Where the Boys Are

by William J. Mann

  I try to smile. “Well, what did you think of that guy Anthony? Remember, the blond guy who came with us a few weeks ago? He played GameBoy with—”

  “I remember.” Ann Marie looks at me plainly. “So is he the new one?”

  “Well, he’s living with me right now.…”

  She nods. She doesn’t seem happy. “What does he do? Where’s he from?”

  Perfectly appropriate questions, I acknowledge to myself, but questions for which I have no adequate answers. “Never mind,” I say. “It’s very much in the formative stages. I don’t know where it’s going.”

  “But you like him?”

  I nod. “I do. I do like him.”

  She narrows her eyes at me. “Because Lloyd isn’t available?

  I make a face at her.

  “Look, Jeff. I don’t want to sound like Mom here, lecturing you. But I’d give anything for the kind of devotion I’ve seen between you and Lloyd. I look at you guys and say, ‘Why can’t I find that?’ You guys have something special.”

  I look away. “Thanks, Ann Marie. But I really don’t want to get into it.”

  She sighs. “Okay. Well, I promised the reader I’d help monitor the kids today. Some of them start acting up during Storytime. Let me cook dinner afterward before you head home.”

  I nod.

  She smiles at me as she stands up. “You know how much it matters to Jeffy that you come down and spend the day with him like this. And to me, too.” She kisses me on the cheek.

  I watch her walk away. Since she left Jeffy’s father, she’s had no one. No significant other. Oh, she dates, but they never last for more than a few weeks. No wonder Ann Marie wants to believe it can work out between Lloyd and me. It’s the same for Chanel, who’s broken up with Wendy more times than I can count and who—I’ve heard through the grapevine—is considering taking Gertrude and leaving her again. It’s the same for Henry, too, who’s never had a relationship in his life. Everyone wants Jeff and Lloyd to work out.

  Except maybe Jeff and Lloyd.

  But you like him?

  I do. I do like him.

  Because Lloyd isn’t available?

  Is that it? Is that the reason I stick with Anthony, despite the mystery? Despite not knowing much more about him than I did on New Year’s Eve?

  That’s when it hits me.

  “Of course,” I whisper to myself.

  Suddenly I know what paper that clipping came from. The photo of Robert Riley.

  The Hartford Courant. The paper I grew up with. My hometown Connecticut newspaper. That’s how I recognized the typeface. I saw it every day for the first twenty years of my life.

  I stand abruptly, walking quickly over to the reference desk. “Excuse me?” I ask.

  The woman looks up at me. It’s old Miss Crenshaw, the same woman who sat here twenty-five years ago. As a ten-year-old boy I’d stand in front of her requesting a copy of the atlas of the British Isles, circa 1600. She looks just as old now as she did then, her face a maze of leathery wrinkles, her small, round blue glasses perched at the end of her nose, her hair cut short and severe.

  “Yes?” she asks.

  “I wonder if you have an index to The Hartford Courant.”

  “What year?” she asks efficiently.

  “Uh, well, I guess I’d need 1985 to 1988.”

  She nods and reaches under her desk, rummaging around for a moment and then producing three thin, blue spiral-bound volumes. “Do you have a library card?” she asks.

  “Um, well, I used to,” I say.

  “Name?” she asks, hands poised at her computer terminal.

  “Jeffrey O’Brien, but it was a long time—” She ignores me, typing in my name.

  “Here you are,” she says. “Card expired in 1981. Care to renew?”

  I smile. “Actually, I don’t live here anymore. I just want to—”

  “And I see you never paid a fine on The Films of Greta Garbo. My, my, with interest building all that time, that adds up to …”

  She looks up at me from behind her blue glasses. I gulp.

  Miss Crenshaw smiles. “Maybe I’ll grant you amnesty. You don’t think I remember you, do you, Jeffrey?”

  My mouth opens in surprise.

  “Oh, but I do. I remember you very well, sitting over there, reading all day, when you could’ve been outside playing with the other boys. I pegged you then as a special one. One who was going to go far in life.” She winks at me.

  I smile. “I was always harassing you for books from the special collections.”

  “That you were.” She removes her glasses to look up at me. “And don’t think I didn’t notice when your byline started appearing in various places. I took some pride in that, thinking maybe those afternoons here in the library had helped get you to where you are.”

  I nod. “They did, Miss Crenshaw. They certainly did.”

  She beams. “I especially enjoyed that piece you did in The Advocate a while back on elderly lesbians. Thought it was right on target.” She looks at me significantly, her old eyes twinkling. “I convinced the board to finally subscribe to The Advocate after that. Now anybody can read it over in Periodicals. Anybody.”

  I feel my throat tighten a little. How awesome would that have been for my ten-year-old self?

  “Here you go, Jeffrey,” Miss Crenshaw is saying. “I hope this means you’re researching another fine article. Or a book. I would love to catalog a book from Jeffrey O’Brien on these shelves someday before I retire.”

  I take the volumes from her. “Thank you, Miss Crenshaw. Maybe you will.”

  Yeah. Maybe she will at that.

  “But do me a favor,” she says. “Don’t be one of those writers who gets all sensitive and prickly when someone calls you a gay author. Whenever I hear someone bitching about how the label limits them, or ghettoizes them, well, I just want to slap them upside the head.”

  I laugh out loud. I can’t help it. Miss Crenshaw just gives me a look. “It’s just such a culture-hating thing to say,” she says. “Don’t be like that, Jeffrey. Now go do your research.” She turns back to her computer.

  I’m smiling all the way over to the table, where I sit down and open the index in front of me. Very quickly I find what I’m looking for.

  And then some.

  Robert Riley is indeed listed in the index.

  September 15, 1986: RILEY, ROBERT. Man found bludgeoned to death in yard. A-14: 3-5 (photo).

  But there’s more, too: a whole list of related articles about the investigation into the death and the arrest of suspects, continuing through December. I eagerly pull over the Index for 1987, and sure enough, the stories continue. Almost a year after the murder, sentencing was held for the two killers. Ortiz and Murphy were their names. They pled guilty; one got thirty-five years; the other turned state’s evidence and got twenty.

  My mouth is as dry as if I’d had three hits of X. I can hear my heart beating in my ears.

  Robert Riley was murdered.

  Even before I know for certain, I intuit a gay-bashing. I copy down the notations from the index and hurry over to the metal cabinet that contains the rolls of newspaper microfilm. I locate the correct reels and slide open the drawer. It makes a loud squeak, causing several people at nearby tables to lift their eyes from their books and glare over at me. Miss Crenshaw puts her finger to her mouth. I carefully extract the reels I need.

  Into the microfilm reader I maneuver the film. It’s been a couple of years since I’ve done any research, but I still remember how the thing works. I can’t deny how pumped I am. It’s always like this when I find myself hot on the lead of a good story. Except this isn’t an assignment for The Advocate or The Boston Globe. This is about Anthony. Anthony’s life.

  I stop. I sit back in my chair. Can I really do this? I swore off it, not wanting to go behind Anthony’s back. He said he’d tell me when he could. I promised myself not to snoop.

  But I have to know. Lloyd’s belief in fate has rubbed off on
me: I was meant to realize the Courant connection. That’s why I’m here at the library today. I was meant to find this information. All sorts of questions suddenly flood my mind. The bus schedule I’d found, making me consider that Anthony’s overnight disappearances weren’t in Boston. Did he come here, to Connecticut?

  I can’t stop now. I have to find out why he carries Riley’s picture. I begin turning the crank on the microfilm reader as fast as I can, watching the edges of the film for the date. Finally, there it is. Monday, September 15.

  I make a small gasp. There, staring out at me, is the same photo that Anthony keeps laminated in his wallet. Robert Riley, smiling and staring at me.

  A West Hartford attorney was found bludgeoned to death in his front yard early Sunday morning. Police are looking for two suspects a neighbor saw fleeing the scene several hours earlier.

  Robert Riley, 36, was pronounced dead at the scene after a call was made to state police by his newspaper carrier, who discovered the body facedown in the grass at 6:55 Sunday morning. Mr. Riley’s head had been repeatedly struck with a blunt object, and his mouth and hands were bound with duct tape.

  A neighbor, Mrs. Franklin Toomey, told police she was awakened by the sounds of shouting around 2:00 A.M., and observed two persons running through Mr. Riley’s yard. They drove off in what she described as a “white two-door vehicle.”

  Police at this time have no suspects and are not speculating on a possible motive for Mr. Riley’s death.

  Mr. Riley was a well-regarded corporate attorney, working for such clients as Aetna and the Travelers. Friends are remembering him today as a committed, caring community member.

  Riley was recently recognized with a community service award from Junior Achievement for volunteering his time teaching about the law to students at Lewis Fox Middle School in Hartford.

  Riley was a bachelor who had “many friends and no enemies,” according to his roommate, Anthony Sabe.

  I sit back in my chair hard, as if I’d been pushed.

  “Anthony,” I whisper.

  After that, I can’t read straight. I keep trying to finish the article but can’t seem to focus.

  His roommate, Anthony Sabe.

  But Anthony would have been only sixteen.

  Roommate?

  He cared about young people.

  What does it mean?

  I think of one other thing.

  I’m the same age as Robert Riley when he was killed.

  “Unca Jeff!”

  I look up, startled. Jeffy’s been crying. His little checks are red and blotchy.

  “Unca Jeff,” he sobs. “Charlotte died!”

  “Yeah, I know, buddy,” I say, trying to bring myself back to his reality. “You okay?”

  “Yeah,” he says, drying his eyes as I put my arms around him. “It was just a story.” He’s talking loud, but then remembers he’s in a library. He cups his hands to his mouth and whispers: “And besides, she left lots of babies to keep Wilbur company.”

  I kiss the top of his head. “Yes, he’ll always have them.”

  He grins, moving from sad to glad effortlessly, as only children can do. “Mommy said we’ll meet you in the car,” he chirps. “Okay?”

  “Okay,” I manage to reply. The boy runs outside, Miss Crenshaw cautioning him to take it slow. I turn back to the microfilm reader, in somewhat of a daze. I quickly find the next article, not stopping to read it, just hitting the PRINT button on the reader. I find each successive story listed in the index and print them all, right up through the sentencing of the killers. It costs me $3.20, ten cents a page. I hand the money over to Miss Crenshaw, who places it in a little box on her desk.

  “Don’t forget, now,” she tells me. “I want to see a book from you one of these days.”

  I smile but say nothing. Outside the library, the sun is low in the sky. It’s still warm, and the leaves have popped on all of the trees, tender and bright and green. I punch in Henry’s number on my cell phone, desperate to share all this with someone, but of course all I get is a message that “Hank” is unavailable and to leave a message. I do, begging him to call me back right away, but of course, it’ll be over twenty-four hours before Henry returns the call.

  By then, I know so much more.

  Memorial Day Weekend, Nirvana

  Lloyd

  It’s an awesome start to our first summer season. A beautiful warm day, the sky an unbroken umbrella of blue. In the harbor, dozens of white sailboats dot the turquoise bay, and the street is thronged with tourists. Ty is one of our guests for the weekend, surprising us by filling the house with the most fragrant white lilies I’ve ever smelled. He also left a single red rose on my pillow. If not for all the complications in my life, I might welcome his persistent advances. But as it is, I simply said good night and shook his hand when it was time to go to bed last night.

  Now it’s Friday morning, and I’m sitting in our office, behind the front desk, going over the payroll account. We’ve hired three houseboys to help run the place. Believe me, we need them. Poaching eggs, flipping pancakes, washing linens, turning mattresses, changing sheets, and folding towels for four or five visitors each week was one thing. Doing it for ten to fifteen people per day is quite another.

  We’re booked to capacity for the whole holiday weekend, and despite our NO VACANCY sign out front, bedraggled tourists still wander in, asking if we’ve had any cancellations.

  I hear the bell on the front door tinkle; another forlorn lot of bad planners, I presume. “Just a minute,” I call.

  “Take your time,” comes the reply.

  I know the voice. I try to place it, then shake my head in disbelief. I walk out front.

  “Innkeeping becomes you, Lloyd. You took great.”

  Drake.

  “Thanks,” I say, a little wary. Two cloth suitcases sit at his feet.

  “I was thrilled that you had a room available at the last minute,” he says, leaning in over the counter. “My lucky day.”

  “Drake, I’m afraid to say your luck has run out. I don’t have a reservation for you, and we are completely full.”

  He smiles. “Not according to your partner, you aren’t.”

  I frown. “Eva? When did you talk to her?”

  “A couple of days ago. At first, she told me you were booked, but then I reminded her how we’d met at the opening party, and she suddenly said there was a room.” He smiles. “It’s a beautiful day out there, Lloyd. Maybe I can persuade you to take a break and join me on my boat?” His eyes twinkle. “Did I mention I bought a boat?”

  “No,” I say. “You didn’t mention that.” I hold up my hand to him. “Wait a second, okay?” I pick up the phone and press Eva’s extension. She answers cheerily. “Eva,” I ask, keeping my voice level, “could you come down to the front desk, please?”

  I hang up and look over at Drake. “I’m being up front with you here, Drake. I don’t know why she said we had a room. We just don’t. We’ve been booked solid for months, and there have been no cancellations.”

  He shrugs, seeming so fucking cocky in the belief that I’ll be eventually proven wrong. Eva comes down the stairs. When she spots Drake, she beams, rushing over to embrace him tightly. “How good it is to see you again,” she enthuses.

  “And you, too, Eva,” he says. “Now, maybe you can explain to our friend here that you really did find a room for me.”

  She lets him go and turns to look at me. “I did. Come into the office with me for a moment, Lloyd. I’ll show you which one on the house diagram. Drake, we’ll be right back.”

  He gives us a jaunty little salute.

  Eva closes the door behind us. “Lloyd, I cleared out my room so he’d have a place to stay.”

  “Your room? Eva, that’s crazy! You can’t give up your room!”

  She offers a brave little self-sacrificing smile. “It’s okay. He’s your friend. I’d like to do it for you.”

  I’m flabbergasted. “This is absurd. Where were you thinking yo
u’d sleep?”

  “In the attic.”

  “The attic! With the houseboys?”

  “There’s an extra cot,” she says simply.

  I grip her by the shoulders. “Listen to me. I don’t want Drake here! Do you understand? He wants to see me romantically, and I’m just not interested.”

  “Oh.” Her brow furrows. “I see.”

  I sigh. “You need to explain to him that you made a mistake.”

  She looks at me with some anxiety. “Oh, I can’t do that, Lloyd. Everything’s booked up all over town. He came down here expecting a room.” She puts a hand on her forehead. “Oh, dear, I’ve made a mess of things, haven’t I? It was just that when he said he was your friend, I figured you’d be glad to see him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

  She smiles wanly. “He thought we ought to surprise you.”

  I just shake my head.

  Her smile changes a little. Suddenly she looks more sassy than distressed, as if she’s just thought of a plan. “Well, you don’t have to worry about him, Lloyd. I promise I will keep him away from you.”

  “Eva, we have a houseful of guests. You can’t be patrolling Drake all weekend.”

  She grinned. “I’ll get him to take me out on his boat. He told me all about it when we talked. That will keep him occupied for at least half a day.” She looks off in the direction of the door. “He is awfully handsome, isn’t he?”

  I look at her sharply. “Oh, is that what you’re thinking?” I lean down close into her face. “Do you want to sleep with him, too? Not all gay men are as easy marks as Ira, you know.”

  Okay. I suppose I need to take a breather here. Just talking about it gets me worked up. Because ever since that night I walked in on her and Ira, things just haven’t been the same between Eva and me. All of my old fears about her state of mind have been revived. When I confronted her about Ira, she acted surprised that I knew, and immediately burst into tears. She claimed she’d just gone in to check on him and discovered him lonely and depressed, and they’d started talking, and before she knew it they were kissing, and well, one thing led to another.…