Lovecraft eZine Megapack - 2012 - Issues 10 through 20

by Tanzer, Molly

  West considered this for a moment. “I bet you could help me, if you were willing.”

  “How? It’s against the rules for us servers to talk to the guests about personal matters, and I can’t risk losing my job. My scholarship barely covers tuition, much less books and—”

  “You misunderstand me.” West popped the last of his sandwich into his mouth, chewed it quickly, and swallowed. Tristan saw his Adam’s apple bob as it went down his slender throat. “I’m proposing you take me along.” He chuckled again. “You know, as your date.”

  Tristan blushed again, and he was just opening his lips to protest that servers obviously couldn’t bring along dates when someone shouted “Faggots!”

  The cafeteria went quiet. Tristan turned around, surprised and horrified to find Reginald Gurganus standing there behind him, looking mighty pleased with himself.

  “Knew you faggots were faggots,” he said smugly. “Going on a date? To a party? I’m not surprised you suck dick by choice, West, but you, Langbroek? You might actually get a girl to look at you! That is, if you weren’t so busy sucking dick. By choice,” he added, and then laughed loudly, hurr hurr hurr.

  “Jealous, Gurganus?” said West. Tristan was amazed by his coolness under fire. “Funny, I thought your sort never tired of date-raping coeds. Well, they say you learn something new every day.”

  “Whatever, faggot,” said Gurganus. “Never thought your sort ever left your dorm room. Too busy jerking it to pictures of Errol Flynn.”

  “Are you speaking from experience?” West took a sip of coffee. “Takes one to know one, Reggie. And anyways, you can have Tristan if you fancy him. I go for brains over brawn; when I jerk it to a picture, it’s—”

  But Tristan never found out who West jerked it too. Red-faced, he fled the cafeteria before West—or anyone else—spoke more of boys being aroused by boys.

  He was halfway across the snowy quad before he realized he’d forgotten his books. What to do? He couldn’t go back in there. He couldn’t go anywhere, come to think of it. Oh, sure, boys like Gurganus threw around epithets like “faggot” and “queer” all the time, sometimes even as a term of endearment, but it always left him wondering, worrying really, if everyone could tell.

  He sat down on a convenient bench, heedless of the snow chilling his bottom through his trousers, and hung his head. He knew it was always a possibility somebody—or many somebodies, for that matter—might guess his secret shame; figure out that it wasn’t just a feeling of godliness that had prompted his wish to become a chaplain. Ministering was the sort of job where one could always put off marriage, being too busy with the flock and all that. Of course people would wonder, but he’d learned from an early age that people accepted uncomplicated answers. Or would pretend to, and gossip quietly elsewhere. He could live with that.

  “Tristan.”

  Tristan looked up and saw West standing there, in a black overcoat a size or two too big for him. He was holding Tristan’s abandoned books under his left arm, and when their eyes met, he reached out with his right hand to where Tristan slouched on his frozen bench.

  “Get up, you’ll catch your death,” he said lightly.

  “What do you care?”

  “I need your help to get into that party tonight,” said West. “At this point, you’re my best shot at not having to repeat Medical Ethics 101 next semester. I’m sure Dean Hallsey is going to this party, and he doesn’t much care for me either, if you must know. If he and Quinley have a chance to drink wine and celebrate the prospect of hindering my academic progress, I’m done for. Thus, I need you alive.” He shrugged and lowered his hand, shoving it into his pocket. “You can go ahead and freeze to death, feeling sorry for yourself because of whatever stupid reason, after you help me gate-crash.”

  Tristan discovered that, oddly enough, he appreciated West’s frankness. He got to his feet and brushed the snow from his rear end before accepting his books.

  “It’s not a stupid reason,” said Tristan, as they walked towards the dorms. “It’s—”

  “I don’t care one bit,” said West. “It doesn’t matter to me if it was that lout Gurganus calling you a faggot who hurt your feelings, or if was my remark about preferring smarter fellows than you on the rare occasion that I allow my baser passions to take possession of my attention. Perhaps it was something else entirely. But I’m sure you have more important things to worry about than who you are, or what others think of you. And even if you don’t, well, the first you cannot help, and the second is irrelevant. Don’t let it bother you.”

  “You say that, but …”

  “I say it because I mean it. You want to serve your god? Then devote yourself to serving him. Letting yourself become distracted by … irrelevancies … is the first step along the road to failure.” West looked at Tristan keenly, his spectacles glinting. “If you’re going to fret about roads paved with good intentions, my friend, that’s the truly dangerous one.”

  Tristan was surprised that he found weird little Herbert West’s pep-talk comforting, but he did. He smiled, and nodded, and the conversation moved on to just how they’d smuggle West into the faculty party.

  By the time they finished planning out the details and West had left Tristan to prepare for work, Tristan felt positively chipper. He caught himself whistling as he drew his bath. His day may have begun badly, but it was ending well. And he owed it all to West. He was glad he could help West with his problems, after West had so generously helped him with his own.

  It was only then, as Tristan shrugged on his white tuxedo jacket, that he realized that, come to think of it, he’d never actually agreed to help West. Well, no matter. He was happy enough to do it.

  The Pornelles Room, where the faculty Christmas party was being held, ran the entire length of the top floor of the Lemmington-Jekyll Administration Building, which stood at the northeastern part of campus, near the intersection of Garrison and Lich. John Pornelles, one of Miskatonic’s more recent benefactors, had several years prior earmarked quite a bit of money to convert the outdated faculty lounge and adjacent attics into a space for formal receptions.

  This had required some architectural creativity, as there were kitchen facilities in Lemmington-Jekyll, but they were located in the basement. A large dumbwaiter, therefore, had been installed in a newly-constructed alcove along the northern wall. This worked well enough … except that the electrical light intended to alert kitchen-staff and servers to when dirty dishes needed to be taken down or hot food sent up had never worked right. Therefore, a system had been established where waves of food and drink would be sent up on the even tens (on the hour, twenty-past, and forty-past) and dishes sent down on the odds.

  But given that the only stairs were in full view of the reception hall (it had been impossible for the architects to install a staff stairwell and keep the project under budget), the dumbwaiter was also—unofficially—used to transport staff in the middle of events, when they were on break, or needed to change out a soiled jacket for a fresh one, or whatever else.

  Tristan had worked at several of these functions, Riverside Catering being the go-to for fancy college events. And, as the servers—most of them being strapping Miskatonic University lads—were often called upon to aid the catering staff with the heavy lifting, he was well acquainted with the kitchen, too. Not as recently renovated, it was dark and narrow and hot in there, and it tended to get loud in the thick of things, when cooks and back-of-house help were working hard to get food out and dishes washed. Tristan despised it when he had to go down there in the middle of an event, but he and West had agreed that the confusion would aid them in their plan.

  The plan, however, was not confusing, thank goodness for that. All Tristan really had to do was dress, show up on time, and do his job until his first break, an hour into the party. Then he was supposed to leave by the dumbwaiter, pass through the kitchen, and cross over Lich Street to get to a florist’s shop just out of sight of the kitchen exit. There, West would meet h
im, wearing Tristan’s spare front-of-house jacket over his own. They would then both return via the kitchen, where the steam and ruckus and sheer mass of bodies would hopefully obscure the presence of an imposter. West would go up in the dumbwaiter, sending down his jacket quickly after reaching the party, so Tristan could stash it, and then go up himself.

  “You’re sure I can’t just walk in?” West had asked, when Tristan initially proposed impinging on his dignity by cramming himself into a freight elevator.

  “Do you think they’d spring for a doorman if they weren’t serious about keeping out interlopers?” Tristan shook his head. “Trust me, this is the only way.”

  What West’s plan was once he got into the party, Tristan didn’t know—and he preferred it that way. Personally, he felt West was being a bit hasty and paranoid; having seen how professors tended to let loose during event, Tristan was pretty sure Dr. Quinley and Dean Hallsey would be pouring so much wine down their throats they’d be hard-pressed to discuss anything. But West seemed resolved upon settling the matter as quickly as possible, and it was his neck on the line. So Tristan put the matter from his mind during the first hour of the party, except for noting when Dean Hallsey appeared, and keeping an eye out for Dr. Quinley, who walked through the garland-bedecked door just as Tristan was beginning to despair of the professor arriving before he had to meet West.

  “Ah, Mr. Langbroek,” said Quinley, as he snatched a glass of champagne from a passing server’s tray and a miniature quiche off of Tristan’s platter of canapés. “Good to see you.”

  “You as well, sir,” said Tristan, and then, unable to stop himself, blurted, “I know I shouldn’t say anything, not now, but I must apologize for my part in the incident in class this afternoon.”

  “It is I who should apologize,” said Quinley. “I was in the wrong to chastise you. You were acting in good faith, on behalf of a fellow student. West’s behavior—well, we’ll say no more about it. I’m here to go a-wassailing, if you catch my drift.” He nodded at the four-piece band that was playing a jazz rendition of that very carol.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Better get some more of these quiches, I seem to have eaten the last of them. Bring me some more? I’ll be over there, in that corner. I have something I want to talk to Hallsey about, do you see him? He’s standing with Dr. Armitage. My goodness, have they commandeered an entire tray of bacon-wrapped shrimp between them?”

  “Dean Hallsey really loves those shrimp,” said Tristan.

  “Oh, I know,” said Quinley. “I’ve watched him bolt down handfuls of them for decades. I don’t know if you were at Miskatonic when there was that scandal over whether Hallsey’s secretly a Jew, but as I said at the time, anyone who believed such a rumor had never seen him at a faculty shindig.”

  “Enjoy yourself, sir, and merry Christmas,” said Tristan, and noting how late it had become, hurried off to get downstairs, through the kitchen, and outside.

  West was waiting exactly where he said he’d be. He leaned casually against a lamppost, huddled in his coat, and was smoking a cigarette with short, almost mechanical inhalations. Ashes and butts littered the snow around his feet. He’d been there for a while. Well, West seemed like the sort who’d arrive early for something important even if it meant lingering outside in frigid weather.

  He didn’t immediately seem to notice Tristan’s approach, so Tristan watched him for a moment, admiring the figure West cut in his black suit and black overcoat. It wasn’t that he found West attractive; West wasn’t exactly handsome, but the perpetual intensity of his eyes and facial expressions, paired with the delicacy of his features, made him … interesting to look at.

  Well, that was all a bunch of hooey, mused Tristan, even as he shot a quick prayer skyward for thinking such sinful thoughts. He did find West attractive, damn it, and not for the first time he felt it unfair that he should have to hide his attraction, even from himself, just because Paul of Tarsus mouthed off about arsenokoitai being among those who would never inherit the kingdom of heaven.Tristan didn’t want to inherit anything, he just wanted to live his life and preach charity and kindness as Christ did. Long ago he’d decided to become one of those “eunuchs by choice” mentioned in Matthew, but looking at West’s lips contorting around his cigarette, the way the lamplight shone through his shell-delicate nostrils, how his coat hung on his slender shoulders, Tristan began to doubt his resolve. The way he moved, the sharpness of his profile highlighted by the lamplight … it made him want to brush the snowflakes from West’s lapels, snake his hand around his waist and—

  West checked his wristwatch, and Tristan, realizing he was wasting precious time, hurried over.

  “Dr. Quinley’s inside,” he said, breath smoking like West’s cigarette. “When I left, he was going over to speak with Drs. Hallsey and Armitage.”

  “Rats,” swore West, and stepped on his half-smoked cigarette. “Let’s get inside, then. There’s no time to lose.” He shrugged out of his overcoat and stashed it behind some bushes. He was already wearing Tristan’s spare jacket. It was far too large on him; Tristan hadn’t realized just how slight he was.

  “Are you sure you want to go through with this?” asked Tristan, hoping against hope that he could talk West out of the plan even at this late stage. “I just think—”

  “Tristan.” Tristan wasn’t sure if it was West’s tone or the breeze that made him shiver. “You can’t back out now. I need you.” West reached out and touched him on the shoulder, squeezing the muscle there ever so gently. “There’s no way this will hurt you,” he promised. “I don’t even know you, all right? If anyone asks, I acted alone.”

  “I’m not worried about that,” protested Tristan, though it occurred to him only now that perhaps he should be. “I’m worried about …” he trailed off, unable to say the word.

  “Don’t worry about me.” West seemed to interpret his meaning just fine. “I can take care of myself.”

  Everything will be fine, Tristan told himself, as they elbowed their way through the crowded kitchen that smelled of melting cheese and human sweat. Relax, he reminded himself, as West casually folded himself into a crouch inside the dumbwaiter as though he’d done it a thousand times. Don’t worry, he repeated for the fiftieth time when his spare jacket was returned below a stack of trays and several dirty wineglasses.

  It was with a not-insubstantial feeling of relief that Tristan, after tucking his jacket surreptitiously into a convenient cabinet, finally returned to the party. Studiously avoiding looking for West or Quinley, he offered around a platter of bite-sized mincemeat pies with more than his usual courtesy, and even hummed along with “I Saw Three Ships Come Sailing In” when the band struck up that lively tune.

  “Massive turnout this year,” commented another waiter, as they fumbled with the dumbwaiter door, attempting to send down another batch of dirty wineglasses. “Really keeping us running tonight.”

  “You’re telling me,” said Tristan, glancing at the clock. “We should suggest they do punch next year. Less work for us.”

  “Can you imagine?” replied the other boy. “It’s only our human frailties that keep them from guzzling every ounce of firewater within fifteen minutes of the doors opening. If they were pouring their own drinks…”

  Tristan agreed with him absently. He hadn’t realized it had been almost half an hour since he’d returned. Where was West? What was he doing? Had he left already? He and Tristan had agreed to meet afterwards at the Black Goat, a bar frequented by Miskatonic students that stayed open late, but that seemed an awfully long time to wait.

  But Tristan had more pressing concerns, like the fact that Professor Wilmarth had actually slunk around the side of the server’s alcove to enquire if there was more wine to be had. And as if that wasn’t annoying enough, while babbling about needing more of the legendary ambrosia of the gods to keep young, he gesticulated suddenly, spilling the dregs of his pinot noir all over Tristan’s jacket.

  “It’s all right
,” promised Tristan. Wilmarth looked close to tears over the mishap and wouldn’t stop apologizing. “I have a spare, I just need to get it. Don’t worry about anything, please—return to the party and go on enjoying yourself.”

  Wilmarth staggered off at last, and Tristan shed his soiled uniform so the red wine wouldn’t soak onto his shirt. But just as he was thinking about how lucky he was to have a spare below, he heard, high and nasal above the party’s dull roar of human voices, “You’ve made an enemy tonight, Dr. Quinley, mark my words!”

  Tristan broke into a cold sweat. Poking his head around the edge of the alcove, he peeked through the gaps in a clump of poinsettias and caught sight of West striding away from a pissed-off looking Dr. Quinley. Dear God above.

  Without thinking, Tristan hopped into the dumbwaiter and, reaching though the open panel in the ceiling, lowered himself quickly back down to the kitchens. “Sorry!” he said, brandishing the stained part of his jacket when one of the cooks jumped back upon seeing him bolt out of the elevator, very nearly spilling a tray of pieces of marzipan shaped like fruits. “These professors! Gotta change quick!”

  But after grabbing his clean jacket out of the cabinet, instead of returning to his job, Tristan fled the kitchen and headed back outside. The only thing in his mind was catching West before he left. He had to know what had happened. One of the conditions of Tristan agreeing to aid West’s gate-crashing had been him promising to be civil, and Tristan didn’t think West would go back on his word … at least, not without serious provocation.

  “Herbert!” he cried, seeing the slender boy collecting his coat from behind the bushes in front of the florist’s shop. “What happened?”

  West whirled around, an ugly, furious expression contorting his dainty face. “What—oh, it’s you, Tristan.” He gained control of himself and smiled thinly. “What are you doing? I thought we were to meet up after you were finished? I wouldn’t want you to jeopardize your job.”