Guilty Little Secret

by F M Land

  for a few weeks to work on my new album. I could sure use a good bass player. And your voice.”

  And my music, I added silently. But, it seemed, at the time, a good opportunity to get away from my band. And a good time to put some space between me and Terry, who was really getting on my nerves these days with his overprotective attitude about Drew. So, I replied, “Yeh, Robbie, I think I might be able to help you out. I need a vacation from my band. Talk to my dad about the details.”

  It wouldn’t be much of a vacation, as it turned out. Robbie’s recording schedule ran from the Monday following my birthday until early May. And Robbie wanted me there for most of it. Dad, of course, made sure that I would make out big time for my work on my cousin’s album.

  When I told Terry, Jeff, Jade, and Daniel about my plans to go to California, no one complained. In fact, all, including Terry, seemed relieved that they weren’t going to be in the studio for a few months.

  “We’ll go back to Paris!” Daniel said to Jade, as he hugged Jade’s waist.

  “Wait!” I told them. “Please wait until after my birthday. I want you in New York for my birthday! Let’s play at Ziggy’s that night!” I turned to Jeff. “Please, for me? For my birthday?”

  Jeff assented. He even smiled.

  My 23rd birthday arrived on a wintry Tuesday in mid March. At Ziggy’s, it felt like a real celebration. Drew was there, looking fit and alert. Terry seemed more relaxed than he had in a long time. Dad and Maman were radiant with pride. Even Jeff appeared upbeat. And Jade and Daniel beamed, looking like mirror images of each other, ever since Danny let his hair grow out and dyed it the same pale shade as Jade’s. Jade’s parents were seated at a table nearby, with Jade’s sister and a bunch of her friends from Vassar, including an awkward young man who seemed to be her boyfriend. Only Dizzy, on call at the hospital, was missing at my birthday celebration.

  I was up, really up, that night. In a generous moment, I promised Ziggy that my band would play an hour-long set, free of charge. Onstage, I was chatty with the audience.

  “Hey, it’s my birthday tonight, who remembered?” I taunted.

  In response, the audience, accompanied by my band, burst into a chorus of “Happy Birthday to You.” Then someone down front yelled, “How old are you tonight, Paul?”

  I made a face and held a forefinger to my lips. “Shhh! I can’t tell,” I answered mischievously. “I’d get Ziggy into trouble.”

  Everyone laughed at that. I led my group through a series of Posso standards, with some Gabe Edgeworth and Terry Walters tunes thrown in. The last half hour, though, I reserved for my own music. I started with “You, Me, Too” and “Mental Maniac”, then moved to “Queerbait”, a club favorite, “Fighting Fire”, and “So Do I.” My music featured a driving bass beat that led, rather than followed, the percussion, making it ultimately danceable. And the dance floor was busy, although most of the audience stayed in their seats to catch my performance.

  “Hey,” I spoke into the mike, “how many of you know someone with AIDS, or someone who has died of AIDS?” As I looked across the crowded club, hands shot up at every table. “Yeah, me, too. This January, my good friend, shit, my first lover, Brian Sokolov, a lot of you remember Brian, huh?”

  A roar went up as the audience guessed that I was leading into “Good-by, Angel.”

  “Well, Brian was a beautiful guy, really gorgeous, the kind of guy you wanted to --” I stopped to let the audience react. “Well, Brian was Jeff’s sweetie.” I turned to my right and exchanged a long look with Jeff, both of us struggling to hold back tears. “And when Brian died, Jeff and I wrote this song.” My voice cracked on the word “song.” I stood for a moment, gathering my shit.

  At Terry’s signal, a tap of the snare, we moved into “Good-by, Angel.” It sounded sweet and angelic, like a fucking choir of angels as the audience joined in the final refrain. There wasn’t a dry eye in the place when we finished.

  To liven things up a bit, I introduced the members of my band and made each of them say something nice about Ziggy. The audience howled. We went directly into “Scream” then, which was the only song I sang lead on. When I intoned, “Do it, do it, scream, do it,” the audience took up the chant as well. The whole club was screaming up a frenzy by the end of the song. Wa-wa-wa-wa-wa! I turned in jubilation to face Terry, who smiled and blew me a kiss.

  Then it was time for our last tune. It was bound to be anticlimactic after “Scream,” so I had selected a subdued number, one that Jade and I wrote years earlier. It was a tune we didn’t play much, because it wasn’t really a dance tune. But it seemed right that night. It seemed right because it was my birthday, because I was at Ziggy’s, and because I was happy – no, proud – to be gay, and I had Jade to thank for that pride.

  I smiled at Jade and stepped up to the microphone. “I’d like to end with a tune about being gay. No, it’s more than that. It’s about coming out. It’s a tune about being gay and loving it. I wrote this with Jade Balec.” I smiled at Jade again and said softly, “I love you, Jade.” The audience cheered as Jade led off on “Guilty Little Secret.”

  Ignoring calls for an encore, I led my band offstage and back to our table. It was really jammed down there. In order to get back to my seat, I had to wait for a man, at the table next to mine, to stand up and move his chair out of the way. I started to move past the man, but hesitated for a moment to check him out.

  He was a tall guy, taller than me, and broad-shouldered, although trim. His wide face was framed by short, spiked dark brown hair and a full, neatly trimmed, beard. What stopped me were the man’s eyes. They were blue, dark blue, the color of sapphires. I’d never seen eyes like his before. I stood there, staring into the stranger’s eyes, admiring their color.

  “I really like your music,” the stranger told me.

  A bit embarrassed, realizing that I’d been gazing at the man for an unseemly length of time, I nodded, smiled, and thanked him.

  The stranger laid his hand on my shoulder, which alarmed me somewhat. “My partner died of AIDS this winter. Before Christmas.” He looked sad.

  I took the opportunity to gaze into his eyes once more. I nodded. “Were you together long?” I asked, wanting to continue our dialog.

  “A little more than nine months.” He removed his hand from my shoulder. He looked utterly miserable, like he might cry.

  “God, you never knew him when he was well?”

  Shaking his head, the stranger looked deep into my eyes. “No, I met him when he was already a patient in the hospital. I was his physician.”

  I smiled warmly, to show my admiration. “You mean you fell in love with him, knowing that he had AIDS?”

  “Yes. What’s that cliché? Sometimes the heart speaks louder than the liver.”

  “Yeh.” I chuckled and tucked his words away to consider later.

  The blue-eyed stranger thrust his right hand at me. “My name is Ken Sullivan. I went to medical school with your brother. Dizzy is one of my best friends!”

  “Really?” I asked as I shook Ken’s hand. I couldn’t imagine Dizzy being friends with this man at all. I turned to check out the other men at Ken’s table.

  “Yeh. I work at Columbia-Presbyterian with Dizzy now. So do all my friends here. Let me introduce you.” He pulled me over to his table and introduced me to each of his friends. “Dizzy Koster’s little brother, Paul,” he announced with a laugh.

  One of the men, a handsome, well-built African American, nodded and told me, “Yeh, your brother’s a cool guy, man!”

  I returned his nod and smiled broadly. But I was still in shock. These men thought Dizzy was cool? Uptight, pecker-straight Dizzy? I looked at Ken. “Let me introduce you to my parents.” I wasn’t sure why I wanted to do that, but it seemed the thing to do.

  Ken’s face brightened. “Yes, I’d like that very much!”

  Our eyes met for a brief moment. But, in that briefest of moments, I recognized the possibilities that lay there, in Ken’s eyes.


  Putting my hand on the center of Ken’s back, I propelled Ken toward my table. “Maman, Dad,” I called to them, “this is Ken Sullivan. He went to medical school with Dizzy and works with him now at the hospital.”

  Ken nodded. “Dizzy is one of my best friends,” he told them warmly. “He’s a great guy. And an excellent physician. He has a bright future ahead of him.”

  Dad’s eyes lit up in response to Ken’s praise. He smiled and nodded at Ken, then turned to smile into Maman’s eyes. Dad was immensely proud of both of his sons. The fastest way to his heart was to offer praise about one of us. Ken had made a direct hit with Dad.

  “Well,” Ken turned to me, placing his hand again on my shoulder, “it was great meeting you and your parents. We’re on our way out now. I’m on call tomorrow night. I need to get some sleep, you know?”

  I nodded, disappointed that we couldn’t hang out together more.

  Ken gazed into my eyes for a long moment. “We’ll see you around, huh?”

  Nodding again, I looked away. “Yeh.”

  Just then, Ziggy swooped over to us. He grabbed Ken and hugged him tightly, standing on his tiptoes, his mouth to Ken’s ear. I strained to hear what Ziggy was saying to Ken, but he was too far away. With a wave at me, Ken walked to the door, with Ziggy and his tablemates in tow.

  I sat down then, but I let my eyes follow Ken’s back out the door, wondering about this tall doctor who knew Ziggy and who considered Dizzy one of his best friends. After that, I couldn’t focus on the small talk at my table. Jeff and Jade were really pumped up after their performance and tried to drag me into a discussion of our music. But I sat in a daze, staring down into my grapefruit juice.

  My father called my name and waited for me to look up. “Paul! He’s a doctor! He’d make a nice catch!”

  I blushed. Dad and doctors. An M.D. made all the difference in the world to Dad. He was so enamored of doctors. Shit, Dad’s own father was one, retired now, but a successful surgeon in his day. And Dizzy, his pride and joy, his brilliant Dizzy, was one. And his best friend, Gabe Edgeworth, was one. Doctor, doctor, doctor. You didn’t really rate with Dad, it seemed to me, unless you were a doctor.

  I turned my attention to Terry, who frowned at me across the table.

  Drew spoke up. “I don’t like that boy, Davy. He’s a bad egg, I’m afraid.”

  “He’s a gold digger,” Terry remarked, to no one in particular.

  “Yeh,” Drew agreed. “He moved in on Gerald Pace last spring. You remember Pace. He was the executive producer for the Symph? Before anyone knew it, that kid obtained Pace’s power-of-attorney and took over Pace’s bank accounts, insurance, everything. Pace hadn’t been in his right mind for a while, you know with AIDS.” His voice trailed off.

  “Yeh,” Terry added, “there’s a lot of people who believe he actually killed Pace. You know, a mercy killing, when he got real sick towards the end.” He looked at me, his gaze coated with meaning. “He’s filthy rich now.”

  I glared at Terry. “Then he wouldn’t need my money, would he?”

  Terry shrugged. “Guys like that don’t know when to stop. He could get his hooks in you, take your wad, and put you under, too!”

  “I don’t believe it!” murmured Dad. “Do you, Justine?”

  Maman looked from Dad to Drew. “Let’s ask someone who might know.” She signaled for Ziggy to come to our table.

  Ziggy was there in a flash. “Great show tonight, Paulie! You are a born star! I knew it the first time you played here, remember back then?”

  I remembered, but I doubted that Ziggy did. I forced a smile.

  “Zig-man,” Terry grabbed his sleeve, “tell us what you know about that young doctor who was just here talking to Paulie.”

  Smiling at me, Ziggy replied, “He’s good folk. He took wonderful care of Gerald, right up to the end.”

  Terry got to the point. “Did he kill Pace, do you think?”

  Ziggy shrugged and sobered suddenly. “You know, at the end, Gerald wasn’t really living anymore. He was alive, but he didn’t know he was alive. Dr. Sullivan was very good to him.” He shrugged again. “Who can say?” Then he smiled at Dad, his face brightening. “Your other son, the doctor, he might know. He’s a good friend of Sullivan’s. He was there at the funeral, practically holding Sullivan up the whole time.”

  It occurred to me that night that there was a lot about my brother Dizzy that I didn’t know. The next day, I telephoned Dizzy at the hospital. Dizzy answered his page right away.

  “Paulie! What’s up?” His voice was edged with concern.

  “Nothing’s wrong, Dizzy. Calm down! I met this guy last night-”

  Dizzy laughed. “So I heard!”

  “You’ve heard?”

  “Yeh. Ken was up here this morning, after rounds, asking about you.”

  I smiled to myself. It sounded like Ken and I were on a collision course. “Dizzy, he’s gorgeous! He said he was a friend of yours.”

  “He is.” Dizzy was smiling, too. I could hear it in his voice.

  “What? You’ve been holding out on me all this time?”

  “Paul, Paul, Paul, Ken has been in mourning since December, you know? I’m not sure he’s ready to get involved with someone yet.”

  Fuck “involved,” I just wanted to get to know him. I told Dizzy so. “Invite us both over for dinner,” I suggested. “Soon. Tonight.”

  “Ken’s on call tonight.”

  “Tomorrow then, please?”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  I was at Dizzy’s early the next evening to help him fix dinner. I flashed dazzling smiles at Dizzy often, whenever Dizzy glanced in my direction.

  “Don’t go getting your hopes up, Paulie,” Dizzy warned.

  “I’m not,” I lied.

  “Yes, you are.” Dizzy hesitated, cleared his throat, then continued. “Look, you two have nothing in common.”

  I felt my good humor waning. Only Dizzy could ruin a moment like this. “How do you know?” I asked, testily.

  “Well, here you are, you don’t even have a high school diploma, and here he is, a physician, educated, cultured, well-travelled.

  “I’m well-travelled,” I pouted.

  Dizzy looked skeptical. Then he smiled suddenly, his large, gray eyes snapping with excitement. “I think I hear your Prince Charming now.”

  Ken looked wonderful as he stood there, in an immaculate Oxford shirt and khakis, leaning in the doorway, talking to Dizzy. When he turned his dark cobalt eyes on me, I suddenly felt shy and self-conscious. To my horror, I could think of nothing to say.

  So, I let Dizzy do most of the talking during dinner. And talk Dizzy did, about medicine, about people he and Ken knew, about different patients. I watched Ken, but not too much, and smiled when Ken glanced my way. I sipped a little wine, more than I usually like to drink, probably because I didn’t have much else to do, except sit and listen. My appetite seemed to fail me as well, and I just picked at the food on my plate.

  When dinner was finally finished, I helped Dizzy clear the table. In the kitchen, I cornered Dizzy and whispered hoarsely, “Leave us alone. Understand?”

  Dizzy nodded, looking a little stunned.

  Then I led Ken into Dizzy’s living room. While I thumbed through some old Blaise Morgon records, Ken settled himself on the sofa. I put on a record and joined Ken on the sofa.

  “I really like your music,” Ken told me when I sat down.

  I nodded, afraid that we might spend the evening discussing music. That night I didn’t want to talk about music, usually my favorite subject. I wanted to talk about Ken. “I thought you were a classical freak.”

  “I mean, ‘Guilty Little Secret,’ I could really relate to that!” Ken laughed softly. “I admire the way you’re upfront about being gay. I can’t imagine me standing in front of an audience, talking about my lover.”

  Laughing, I began to relax. “Well, shit, you’re a doctor. You don’t want to go proclaiming it to the whole h
ospital, do you? Now, I’m a gay musician, playing to a gay audience, I can get away with it.”

  Ken shook his head gravely. “You’re still light-years ahead of me in terms of dealing with being gay. You know, a year ago, one year ago, I was still married to a woman!”

  I looked at him, more than a little taken aback. “Really?” I squeaked.

  “Yeh, I could never admit that I was gay, even to myself. You know, I was raised Catholic, and I was expected to do what Catholic boys do, either become a priest or get married.” He and I laughed together at that. “I know, as a teenager, I had terrible crushes on some of my best buddies, but I’d never admit to myself that it was anything sexual. So I went to college, a Catholic school, Sienna College, near home, and began dating a young woman from St. Rose College in Albany. We had a storybook Catholic wedding. A storybook Catholic marriage.”

  I really began to feel at ease at that point. I leaned back against the sofa, my face only a few inches from Ken’s. “Did you love her?”

  Ken gazed into my eyes for some time before answering. “Maybe. I don’t know. I was so young and stupid. I thought I was doing the right thing, you know, marrying a Catholic girl, like my brothers. Going to medical school, like my brothers.”

  “Wait a minute! All your brothers went to medical school? How many brothers do you have?”

  “I’m the youngest of five sons. Three of my older brothers are physicians. My middle brother is an engineer, like my dad.” Ken stretched his arm along the top of the sofa. His fingers dangled over my shoulder.

  My attention became focused on the fingers near my face. I smiled encouragingly at Ken.

  Ken continued with his story. “I have a theory, in retrospect.” He laughed to himself. “Catholics don’t marry out of love, they marry out of duty.”

  “Did you have sex with your wife?”

  Ken looked startled at that question. “Yes, of course.”

  “Did you enjoy it?”

  “It’s like jerking off, you know? You do it because it’s all you have. I never knew how truly exciting love could be until I met Gerald.” He stopped for a moment to toy with the sleeve of my teeshirt, picking at a loose thread. He left his hand on my shoulder after that. “Yeh,” he continued, “I got married to Mary Ellen my second year in medical school, right after she graduated from college. She got pregnant right away.”