I smile. “It’ll be nice to sleep with you again,” I say softly, the anger that had been choking me suddenly dissipating, as if a release valve had just been turned on.
Lloyd meets my gaze. “Yeah. We can fall asleep in the breathing position like old times.”
It’s our term for spooning. Once, when we were young lovers, the breathing position conjured magic. In each other’s arms the enchantment would begin: the bed would rise like a space ship, and we’d ride it toward dawn. We dubbed it our Incredible Magic Flying Bed, and in the mornings, sometimes we could remember glimpses of our adventure: passing over rooftops and church steeples, like Wendy and Peter Pan, gliding over mountains and valleys—the whole world, really. Many worlds, in fact. Lloyd usually remembered more of it than I did. “I saw a long, long river last night,” he’d say, “leading to the ocean”—and something about his description would sound familiar to me if I thought about it hard enough.
And this is how we would wake: my lips on the back of his neck, his legs snared between mine. There would be a passionate blink of recognition in the first flutter of our eyelids, a wash of faith, of surety. This was our first moment of consciousness every morning for six years—an awareness of the other, how each had become an inextricable part of ourselves.
I want that again more than anything tonight. We slip easily into the breathing position, as if it’s been no time at all. I snake my arms, around him and pull him close.
We fall asleep in each other’s arms, listening to Henry snore.
A Week Later, Avon, Connecticut
Jeff
We’re parked in my car on a quiet street in a tiny suburb of Hartford, shaded by tall oak trees. In the branches above us, the birds are having a gay old time for themselves, singing back and forth. We spot a fox sneaking out of the woods, all sleek and snouty and golden. In its mouth dangles a dead skunk.
Just then my cell phone rings.
It’s Henry. I listen to what he has to tell me.
“Okay,” I say. “Keep me posted.”
I hit END and look over at Lloyd.
“What is it?” he asks.
“Henry says Brent’s family wants to pull the plug on all the machines.”
Lloyd runs a hand over his buzzed head. “Poor Brent,” is all he says.
“Yeah,” I echo. “Poor Brent.”
I look out the car window at the big white house across the street. Why are we waiting? Why are we hesitating before we walk up that driveway and ring the bell?
Lloyd lets out a long sigh. “So much tragedy on such a lovely day.”
In his lap sit printouts of the newspaper accounts of the Riley murder. And across the street is Robert Riley’s childhood home, where his mother still lives.
The two images have become superimposed over each other in my mind: Riley facedown in the grass; Brent in a hospital bed, hooked up to machines.
“Henry hasn’t given up hope,” I say. “He’s been going every day to the hospital to sit by Brent’s bedside. He’s been talking to him, joking with him, determined to bring him back. He reports seeing eyelid flutterings, vague movements of his lips. But no one else has seen such things—not even Brent’s parents.”
“Poor Brent,” Lloyd says again.
“Poor Henry,” I add.
I look again over at the house. It’s a huge, white Colonial, with large picture windows and a typical New England stone wall separating it from the street. A wide wraparound driveway cuts through the very green front lawn. Sitting near the walk is one of those statues of a black guy with a lantern. I shake my head in disgust. Hasn’t anyone ever told them how racist those things are? Maybe they have been told. Maybe they don’t care.
“You know, my natural instinct,” I admit, “would be to sympathize with Murphy and Ortiz, not Riley. He was Mr. Upper Middle Class. These kids came from working-class families, drove around in beat-up old cars. Riley had the world given to him.”
“And then taken away,” Lloyd reminds me.
I let out a long sigh. “Yeah. That’s when my sympathy always shifts backs to him.” I think of Riley again, his head beaten down into the bloody grass.
“It’s nasty stuff,” Lloyd says, looking down at the papers on his lap. He read them on the ride here in preparation of going into that house. They disturbed him, as they disturbed me.
“These kids—these killers,” he says. “They actually called themselves ‘The Reformers’?”
I nod. “Well, Frankie Ortiz did, anyway. He seems to have been the ringleader. Brian Murphy, the other killer, turned state’s evidence and squealed, told the whole story of their after-school activities.”
I close my eyes. I think of how distraught Anthony had been when I left, still in a state over Brent. I’ve softened toward him, realizing he’s reliving this trauma. The death of Riley. Where had Anthony been the night Riley was killed? Was he inside, asleep? Did he stumble out onto the lawn to find his friend—his lover?—facedown in the grass?
I made sure that before I left I held Anthony in my arms.
“It’s going to be okay,” I told him, not sure what I was promising.
“Tell me Brent is going to live.”
“I can’t tell you that.”
“I love you, Jeff,” he said, so frightened, so young. “Do you love me?”
How could I answer that? Of course I loved him—though the love he wanted from me wasn’t something I could ever really give to him. I just kissed his forehead. “I’ll be back in a few days,” I told him. “Call me on my cell phone if you need anything.”
I slam my fist now against the steering wheel, causing Lloyd to look over at me with surprise. “A fucking bunch of testosterone-crazed brats from South Catholic High School,” I spit. “They’d go looking for queers behind the old Chez Est bar in Hartford. Tease them, taunt them, then beat them up and rob them. And, at least once, kill one of them.”
“They were kids struggling with their own sexual demons,” Lloyd says.
“Maybe. And maybe they just figured fags were an easy mark.” I look over at him.
“Remember, this was the mid-eighties. We’re not talking Boston or New York here, either. This was the height of Reaganism in Hartford, Connecticut, a very provincial city where not a lot of homos were out and proud and standing up for their rights.” I gesture to the papers on Lloyd’s lap. “You read the reports. You saw how many robberies and bashings these kids were charged with. It all came out after Riley’s murder. Who knows how many more went unreported?”
Lloyd shakes his head. “The Reformers,” he says again. “They saw themselves as reforming homosexuals.”
“Yeah.” I look over at the big white house in front of us. “All those little boys thinking they were so tough …”
“Murphy doesn’t seem so tough to me,” Lloyd observes. “The accounts say he was blubbering like a baby all through his court appearances. When they were denied youthful offender status and it was clear they’d stand trial as adults, Murphy broke real fast, giving prosecutors all they needed to know.”
“Yeah. Ortiz was then pressured into pleading guilty. So there was never any trial, just the sentencing.”
“And both are still in jail?”
“Yep.” I look back up at the big white house. “Murphy gets out in a few years, but Ortiz will be in there until he’s a middle-aged man.”
We fall silent. Neither of us relishes the idea of getting out of the car and walking up that driveway. But I have to do it. It’s the first step in finding out the mystery of Anthony’s past.
“You ready?” I ask.
Lloyd nods. We get out of the car. Mrs. Riley hadn’t responded to my letter, but I called this morning, anyway. The woman who answered the phone informed me that “Madam” would be receiving “visitors” after two this afternoon. What does that mean? I’m not sure, but it’s a way in, and I’m not going back to Boston until I’ve at least tried to talk to her.
I ring the bell, a deep chime reverberatin
g inside. We glance over at each other anxiously.
The door is opened by a dark-haired, dark-eyed woman in a white uniform.
“Hello,” I say. “I’m Jeff O’Brien. I called this morning.”
She nods. “Yes. You’re here to see Mrs. Riley.”
“Yes. This is my colleague, Lloyd Griffith.”
She motions for us to come inside. The first thing that strikes me about the foyer is how spotless it is. Gleaming. A high-gloss parquetry floor, sparkling chandelier, gold-gilt frames around two giant-sized mirrors that hang on opposite walls.
“Come this way,” the woman is saying. “Mrs. Riley sees visitors in the sunroom.”
We follow. We pass through a hallway, our footsteps echoing in the quiet house. A large framed photograph on a side table jumps out at me. It’s the same as the one in the newspaper. Robert Riley, he of the big smile and eighties hair.
We stop before French doors that lead into a glass four-seasons room. It’s a greenhouse of sorts, filled with lush plants and tropical flowers, as well as wicker furniture and a large television screen. Our guide turns to look at us. “My name is Gloria Santacroce,” she says. “Have you ever met Mrs. Riley before?”
“No.” I look at her plaintively. “I tried to explain on the phone. I’m a journalist. I wrote her a letter.” I swallow hard, certain that my Adam’s apple bobs in my throat as I lie my way through this. “I’m writing about her son. Robert.”
Actually, it’s not a lie: I am a journalist, even if I haven’t written so much as a sentence in a couple of years. And I am thinking about writing about all of this—someday, if Anthony gives me permission. For the first time in a very long while, I truly feel inspired to write.
Gloria Santacroce smiles. “Yes. I remember your letter now. I’m sorry I never got back to you.” She seems to consider what she should say next. “I think I hesitated because, well, I wasn’t sure how much Madam would be able to tell you. You see, she has Alzheimer’s disease.”
“Oh,” I say, my heart sinking, looking over at Lloyd. He makes a sympathetic face.
Gloria sighs. “There are days she’s very alert. Today is a good day. When I tell her in the morning that it’s Tuesday, she always perks up, because this is the day she leaves open for visitors. She very much enjoys having visitors.” She smiles sadly. “But not too many come by to see her anymore. It’s hard for people. I understand that. And Robbie was her only family.”
“I don’t want to upset her, talking about him,” I say.
“Oh, she loves talking about Robbie.” She pauses. “Just be gentle with her.”
She opens the door and we step inside. The room is at least five degrees warmer than the hallway, with the sun full upon the glass. The day is bright and warm, and through the open windows I can hear the lively chatter of birds. The deep fragrance of honeysuckle suffuses everything.
“Mrs. Riley,” Gloria announces, “you have visitors.”
“Oh!” The old woman attempts to turn in her chair but finds it difficult. I step quickly around to the front so she can see me. She’s dressed in a yellow sundress and slippers. “Hello!” she calls out, reaching with both hands for mine.
“Hello, Mrs. Riley,” I say, taking her cold hands.
Gloria leans down close to her. “They’re writers, ma’am.”
“Oh? Writers?” Mrs. Riley is studying us with rheumy blue eyes. Her face is not nearly as wrinkled as I imagined it might be. Her skin looks soft, even youthful. Her hair is still full and very white. Her lips bear a trace of lipstick, and she wears a pair of clip-on pearl earrings. She sits looking out into her backyard, a thicket of honeysuckle and blueberry bushes. A stone path leads down to a birdbath and small lily pond.
“Yes, ma’am, my name is Jeffrey O’Brien and this is Lloyd Griffith.”
Lloyd steps forward to take one of her hands.
“You’re writers?” she asks.
“Yes, ma’am.” I sit down in one of the chairs opposite her. Lloyd takes the other. “I’m writing an article about your son.”
Her old eyes light up and she smiles. “Robbie? Is he here?”
I exchange a glance with Gloria Santacroce.
“Mrs. Riley,” Gloria tells her, “you know that Robbie passed away.”
The old woman sits back in her chair, seemingly annoyed by her caretaker’s reminder.
“Yes, yes, go on with you,” she says, waving her hand. Gloria withdraws a little, sitting in a chair a few yards away. “Did you know Robbie?” Mrs. Riley asks me.
“No, ma’am. I didn’t. I was hoping maybe you could tell me a little bit about him.”
“He put in that path there,” she says, pointing out ahead of her. “He did … what do they call it?”
“Landscaping,” Gloria reminds her.
“Yes.” She smiles widely. “He was a landscaper.”
“I thought he was an attorney,” Lloyd says.
Mrs. Riley leans forward, a little agitated. “Yes, yes, of course. He was an attorney. He worked for the Aetna, you know. A lot of them. In Hartford.”
I smile. “Yes. But he liked to do landscaping on the side?”
“Yes, oh, yes. Oh, he was so good at it, too. He put in that path. He had all the designers come out and they arranged the whole thing. He picked out the flowers and even—you see that pond? He put that in, too.”
“It’s lovely,” Lloyd observes.
“Did you know Robbie?” she asks him.
He shakes his head. “No, ma’am. I didn’t.”
“Robbie was a landscaper,” she says. “Do you see that path?”
This is going to be difficult.
“Robbie was a landscaper,” she’s continuing, talking more to herself than to us, as if trying to memorize the words, “and he worked for the Aetna.” She shakes a finger at me as if she’s just told me something very important. “He put in that path over there.” Her eyes cloud over. “Oh, I miss him; I miss him so.”
My heart breaks for her. “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure you do.”
She looks at me, crystal clear all of a sudden. “They killed him, you know.”
“Yes. I know.”
Her blue eyes seem to focus on me, then look out over the garden again. “I have no one left. My husband died when Robbie was ten. Robbie was my only child.”
I feel as if I might cry. I can see the tears reflected in Lloyd’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, ma’am,” I manage to say.
She smiles, revealing unnervingly even false teeth. “Are you an attorney, too?”
“No. I’m a journalist. I want to write about your son.”
“About Robbie? Did you know him?”
I tell her no.
“Did you?” she asks Lloyd.
“I wish I had,” he answers.
“Ma’am,” I interrupt, figuring I might as well get to the point of why I’m here, “I’m wondering if you knew his friend, Anthony Sabe.”
“Robbie liked to do landscaping,” she says, oblivious to my question. “He did that path there. Behind you.”
I look again. “It’s very nice.”
“Anthony helped him,” she says. My ears perk up and I exchange looks with Lloyd. “They had all the designers in here. He put in that pond, too. We have real fish in there. Japanese koi.”
She looks over at Gloria, seeming pleased at herself that she’d remembered the name.
I lean forward in my chair. “Did you say Anthony helped him, ma’am? Did Anthony do landscaping, too?”
The old woman’s shoulders seem to slouch. “He was a nice boy, Anthony,” she says quietly.
“I’ve met him, Mrs. Riley. I know Anthony Sabe.”
She smiles. “You know Anthony? Oh, where is he? Is he in Hartford?”
“No, ma’am. He lives in Boston now.”
She seems to consider something. “Okay. Then you tell him something from me. Will you do that?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Tell him I’m sorry. Will you tell him that for me
?”
I pause. “Sorry, ma’am?” I ask. “Sorry for what?”
She touches her face. Her voice seems far away. “What is your name again?” she asks.
“Jeff. Jeffrey O’Brien.”
“O’Brien,” she says, listening to the name as she says it. “Oh, a good Irish name. My maiden name was Fitzgibbons and I married a Riley. Good, solid Irish names.” She’s smiling, but the expression gradually fades. “It was a Murphy that killed him, though. An Irishman. That made it worse, even. You know?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Did you know Robbie?” she asks again.
I smile wanly. “No, ma’am, I didn’t.”
“I miss him so,” she says softly.
I look over at Lloyd. There’s a tear falling from his right eye.
Mrs. Riley lets out a long sigh and sits back in her chair, as if suddenly very weary.
Gloria Santacroce walks up behind her chair. “I think she just gets frustrated.” She smiles sadly. “I think the thoughts are there but sometimes they just get jumbled up in her head.”
“I won’t trouble her anymore,” I say, standing up. I extend my hand to the old woman.
“Thank you, Mrs. Riley. I appreciate your taking the time to see me.”
She doesn’t take my hand. Nor does she respond to Lloyd’s attempt to say good-bye. She just sits there staring straight ahead into the garden her son designed for her.
And Anthony helped to build.
Gloria Santacroce closes the door to the sunroom behind us. “I’m sorry she couldn’t be more of a help to you,” she says. “Who is the article for?”
“I’m not sure yet. Maybe The Boston Globe. Maybe something here in Connecticut.” I look at her, a last glimmer of hope rising in my chest. “Maybe you remember something about him?”
She shakes her head. “I wasn’t with Mrs. Riley then. I never knew Robbie. I feel as if I do now, though, because of all the pictures.” She gestures around. There sure are enough of them: Robbie as a Little Leaguer, Robbie receiving First Communion, Robbie winning some award, Robbie as the corporate hotshot posing with Lowell Weicker. “She’s always talking about Robbie. It’s as if he’s still with us.”
Where the Boys Are Page 34
