by Kris Ripper
“Isn’t that backward?”
“I’ve never been very good at accepting anyone’s help. They know this about me. I expect a creative and therapeutic evening upon my return.” He leaned over and kissed my cheek. “You shouldn’t go home and sit alone in the apartment tonight.”
“Oh, really?” I arched an eyebrow at him, and he laughed.
“Do as I say, not as I do. And I’m not going home alone, I came here alone. I have a plan for self-care in place already. And you?”
My plan for self-care was approaching, clearly curious but trying to be respectful. I smiled at them.
“Let me introduce you to a couple of my friends. Hugh, this is Josh and Keith. This is Hugh, whose crazy immigrant grandparents knew my crazy immigrant great-grandparents.”
“And resented them for their success,” Hugh added. “So good to meet you both. How did you like Penny Serenade?”
“Oh my god, I need therapy now,” Keith said. “Right when you think everything’s great, bam, that movie knocks you back down.”
“Which is the sign of a good movie,” Josh agreed. “But man, you should have given away tissues with the tickets, Cam.”
“Seriously!”
Hugh gave the two of them a long look before pivoting toward me, smile quirking up on one side of his lips, just beginning to turn into a smirk. “I see I leave you in good hands.”
If I hadn’t blushed, I might have been able to ignore the insinuation. But I blushed, and Keith locked an arm through mine. Josh grinned.
“Really excellent to meet you both,” Hugh said. “I have to get home. Have a good night.”
“You too,” I said. “Say hello to the family for me.”
His eyes took in Josh and Keith again, then landed back on me. “Of course. I’ll bring them to Notorious, I think.”
“I look forward to it. Good night, Hugh.”
When he spoke again, his tone had shifted to something I didn’t trust. “Thanks for tonight. I needed a good cry more than I knew.” The slightest pause, as if to invite commiseration. When I said nothing, he nodded. “Good night.”
The three of us watched him walk out.
Keith immediately turned to me (but didn’t release my arm). “Okay, who was that? And why was I blushing when I don’t even know the guy?”
“You were blushing because Cam was blushing,” Josh said. “The real question is, why was Cam blushing?”
“Be quiet, both of you. And an old friend of the family, I told you.”
They just looked at me, until I relented, aware as ever of all the people milling around.
“Man-crush,” I mumbled.
“Say what?”
“I really should get back to—”
“Ohhh,” Keith said. “Man-crush. Friend of the family. I get it. He was older and cooler and you wanted to be him?”
“So much. So, so much. Did you hear him talk? Or maybe you didn’t get the full effect. When I was twelve and he was eighteen I basically wanted to follow him around everywhere like a puppy dog.”
“Aw, baby Cam had a crush.” Keith seemed about to lean forward, then stopped, the movement arrested awkwardly and overcompensated for by a half-step away. “Whoa. Okay. No kissing Cam in public.”
“At least, probably not in the lobby of the Rhein,” Josh said. “Should we wait until you’re free?”
“Yes. Please.” I fumbled my keys out and detached the ring with the outer door to my building, and the apartment dead bolt. “Go upstairs whenever you want.”
He took the keys, and I may have been making it up, but it certainly felt like our fingers sparked.
Keith gave my shoulders a squeeze. “Now everything I do seems manufactured and bizarre. Like, I almost patted you on the back. Why did I almost do that? Anyway, let’s eat some snacks and go make out in Cam’s bed.”
Josh and I glanced around guiltily at the same moment, and Keith laughed, covering his mouth.
“Okay, no one tell me state secrets. Promise.”
“Promise,” Josh said. “Let’s go, Trouble.”
“Sorry, Cam.”
But I wasn’t sorry. I wasn’t sorry they were going upstairs, or that people might know it. I certainly wasn’t sorry about whatever impression we’d given off to Hugh that made him look at me the way he had, as if he understood, after meeting Josh and Keith, that I wouldn’t be alone.
Obviously we couldn’t advertise. But we could be seen to be friends in public. Even close friends. Whatever people wanted to think that meant.
I hadn’t been keeping up with my one enforced night out a week since the film festival had begun. At first I’d justified it because Saturday nights had become social events, if not as relaxing as sitting at Fredi’s bar with a book and a Scotch.
It didn’t hit me until later that the other reason I didn’t need those nights was because I spent so much time with Keith and Josh, either at their apartment, or mine, or the theater, or the drop-in center. And when I wasn’t with them, Keith and I texted a lot.
Apparently, somewhere along the way, I’d become . . . social. Not like most people, maybe, but my parents would have marveled.
I showed up at Club Fred’s on Tuesday armed with a good book on my Kindle app, and planned to make an evening of it. I might even get myself a plate of fries, if I was feeling indulgent. Fries, Scotch, and Bulgakov.
I was lost inside the conflicted, agonized, ultimately weak mind of Pontius Pilate when someone sat beside me.
Alisha.
I pulled myself out of my book and noted that she’d had her hair braided again. “Hello.”
“Ed’s driving me up a fucking wall right now with this theme-night thing.”
Since Alisha and I had never really had a conversation before—unless you counted casual greetings over the years or vague pleasantries exchanged as a side note to conversations involving other people—I wasn’t entirely sure how she usually communicated, but I didn’t think this was it. “Are you okay? And what theme-night thing?”
“Oh god. You didn’t hear? I thought he was proclaiming it from the rooftops.” She shook her head ruefully. “Sorry. You know I love him. But he’s so obsessed, and then we do something and it eases off for a while, but it always comes back in. Uh, sorry, the thing where Fredi canceled all the theme nights. You really didn’t hear that story? I thought everyone was talking about it. But maybe Ed’s talking about it enough to save the rest of La Vista the trouble.”
“Fredi canceled theme nights?”
Tom, who was standing nearby, side-stepped closer to us. “She said she feels too responsible for everyone’s safety,” he explained, voice low.
I wondered what it must be like for him, the continued anxiety and threat. He’d been the only suspect the cops had come up with, and despite the fact that they’d cleared him, he still made fewer tips than he used to.
“That’s so fucked up,” Alisha mumbled. “Like, I get it, but that’s fucked up. Fredi shouldn’t have to feel responsible for some stupid bullshit guy running around killing people. Plus, Philpott wasn’t killed after a theme night. The pattern’s already broken.”
Tom shrugged, still drying the same glass. “She’s pretty upset about it.”
What did it look like when Fredi was upset? She was more of a fixture than a person to me; it was like trying to imagine a teacher doing laundry or brushing their teeth. I couldn’t picture Fredi in a context that wasn’t Club Fred’s. I couldn’t begin to think how “pretty upset” would manifest in a woman whose demeanor I’d never seen a crack in, whether she was shoving a drunk in a cab or breaking up a fight.
“That fucking sucks,” Alisha said. “Also, Ed and I were supposed to go out tonight, but that editor he likes called him and now he’s off fighting crime or something.”
“Fighting crime?” Tom teased.
“Actually, I think the guy’s trying to keep an eye on him so he doesn’t go over the edge. Anyway. Oh my god, Tom, isn’t your wedding coming up? And where the hel
l’s Carlos? He’s, like, never here anymore.”
I listened with partial attention to their conversation (yes, his wedding was in the second week of January, and no, Carlos wasn’t around as much these days because he was still too pissed at a lot of the regulars; Tom didn’t explain why, but clearly we were meant to infer it was about his arrest and subsequent treatment at work). Canceling theme nights made sense to me. More sense than continuing them did. But whoever was doing this had selected the perfect target, either by cunning or luck. Attacking Club Fred’s, the place where the widest swath of queer La Vista felt comfortable, was monstrous—but very, very clever.
Ed had thought all along that we were looking for someone inside the community. I couldn’t help but think, sitting there at the bar, that he had to be right. And if he was, the killer, whomever they were, must feel incredibly satisfied with the effects of their work.
I felt a little sick and said good night to them. I probably should have dropped by Josh and Keith’s, but I didn’t want them to think I felt the need to be with them all the time. I wasn’t really willing to admit that to myself, though knowledge of it seeped in through the porous walls of my denial more and more frequently. I settled for going home and texting instead.
Cameron: Hi.
Keith: Hi, Cam! What’re you up to?
Cameron: Drinking tea. I finished /Project Runway/.
Keith: Ha. You text-italicized.
Keith: You need season two. Or you can stream, but you can’t get the early seasons online.
Cameron: I want to watch in order.
Keith: Of course you do. You can come over and pick up season two . . .
Keith: ;-)
Keith: WINK WINK.
Keith: Just in case the emoticon wasn’t clear enough.
Cameron: I should have stopped by for it on my way home.
Keith: Did you go to CF’s?
Cameron: Yes. I heard about Fredi canceling theme nights.
Keith: I’m bummed. I really liked the theme nights.
Keith: And also I’m pissed, because fuck this guy, seriously, fuck this.
Keith: But if no one dies on Friday, which was supposed to be Noel Night, then I guess it’ll be good that she canceled them.
Keith: So basically I feel a lot of different things, and most of them disagree with each other.
Cameron: Me too.
Keith: Josh said you should come over.
Keith: Unless you don’t want to.
I tapped my phone, thinking about their apartment. Were they sitting on the couch right now, maybe with a movie on pause, while Keith texted and Josh looked over his shoulder?
Keith: We’ll take that as a no . . .
Keith: Hahaha, J says I’m putting too much pressure on you.
Keith: Hello? Cam?
Cameron: P-)
Cameron: Did I do that right?
Cameron: No, wait.
Cameron: :-P
Cameron: That looks better.
Cameron: You aren’t putting too much pressure on me.
Cameron: You guys are still up?
Keith: /Obviously./ :-o
Keith: You coming over? I mean, the wink, wink was for fun. I wasn’t actually implying you can only come over if you, uh, you know, put out.
Cameron: . . .
Cameron: Did you just say . . .
Cameron: . . . “put out”?
Keith: Lol. Uh-huh.
Keith: Are you coming over?
Keith: So I can put on something more comfortable.
Keith: *ducks flying things*
Keith: Sorry! I’m like made of horrible innuendo tonight!
Keith: I’m just stuffed full of sexual innuendo . . .
Keith: Oh my god, I can’t stop.
Keith: This is Josh. I stole his phone. Tough love, man.
Cameron: I’ll be over soon. If that’s okay.
Keith: Then we’ll stop texting you so you can drive.
Cameron: Good plan. See you soon.
I went to their apartment, and they had almond milk hot cocoa already made by the time I got there. We watched the first few episodes of season two and Keith teased me about mooning over Tim Gunn. Then he made me promise to stop by QYP so he could set up a marketing plan.
Even when we didn’t do anything the least risqué—when it was just the three of us drinking hot cocoa watching television—being with them felt better than being alone. I’d never had a boyfriend whose company I preferred to my own. I’d never felt the least bit lonely, and while companionship was nice at times, I’d never sought it out beyond being available on whatever online service was in vogue.
But this was different in every way.
I left with the DVDs for season two and an erection.
No one died on Friday night. I’m sure I wasn’t the only one who checked the online version of the Times-Record the second I woke up on Saturday morning, but no new bodies had been found at the waterfront. It was probably too much to hope that it was over, that Philpott had been the last, but it was at least a possibility.
Arsenic and Old Lace pleased my film festival fans. I talked about how little Cary Grant had liked the film, and its delayed release due to the success of the Broadway show. I also repeated the cute, though anecdotal, story about how Jean Adair had once nursed young Archie Leach back to health when he contracted rheumatic fever twenty years before they played aunt and nephew in Arsenic and Old Lace.
I didn’t use index cards anymore. I thought a little bit about what I wanted to say beforehand, but for the most part I made it up.
Before I knew it, it was Saturday again, the final night of the film festival.
Notorious. Which I’d forced myself not to watch over the last twelve weeks so it would be fresh.
At least half of La Vista seemed to be at the Rhein for Notorious. Zane arrived, escorting Mildred and fighting for the right to buy her ticket. (“I can buy my own fucking—” “Oh my god, it’s a date, you’re insufferable—” “It is not!” I hid a smile and wished them a good night.) Josh and Keith bought their tickets and waved at me. I was still watching them when Hugh stepped up to the window. He gave me a look, which I ignored, and smiled at his husband (whose name I couldn’t remember) and the guy with them.
Jaq and Hannah ran up to the booth late, but I hadn’t shut down yet.
“Are we missing it?” Hannah asked breathlessly. “I love this one.”
“You’re still golden, but I hope you weren’t planning to buy sandwiches.”
She shook her head and Jaq groaned. Hannah rolled her eyes. “You can live without sandwiches!”
“No, I can’t!”
“You can get popcorn, and only if it’s already made!”
I waved them inside and called over to concessions as I locked the booth. “Two medium popcorns on the house, please!”
“And Cokes!” Jaq added.
Hannah hit her, laughing. “You’re terrible. You should be ashamed of yourself.” I heard her say to Bobby, who was getting their drinks, “But could you please make mine an iced tea? Thanks, sugar.”
Bobby glanced at me as he handed over the food, but I waved. We could stand the freebies for loyal customers.
I walked into the theater that night thinking about Anderson Philpott telling me he would come for Notorious, that it was his favorite Cary Grant film. I hadn’t prepared anything special to say, so I told the story of the famous key, which plays a role in the film, being passed from Grant to Bergman, and later to Hitchcock. I got weirdly emotional talking about it and had to clear my throat.
“This is where it would be good to have index cards,” I said.
Someone called, “Except when you drop them!”
People laughed. Probably more than actually remembered that moment. I found Josh and Keith in seats toward the front and off to the left, where they enjoyed sitting for proximity to the door. The lights were still up; I could see Keith’s foreshortened wave. And the empty seat in between them.
; I smiled. “Please enjoy Notorious. And be gentle with one another toward the end. I fully encourage you to grab hold of the person sitting beside you when tensions begin to rise.” A few more laughs at that. “You will tell yourself that everything comes out all right in the end, but of course, it’s Hitchcock. You really never know. I present to you one of the best films in cinema history, and the final film in the series. Please join me in the lobby after to say good-bye—until next time.”
If I had planned to retire to the booth, or to climb the steps to my usual row, I couldn’t possibly pass up the opportunity to sit in the seat they’d kept for me. I was touched beyond measure.
“Thank you,” I whispered, resisting the urge to dab at my eyes as the studio logo filled the screen.
Keith took my hand and tilted his head toward mine. When he spoke, his voice was very low. “I’ve never seen this one. If I have nightmares, I reserve the right to hold on to you all night.”
On my other side, Josh laughed.
It was shockingly hard to declare the reception over. People lingered. Little groups at the sofas in the seating area, in any alcove they could find, talking and laughing and sharing their plates of refreshments.
“You did it.” Ed gave me a huge hug. “You did it, Cam. You brought the Rhein back to life.”
“That’s exactly it!” Alisha agreed. She hugged me, too. “You should take a vacation, Cam. You so earned it.”
“Alisha’s obsessed with vacations.” Ed grinned. “We’re, uh, going away for the weekend next week. Like, skipping out on all the Christmas stuff completely.”
“We’re escaping,” she said. “Speaking of, it’s been fun, but this man owes me a strip tease. I bet him someone would die at the end of the movie.”
“I maintain that it’s ambiguous—”
“It’s totally not ambiguous! Come on, Cam, you’re on my side, right?”
I smiled (enigmatically, I hoped). “It sounds like you two have an exciting evening ahead of you. Good night.”
They laughed and said good night, though it took them another ten minutes to make it through the lobby.
