’d consumed that night. “We’ve got a lot of new tunes to rehearse. We’ve got a lot of work to do here.”

  Jeff stared at me, confusion reigning in his eyes. He lit a cigarette and almost immediately stubbed it out. He stretched restlessly. He seemed to have no response.

  “Let’s go to sleep now,” Jade suggested smoothly. “All of us. We’re all partied out here.”

  “I want to go home.” Jeff continued to stare at me. “There’s more to life than your music.”

  We all went to bed after that. But my ears were smarting from Jeff’s words, “There’s more to life than your music,” and I felt too buzzed to sleep. I tossed on my bed fitfully, thinking of Terry. For a moment, I toyed with the idea of calling him to wish him a Happy New Year. It was eight in the morning. Terry might be awake.

  Then Jeff burst into my room and threw himself on the bed beside me. He hugged my head to his chest, practically wrenching it off my shoulders. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I love your music, Paul. I love you. I’m so worried about Brian, you know?”

  “I know,” I replied. I returned Jeff’s hug, then threw off my blankets. “Come sleep with me. I’m lonely, too.”

  Jeff didn’t hesitate to take me up on my offer. In a flash, he was under the covers with me, locked in my arms.

  “Now go to sleep,” I ordered, with mock sternness.

  “Aye, boss.”

  “No more heavy shit until we wake up, okay?”

  “Yeh.” Jeff was silent for a moment. But, like me, he seemed too wired to sleep. “Did you talk to Terry?”

  I shook my head. “No more heavy shit, all right?”

  “You should call him. You haven’t called him all day.”

  “I know.”

  “It’s not like you, Paul.”

  Sighing, I ran my fingers across Jeff’s acne-ravaged cheek and down the back of his neck. “Things are different now, with Drew being sick. Terry is a different person. He’s trying to make up to Drew for the past five years.” I stopped for a moment, to consider sadly where that left me. “Oh, I understand what he’s doing,” I said, more to assure myself than for Jeff’s sake. “Drew’s heart attack has made Terry realize how important Drew really is to him. He forgot all that when he was wrapped up in me.”

  Jeff nodded, then burst into tears. “Who will love us, Paul? We have no one to love us!”

  “Brian loves you, Jeff. You know he always has.”

  “You need a lover, Paul.”

  “Yeh,” I agreed, feeling suddenly sad. Jeff was sure depressing the hell out of me. But, there was no denying Jeff’s observation. I did need a lover, someone I didn’t have to share with Drew.

  Although Jeff threatened to fly back to New York every other day, the four of us in Paris worked together on my new tunes daily for a week or so, without Terry. We rehearsed in a studio in the dixieme arrondisement, close to our apartment. Nights, we partied in the clubs. I tried hard not to think about Terry. But my longing for Terry grew more acute as time passed.

  “Call him,” Jeff commanded early one morning as we were returning from a private, all-night club.

  I shook my head. “It’s too late.”

  “You mean, ‘too early’,” Jade observed.

  “Whatever. I can’t call now.”

  “You want to,” Jeff taunted.

  Furious, I flashed him an evil glare. “Yes, I do! But he has his own life to live.” I thought about my mother then, about her words, “Show some restraint.”

  Suddenly, the phone rang, startling all four of us. A bit shaken, Jeff grabbed for the phone. “Hello?”

  The look on his face told it all. The way the emotion drained from Jeff’s eyes, leaving them hollow and empty. The way Jeff’s lower lip trembled. The way the muscles of his cheeks lost their tone. And his voice. Steel scraping on slate sounded more human than Jeff’s voice.

  “He’s dead,” Jeff told us, his voice a hushed monotone. “He fucking died tonight while we were out!” In a rage, Jeff pushed over the sofa. “I wanted to be there!” he said earnestly. “I knew I should have gone back to New York. They were glad to have me out of the way, though. His parents have always hated me.”

  “That’s not true!” I replied, just as Jade was saying, “Oh, Jeff, I’m so sorry.” Jade and I gazed at each other, both too numb to move.

  It was Daniel who reached out and comforted Jeff. He held Jeff in his arms for a long time, stroking Jeff’s back as Jeff’s body heaved spasmodically with powerful sobs. He spoke in French to Jeff, telling him how he understood, about how he felt when Victor died. Daniel could relate to Jeff’s pain, in a way that Jade and I could not. “Such a terrible tragedy,” he murmured over and over again.

  I staggered into my bedroom, struggling to breathe against the pain in my windpipe. Blindly I reached for the phone. I didn’t hesitate for a moment. I needed to talk to Terry.

  To my surprised delight, Terry picked up the phone. “Hello?” His voice sounded hushed, but awake.

  “Ter --”

  “Paulie!”

  The way Terry said my name, the way he chirped Paulie, I knew: Terry missed me. Terry missed me as much as I missed him. Immediately, the pain began to lift. Terry missed me, too! I suddenly found the strength to deal with Brian’s death. “You’re still up!”

  “Yeh, I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Are you with Drew right now?”

  “No, I’m alone. I’m in your room, watching the tube.”

  “My bedroom?” I gave my stiffening zizi a squeeze.

  “Yeh, I come here whenever I really start missing you.” He stopped for a moment, then added, keeping his voice low, “I’m glad you called!”

  My heart pounded furiously. “I miss you, too. I’ve been trying to give you some space.”

  “I know. But all the space in the world can’t change the way I feel about you, Paulie.”

  My eyes were stinging with tears at that moment. I sucked in my breath a bit too quickly and ended up coughing and choking into the receiver.

  “Are you okay?” Terry asked, anxiety rising in his voice.

  “Yes, yes,” I coughed.

  “Do you still love your Terry?”

  “Of course! Oh, Terry --” And I really lost it then. All the frustration, remorse, loneliness, and worry came tumbling out of me, streaming out of my eyes, nose, and throat. My sobs sounded like honks from a horny old goose. I honked, honked, honked my distress to Terry.

  Terry spoke soothingly while I wept. “It’s okay, baby, it’s okay.” Over and over.

  Finally, I drew in my breath and told him, “I’m leaving for New York in the morning. Brian died tonight.”

  And suddenly Terry began to weep, too. And suddenly I wanted to be with Terry, more than anything.

  “Let me come, too, sweetheart!”

  “I want you to,” I whispered into the phone.

  “I’ll leave right now. I’m wide awake. I’ll drive to Paris now. What time is your flight?”

  I began to relax, knowing that Terry was on his way. “We haven’t made arrangements yet. We’ll get a private jet. We just found out about Brian’s death.”

  “Let me go pack! I’ll be there as soon as I can. Get me on that jet, too.”

  “I love you, Ter,” I offered hopefully.

  “Paulie, Paulie, Paulie, I can’t believe how much I love you.”

  By the time Terry arrived in Paris, Jeff and I had composed a farewell song for Brian. It was called “Good-by, Angel,” and it featured Daniel on the organ, Terry on a snare drum, and our five voices blended in a beautiful chorus of sorrowful tribute to Brian’s life. It was the first song that Jeff and I ever wrote together. And it was hauntingly powerful. Even Jeff smiled when he heard the recorded playback.

  We performed “Good-by, Angel” at Brian’s memorial service in the temple on East 9th Street. Our sound reverberated in the vast empty spaces of that old synagogue, gain
ing a poignant vibrancy when our voices rose in sorrowful protest at the end of the song. Brian’s father wept loudly when we finished singing. The entire congregation sat in numbed stillness after that, listening to the hollow sobs of Brian’s bereaved father. I tried to concentrate on something other than the ache of constricting muscles in my throat. I laid my hand on Terry’s shoulder and squeezed hard.

  We returned to Paris without Jeff. He insisted on staying in New York to be with Brian’s parents, to sit shiva. No one argued with him, not even me, even though I was anxious to get back to rehearsing the new tunes. I had it in my mind to begin recording in earnest when we returned to New York in March. I told Jeff so, and Jeff nodded and said he’d be ready to play music then, in March.

  No sooner had Terry and I stepped off the plane in Orly when we were met by Dad, red-eyed and solemn. After spending a week in mourning for Brian, I had become accustomed to the dazed look of bereavement that was the signature of death. I was a bit unnerved to see that look on my father’s face. For a heart-stopping moment, I worried that Drew might have died. Terry must have had the same thought because he threw himself into Dad’s arms and gazed up at Dad’s face.

  Dad hugged Terry and smiled weakly at me, and at Jade and Daniel, over Terry’s head. Tears began to stream down his face. “Etienne passed away this morning at l’Hôpital Americaine.”

  “Here in Paris?” I asked, a bit lamely, finding nothing else to say.

  Nodding, Dad released Terry. He held out his arms to me. “Your mother is in shock. Etienne died very suddenly.”

  “A heart attack?” Terry squeaked, exchanging a frightened glance with me.

  “No, no, a stroke. He was with some friends last night, drinking cognac, when he complained of a terrible headache. The next thing they knew, he passed out. He never woke up.” Dad held my body against his for a brief moment, then released me. “Come, Maman and Drew are waiting in the car.”

  Maman looked terrible, curled up in the back seat of Drew’s Mercedes, nestled in Drew’s arms. Her face was puffy, her color pasty. Etienne was her mother’s second husband and had been the only father she’d really known. One of the reasons that she insisted on living half of the year in France was so she could spend time with her aging stepfather. She barely acknowledged Terry and me when we climbed into the car. Instead she buried her face in Drew’s chest, weeping soundlessly.

  Drew’s face lit up as Terry slid onto the seat beside him. They kissed quickly over Maman’s bowed head. Then Drew nodded to me, as I took the front seat next to my father.

  “Mom,” I said to Maman, “I’m very sorry. This has been a shitty week.”

  Maman raised her face to look at me then, her eyes wild with despair. “It’s not over yet,” she told me, dully, in French. “Death always comes in threes.”

  “Justine, Justine!” Dad called to her. “Don’t be ridiculous!” He started the car and pulled into traffic.

  I sat back in my seat and waved to Jade and Daniel who still stood on the walkway, waiting for Daniel’s car. I hoped fervently that Maman was wrong.

  Ken (1989)

  When Terry and I got together after that, our lovemaking took on a strained urgency. That is, we got together when we could, grabbing a few minutes together after rehearsal before Terry returned to Drew for the evening. Since Drew’s heart attack, Terry was reluctant to leave Drew alone for any length of time. He hurried across town to lunch with Drew after our band rehearsed for a couple of hours in the morning and returned in mid-afternoon to rehearse some more with Jade, Daniel, and me. Whereas he used to spend most evenings and even stay the night occasionally with me, Terry never left Drew alone in the evening anymore.

  I, therefore, was bored and lonely in the evenings. Sometimes I drove over to watch television with Drew and Terry, but usually I passed the night alone. It seemed that even Jade and Daniel were too busy for me, with all their social activities and committee meetings. They invited me out with them when they went out to dance in the clubs, but it wasn’t often. Not often enough for me.

  Once I went out by myself, to a club on rue St. Jacques. I sat by myself, perched on a barstool, all night, afraid to approach anyone, afraid that I might be approached. I listened to conversations around me, hoping that someone might speak English. The truth was I missed being with Terry. I hated being alone, but what I needed more than anything was to be with my Terry. No one else.

  Then I decided to go back to New York. I called Terry late one night to tell him I was leaving.

  “Let’s talk about it in the morning, dear,” Terry responded, his voice subdued.

  The next morning, Terry crawled into bed with me before I was even awake. Joyfully, gratefully, I pressed my body into Terry’s. We stayed in bed all morning, making love.

  Around noon, the phone rang. A few moments later, Jade knocked on our door. “Paul, tell Terry that Drew’s on the line.”

  Terry sat up quickly, a look of grave concern on his face. “I really shouldn’t have left him this morning,” he told me grimly. “Drew was not feeling well. He was complaining about pain in his shoulder and neck.” He snatched up the phone next to the bed. “Hello?”

  I pressed my ear against the receiver, so I could hear, too.

  “Terry, I’m having trouble breathing. I can’t seem to --”

  “Drew? Drew? Can you call an ambulance?”

  There was a long, heart-wrenching silence. “Terry, come home,” Drew intoned hoarsely.

  “Call an ambulance! It will take me nearly 30 minutes to get there! I’ll meet you at the American Hospital.”

  “No, I want you here.”

  Terry gave a gasp of exasperation. “Drew, you’re not being sensible! Call an ambulance. Don’t waste time!”

  “Come home. I’ll wait for you before I call.”

  “Shit, Drew, you’re impossible! Listen, I’ll be right there. Take it easy! Are you in bed?”

  There was another terrible silence. Finally, Drew replied, his voice coming in gasps, “—on the couch.”

  “Okay, I’ll be right there. I’m leaving now. Please don’t be stubborn. Please call an ambulance if things get worse.”

  We dressed quickly and drove across town to Drew’s. Actually, I did the driving because Terry was too distressed to get behind the wheel. Terry was out of the car and in the house before I even pulled into their driveway. Inside, Drew was still on the couch, gray and unresponsive. With shaking hands, Terry dialed for an ambulance. Then I called my parents. I squeezed my eyes shut to keep my tears from running down my face.

  Dad and Maman arrived after Drew was admitted to the intensive care unit of the same hospital where Etienne had died. I met my parents in the hallway outside the unit. We embraced silently and waited for Terry to join us. Only one person was allowed to see Drew for 15 minutes every two hours. After about 10 minutes, Terry walked through the double doors from the unit, saw Dad and Maman, and burst into tears. Drew was going to survive, the doctors predicted, but at least three of Drew’s coronary arteries had to be replaced.

  Drew, when he was able to speak with Dad, insisted that the bypass surgery be performed in New York. At that point, even Maman was ready to go back to the States. I winked at Terry across the room. Heading home to New York was exactly what I wanted to do. I missed Jeff, I missed the music scene there, shit, I even missed Dizzy.

  When Drew was able to travel, we flew back to New York by private jet immediately. Drew checked into Columbia-Presbyterian Hospital almost as soon as we landed. His surgery was uneventful, and his recovery was rapid, almost miraculous. By the end of February, Drew was exercising regularly again and seemed to be in good shape. He even gave up smoking, everything, pot, crack, tobacco. Dad and Maman convinced him, as well, to adopt their vegetarian lifestyle.

  Terry, although he complained at length about all the changes that Drew was imposing on his life, seemed happier and more relaxed than he’d been in months. Still, he was reluctant to leave Drew’s side for long periods o
f time, much to my frustration.

  To make matters even more frustrating, Jeff was not really ready to get back into our music either, when Jade and Daniel returned to New York. With a lot of effort, though, we were able to record “Scream” and “Good-by, Angel” in mid February.

  Dad was very excited when he listened to the recordings. “Let’s see what our friends at Atlantic think of these!’ he chortled to Maman and me, as he tucked the master tapes into the safe at the studio at W. 10th Street.

  “Scream” was released as side A and “Good-by, Angel” as side B singles soon after they were recorded. A professional filmmaking company showed up at the studio, at Dad’s invitation, to discuss taping a video for “Scream.” After some thought, I decided that I’d like the video to be filmed at Ziggy’s. I wanted to feature the band in its natural environment, with shots of the dance floor and pick-up scene there.

  Jade was enthusiastic about my idea, although Dad and the video crew were more guarded about taping a video in a gay bar. In the end, I got my way. For several nights in a row, the cameras rolled while my band performed “Scream” to a loud and raucous audience. That’s what I enjoyed most about Ziggy’s. The crowd was rowdy and wild about my music.

  After my new tunes were released and the videotaping completed, my band seemed to fall apart. Jeff demanded more time off, claiming he hadn’t recovered yet from Brian’s death. Terry wanted to spend as much time as he could with Drew. And Jade and Daniel made noises about wanting to return to France.

  Then Robbie called from Los Angeles one day, just as “Scream” was beginning to get a lot of radio play, to congratulate me on my great new tune. He’d seen the video on MTV, too, and raved about the dance scenes at Ziggy’s. He even apologized for his remark, made years earlier, about gay musicians never making it big.

  “No problem,” I told him, at once flattered and smug.

  “Hey, Paulie,” Robbie continued, “I was wondering, if you’re not too busy these days, if you might want to come out to California