I’m unaware that Henry and Shane have been watching me as they stand in line waiting to board the plane. Finally, Henry gets out of line and comes over to me.
“Jeff,” he says tonelessly, “you should probably accept the fact that he’s not coming.”
“But he’s all alone,” I protest. “I just can’t leave him.…“
“He’s made his decision,” Henry says.
I just look at him. Henry says nothing further, just sighs and then heads back to rejoin Shane in line.
Crazy thoughts go through my head. He committed suicide. He was raped and butchered. He got drunk and is sleeping off a hangover. He forgot what time the plane was leaving. I should report him as a missing person to the police.
And then another thought, maybe equally as crazy, but I can’t judge, not now: He’s met another sugar daddy, another sap, who won’t ask so many questions.
I hand Anthony’s ticket to the clerk at the desk. “If he shows up in the last couple of minutes,” I plead, “will you make sure he gets this?”
She gives me a sympathetic look. But as the plane fills up, the seat beside me remains empty. The flight attendants are checking to see if seat belts are fastened. I insist I need to leave mine unhitched, that someone will soon be slipping into the seat next to me. Then the captain comes on to ask us to prepare for takeoff, and finally I buckle my belt, giving in to the inevitability.
He’s made his decision.
I watch the flight attendants secure the door. As the plane speeds down the runway, lifting into the air, I feel the miles quickly rack up between Anthony and me. Ten, twenty, fifty, one hundred, growing into the thousands.
Our story’s over. And its ending totally sucks.
Poor lost kid. For a time, I really cared about him, really wanted to help him.
Jeff, I don’t think you really know how to be there for anyone except yourself.
Looking out into the brightness above the clouds, where all that exists is peace and serenity, I think about friendships. How my friends have come to take the place of my family. Except for my sister and my nephew, my blood family has become almost irrelevant to me. I haven’t seen or spoken to my brother in years. With my father, I was never able to be honest about my life; he died without ever really knowing me. My mother remains an edgy, cautious, infrequent presence in my life: our approach to each other seems to be, “You go your way and I’ll go mine.”
But that’s not what family should be. Family’s about being there for each other—being involved, caring about what happens, sharing the highs and the lows, the joys and the heartaches.
I had replaced my biological family with one that worked, one that had sustained me—for a while, anyway. But that family is gone now, obliterated—and flying home, staring off into the clouds, I allow myself for the first time to feel absolutely and totally alone. Javitz is dead. Henry can’t bear to be around me. The “extended family,” the far-flung second cousins of the dance floor, suddenly seem like a bunch of clueless hunks to me, knowing only my image—my doppelganger—not my soul. And from all of my old friends, the ones who knew the old Jeff—the person I was before Javitz died, the person I’ve tried so hard to forget—I’ve distanced to the point where I can’t even call them friends anymore.
There’s only Lloyd. As always, it comes back to Lloyd.
But even Lloyd and I still aren’t sure what we are to each other, if we even have a future together.
Have I done this? Have I created this fate? Have I truly been so selfish? Insensitive to Henry? Disloyal to Anthony by going behind his back? And why did his absence hurt so much? And—most disturbing of all—what did that say about my feelings for Lloyd?
What have I accomplished by being so guarded? What have I done except create what I always feared the most: a life without family, without support, without anyone there in the middle of the night?
When did it start? I wasn’t always this way. Javitz’s death, I suppose, and Lloyd’s departure. After that, it felt safer to erect the walls, to keep my distance, to play Jeff the Stud, Jeff the Heartless, Jeff the Invincible. Henry was right: the whole thing about not sleeping with anyone unless my body is in top shape is just one more manifestation of my withdrawal from the world. My body as armor against my soul.
But the spears got through anyway. My invulnerability was a sham. And what good did the whole goddamn ruse do for me, except drive away anyone and everyone who might have made a difference?
I have no answers to any of my questions, and there’s no one to help me figure them out. In the old days, of course, Javitz could have untangled my emotions in one brilliant session, out on our deck drinking red wine and watching the sun go down. But I’m no Javitz. That much has become abundantly clear. Henry spoke the words plainly, articulating what I’ve always feared: I failed him. On my own, without Javitz, I’m a big old useless fraud. And it’s not just Henry and Anthony and even Lloyd I’ve failed: it’s Javitz himself.
I pretend to sleep the rest of the way home. When we land in Boston, I nod good-bye to Henry at the baggage claim. Whether he tries to say anything to me or not, I don’t know. I just sling my bag over my shoulder and push out into the chilly night, alone.
Halloween, Nirvana
Lloyd
Prepare yourself. This is it.
She’s got a knife.
“Please,” I beg. “Put it down.”
I open my eyes to find her standing over me with a long, sharp kitchen knife in her hand. The moonlight glints off its blade, its sheen reflecting in her wide, wild eyes. Behind her, grinning hideously, sits a Halloween jack-o’-lantern, its flickering candle making horrible shadows dance along the wall.
“I told you that you’d learn,” Eva whispers. “Told you you’d find out what I’m really like.”
Her face is distorted, full of hate. I clutch at my blanket, push back into the pillows.
“Eva, don’t! Please!”
She raises the knife over her head, prepared to strike. I scream. I hear the whoosh of the knife through the air. The last thing I feel is the blade pierce my flesh. There is pain. I scream again.
Then I wake up.
“Holy Jesus,” I gasp, sitting bolt upright. The cushions of the couch are damp. My heart pounds in my ears.
From across the room the jack-o’-lantern still grins, its light still flickering against the wall.
The house is dark. I have no idea what time it is.
“Holy Jesus,” I say again.
I swing my feet off the couch and try to steady my nerves. It’s not the first time that I’ve had such a dream. Ever since Eva stormed out of my room, turning into Madame Hyde right before my eyes, I’ve had these recurring dreams. Each time she has a knife, and each time she gets a little closer. This was the first time the knife actually made contact, I realize, making me terrified of what the next dream might bring.
I stand, straining my eyes to make out the clock on the wall. It’s after eight o’clock. I was just taking a quick nap after dinner, after all the guests had left for the evening. It’s Halloween.
But why is the house so dark?
I look outside. There’s no light anywhere. I realize Provincetown is in the midst of one of its frequent and unexplained power outages. I shiver. Why does the East End of town have to be so dark?
That’s when I hear the sound upstairs. Like a single footstep. Is someone in the house? I thought I was alone. Everyone had gone out. I listen closely, but nothing.
Maybe I’m just jumpy because this afternoon Henry and I watched Jamie Lee Curtis scream her lungs out in the movie Halloween. We then carved an enormous pumpkin and set a candle inside, just like the one in the film. I look over at it now, the only light in the room. I shudder.
I light a few candles throughout the parlor and feel myself relax in their comforting glow.
Sitting beside the jack-o’-lantern is a more reassuring object: a vase of Montauk daisies, a gift from Henry. I smile looking at them. It’s bee
n another couple of awesome days with him. The sacred-sex worshop had gone very well; I think he gained a great deal from it. But he gained even more, perhaps, by what happened afterward. As did I …
I jump. That noise again. It sounds as if someone’s walking down the upstairs hallway. But Eva’s away for a couple of days—a nice relief—staying with a new friend she’s made in town. All our guests are out. The last two left for dinner over an hour ago.
I shiver a little, embarrassed by my nerves. I light another few candles and determine to buy a generator before the winter. I should just stop being so jumpy and get ready to go out. I promised Henry I’d meet him and Shane in town to watch the parade of costumes on Commercial Street. I’ll just take a quick shower and—
Squeeeeeak.
A floorboard. That’s definitely a floorboard.
“Is someone upstairs?” I call up the stairwell.
No answer.
Dear God, why am I so jittery?
And why am I convinced it sounds like Eva walking back and forth?
“I’m spending a couple days with Candi,” she’d said last Wednesday, coming down the stairs with a suitcase.
It was fine by me. Tensions between us had gotten almost unbearable. She’d begun spending afternoons away from Nirvana. On her days off, she only returned here to sleep. I had seen her in town walking with Candi Carlson, a twentyish lesbian who runs a local sex shop. They made an odd pair, that was sure, and it struck me that, for the first time, Eva was associating with another woman. She’d never been much at ease with other women before, preferring the company of men. What the exact nature of their relationship is, I don’t want to know. I’m just glad Eva is no longer constantly underfoot.
In my head, I’ve been trying to figure a way out of this mess with her. It’s clear she isn’t willing to work on her issues in therapy. No matter what her diagnosis might be, if she isn’t committed to seeking help, I can’t go on with her in this venture. We can’t run a business by avoiding each other. So what do I do? Do I offer to buy her share of the house? Do I bring in a mediator? There has to be a solution: I refuse to feel trapped.
Creeeeeeeeeeeeak.
My blood goes cold. That’s a door opening. That’s definitely a door opening.
“Is someone there?” I call again, but once more, no answer.
My dream comes back to haunt me. I told you that you’d learn. Told you you’d find out what I’m really like.
I brace myself, taking hold of the banister and walking up the stairs. In my free hand I carry a candle. Its tiny flickering flame reveals nothing but shadows in the upstairs corridor. But all at once there’s a rustle of fabric. I pause, noting that the door to Eva’s room is slightly ajar.
She’s inside the room, I think to myself with absurd horror.
You’ll learn, Lloyd.
My palms begin to sweat, and I feel chills run down my spine like an electric current.
“Eva?” I call.
Borderlines can have psychotic episodes. They can commit irrational acts if they feel provoked, threatened …
I move closer to her room. There is unquestionably someone inside. I push the door open slowly and lift my candle. A dim light invades the darkness. I hear something: low and tinny.
Music.
It’s Madonna. Hey, Mr. DJ …
Then I see her: a form, a figure dressed all in black, slinking in and out among the shadows. Something reflects in the moonlight. Something shiny. My mouth goes dry.
But the figure is too tall, too thin to be Eva. “Who’s there?” I shout.
“Huh?” A woman’s voice. “Oh, my God, you scared the shit out of me.”
“Who are you?” I demand.
The woman pulls close into the light of my candle. I gasp a little. She’s wearing a black eye-mask and has black whiskers painted on her cheeks. Her body’s encased in a form-fitting black bodysuit. On her head is a Walkman. That’s what the moonlight reflected. She rests the headphones around her neck to talk to me.
“It’s Candi,” she says. “Candi Carlson. I’m looking for Eva’s shoes.”
“Her shoes?”
“Yeah, for her costume. We’re getting ready to go to the A House.”
“It’s pitch black in here,” I say.
Candi leans in close to me and smiles slyly. “Don’t you know cat-women can see in the dark?”
She disappears back into the shadows. “How did you get in here?” I ask. “I’ve been downstairs all night.”
“Eva gave me the key to the back door.” That’s all she says. No “I hope that’s okay” or “I didn’t mean to intrude” or “I’m sorry if I frightened you.”
I stiffen. “Well, when you leave, please make sure the door’s locked. I don’t let guests come through the back door.”
She doesn’t answer. She must have replaced her headphones.
“Here they are!” she exclaims. She’s back in my light suddenly, holding a pair of white patent-leather pumps for me to see. “Miss West’s shoes!”
I turn to leave.
“So what’s the deal?” she calls after me. “You a stick-in-the-mud, pal? Aren’t you going out to party on this, our gay national holiday?”
“I’m going out,” I say, a little defensively.
Candi puts her face close to mine again. “Glad to hear it. Would hate to think of you all alone in this dark, gloomy house.” She laughs.
I don’t reply.
She smiles. She’s young, no more than twenty-five. Pretty, with dark eyes and a pierced nose. A scattering of freckles dots her cheeks. But there’s something hard in her eyes, staring at me through the slots in her mask.
“Let me give you a little advice, pal,” she says, drawing as close as she can. Our noses almost touch. She lifts a finger to my face, and in the candlelight I discern Steven’s emerald ring on her hand.
This should go to someone who cares.
“Advice?” I ask.
“Yeah. You accuse Eva of any more bullshit and you’ll have me to deal with. Got it, bucko?”
“Excuse me?”
“Don’t let the name fool ya,” she says. “I’m not always so sweet.”
She moves out of my candlelight and slinks back off into the darkness. I’m flabbergasted, outraged. How dare she? I hear her pad down the back stairs. Oh, great. Just great! Now I’ve got the Cat-woman after me! What’s Eva told her?
I take a fast shower and dress quickly, deciding to forego any costume. The lights come back on and I breathe a sigh of relief, hopping on my bike to meet Henry downtown. I spot him sitting on the sidewalk, as unadorned as I am, in front of the post office.
“Lloyd!” he calls. “You’re just in time. Look!”
Among the revelers making their way down Commercial Street is Shane, dressed as Glinda the Good Witch. On his shoulder-length red wig he wears a tall Plexiglas crown. He sashays back and forth in a big pink hoopskirt sparkling with sequins, waving a wand topped with a glowing yellow star. “Are you a good witch or a bad witch?” he asks the crowd in Glinda’s unmistakable twitter. Tourists snap pictures. Shane drinks up the attention.
“He sure knows how to work a crowd,” I observe.
“That he does.”
I sit down beside Henry on the curb, shoulder to shoulder. Witches and dragons and George W. Bushes, each scarier than the last, pass us each in turn. Next comes a local drag queen known as Miss Izzy, done up in a Glinda costume nearly identical to Shane’s.
“Oh, Shane is going to be so pissed,” Henry says. “He doesn’t like being upstaged.”
The night is chilly. At one point Henry, being gloveless, slips both his hands down into the deep pocket of my wool coat, resting his head on my shoulder. He smells good. I lightly kiss his hair.
I wonder briefly how Jeff would feel if he knew Henry and I had made love. The workshop had been intense. We’d spent the entire day in a state of constant arousal, trading back and forth with our partners, giving and receiving, touching, caressing, ki
ssing, licking each other. Orgasm was discouraged; a couple of guys hadn’t been able to hold back, and I heard their unmistakable shuddering moans from across the room. But Henry and I had managed to keep from coming—until we got back to Nirvana, that is, and we went straight up to my room to bring each other to climax.
I’ve been to such workshops before. I knew what to expect. But Henry was blown away. I mean, absolutely staggered. After he orgasmed, he collapsed in my arms, sobbing his heart out. It was to be expected after your first time. Our workshop leaders had emphasized that the sexual touch we were employing went beyond the mere physical, reaching through the skin, the nerves, and the brain to the heart and the soul—to the very essence of our beings. With guided imagery they’d led us to places deep within ourselves, taking us to places we had forgotten, to memories stored deep within the fibers of our cells. The erotic journey was not so much about our external erogenous zones as it was about our internal selves: who we were, who we had been in previous lives, and who we were yet to be.
“For me,” Henry said, lying in my arms, breathing contentedly, “it was about feeling connected again. I have never felt so connected to anyone before in my life.” He reached over and kissed me passionately on the lips. “Sex is so much more than what I’d always thought it to be.”
He snuggled in next to me. That’s the way we’d slept all night.
Sitting here beside him now, I think again of Jeff. Anthony’s departure had affected him deeply, much more profoundly than I imagined it would. He was in a state of funk when I saw him last, just sitting there on his couch, and I left Boston considering the possibility that Anthony had meant much more to him than I’d allowed myself to believe. Jeff’s reaction gave me pause: if he still grieved Anthony so much, what did that say about us? And what about my own feelings for Henry?
Where the Boys Are Page 40
