Where the Boys Are

by William J. Mann

  “Six years ago.”

  “Six years? You mean, he didn’t come to see you when he got out of prison?”

  Her eyes are hard. “I assume he’s reporting in to his parole officer every week, because I haven’t heard any bitching from the court. But he hasn’t come by here.”

  I look up again to the window with the Tot Finder decal. “Why is that, Mrs. Murphy? Why hasn’t he come to see you?”

  She sniffs. “Because prison turned him into something I don’t understand. He wasn’t my Brian anymore. He wasn’t my son.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  “I don’t really care if you do or you don’t.” She takes another long drag on her cigarette. “Look, I did what I could. But at a very young age Brian saw his father hauled off to prison for all his gambling debts. He never forgot that. Who would? Then he watches as his father slowly drinks himself to death. Is it any wonder Brian’s messed up? I couldn’t do it alone, be both mother and father. Is it any wonder that Brian’s—messed up? Become this—thing? He’s not the son I knew!”

  I watch as she throws her cigarette to the sidewalk and grinds it out with her toe.

  “It’s not just the murder that you’re talking about, is it, Mrs. Murphy?” I ask her softly.

  “Go on,” she says. “I said I don’t want to talk to you.”

  She starts walking back up the steps to the house.

  “Mrs. Murphy,” I call after her. “Just one other thing.”

  She stops, but once more she doesn’t turn around.

  “Will you just tell me where Brian was born?” I swallow nervously. “Have you always lived here in Hartford?”

  Astrid Murphy turns to look at me with hard eyes. “What has that got to do with anything?”

  “Please,” I say. “Will you tell me?”

  “We used to live in Illinois. Lake Bluff. That’s where Brian was born.”

  She turns away from me, opening the door to her house. A large black Doberman jumps up on her. She speaks some reassuring words to it, easing it back inside. Then she closes the door.

  Lake Bluff, Illinois …

  Dear God, what am I thinking?

  Maybe what I’ve known ever since Cynthia Cassell told me Brian Murphy had been paroled.

  Maybe what I’ve known for even longer than that, somewhere down deep.

  Back in my car I peer again at the newspaper photograph of Brian Murphy, lifting it close to my eyes as I study his image. Just a collection of black and gray dots really. What can a bunch of dots tell me? And anyway, he’s looking down, his face turned away. Even if I thought there was a resemblance, how could I really tell?

  It’s just a collection of dots.

  The Next Day, Nirvana

  Lloyd

  “I just talked with Shane,” Henry reports, switching off his cell phone. “He said Eva left Boston a couple hours ago.”

  “Then she should be here shortly,” I say.

  I settle down on the couch. This has to be it. The end. I can’t enable her behavior any longer. I need to sit down with her, find a way out. Thankfully, our last guest left an hour ago; the house is empty. I have no idea how Eva will react, and I’m grateful that Henry is here to hang in the background. I push my head back into the cushions and close my eyes.

  Sadness overwhelms me. This had been my dream, my hope for a new life. I wanted so much for Nirvana to be the transformation of my grief over Javitz, a way back to living and interacting with the world. I had such plans, such hopes, such visualizations of life here. Now I feel as I did a year ago: alone and adrift, without any mooring, any direction, any destination.

  This morning we watched as the first snowfall of the season danced off the bay. A light, pretty dusting that made me think of this time last year, of all the excitement we had felt, Eva and I together. By noon the snow had turned to rain, and now only a messy slush remains on the front sidewalk. I feel so terribly sad.

  I can’t think past this imminent encounter with Eva. What lies beyond is uncertain. Will she buy me out and keep Nirvana as her own? Will we both sell and recoup our costs, maybe even make a tidy little profit? The Provincetown market is white-hot, after all, and we’ve fixed the place up nicely. But then where will I go? Back to renting? Will I buy something else? Will I even remain in Provincetown?

  And then there’s Jeff to consider. How will this impact us?

  “A penny for your thoughts,” Henry’s saying.

  I open my eyes. He’s sitting on the hassock in front of me, our knees nearly touching.

  “They’re hardly worth even that much,” I tell him, managing a smile. “They’re just a bunch of neurons colliding at random, not making much sense.”

  Henry puts his hands on my thighs, leaning in to kiss me lightly on the lips. “I know you’re wondering what’s to become of all this.”

  I nod. All this. I look past Henry to take in all the work we’ve put into this house. The paint. The new windows. The new floors. The artwork. The paintings. The statues of Buddha. I realize that despite my struggles with Eva, I’ve come to consider this place home. Even with all the work, I enjoy the comings and goings of the guests. It’s been a fascinating parade of humanity in and out of these walls. Some were hell, I can’t deny that, but most have been interesting and respectful, leaving the guest house a better place by their presence here. I think of the older gay couple from Toronto, together fifty-two years, and how we sat out on the front porch talking until midnight. I think of the student from Namibia, sharing with me the story of her coming out as we sat across from each other at the dining room table. I think of the straight couple who, embarking on a drive across the country, chose Provincetown as their starting point, situated as it was at the very point where the land ends—or begins, depending on your viewpoint. They sent me postcards from various stops along their route: Niagara Falls, Chicago, St. Louis, the Grand Canyon. They’ve become my friends “Sid and Gerri.” I’ve made so many friends in the past year.

  “You don’t want to give it up, do you, Lloyd?”

  I sigh. “No, I guess I don’t. But I just don’t know how I can go on. I can’t do it with Eva, but neither would I want to do it alone.”

  He smiles at me. “Maybe you won’t have to.”

  I shrug. “Jeff’s made it clear he isn’t interested in running a guest house.”

  Henry’s back stiffens. “I didn’t mean Jeff.”

  I look over at him. “Henry …”

  He stands up. “I was thinking,” he says, “of leaving my job. I’m not happy there. After they screwed me on that promotion, I feel all I owe them is two weeks’ notice.” He turns to face me. “I could work here, if you’d hire me.”

  “Henry …”

  “I could do whatever was needed. Work the front desk. Do the laundry. Keep up the grounds. I could share your vision of this place, Lloyd.” He kneels down in front of me, his hands on my thighs. “Your dream. I really could.”

  He looks so earnest kneeling there in front of me. So sincere. So willing to give his entire self to me, if only I’d ask. My heart breaks for him.

  “Henry,” I say as gently as I can, “I think you ought to follow your own dream.”

  He blinks a couple of times. “My own dream?”

  I nod. “Whatever that is. My dream isn’t your dream.”

  “But it could be.”

  “Eva once said the same thing.” I smile kindly at him. “Henry, do you think that maybe, just maybe, you have a tendency to get caught up in the dreams of others?”

  He bristles a little. “I was just trying to tell you how I feel about you.”

  I pat the place beside me on the couch. He sits, looking over at me with wide, vulnerable eyes. How dear he is. Why didn’t Jeff ever fall in love with him?

  Maybe for the same reason I never did. There’s somebody else. And there always has been. Only one man for Jeff; only one man for me.

  “You are going to make somebody an amazing husband,” I tell him. “You hav
e so much to give, Henry.”

  He smiles weakly. “But it’s not going to be you, right? That’s what you’re trying to tell me.”

  I sigh. “Right now, I can’t think past this confrontation with Eva. But if I try, if I force myself to, I know there’s another issue I have to finally face when all this is over. Something I’ve not fully faced or completely dealt with. Not since Javitz died.”

  He nods. He knows. “Your relationship with Jeff,” he says.

  “Yes,” I agree. “I have to figure out where we’re supposed to be in each other’s lives. What this past year has been all about. What we were supposed to learn.”

  Henry closes his eyes and leans his head back into the cushions of the couch. “I’ve always known that you and Jeff had something special. I think in my heart, down deep, I’ve always believed that the two of you were meant to be together.” He opens his eyes and I can see they’re moist. “I guess I just hoped against hope …”

  I take his hand. “First with Jeff, then with me. Can you see a pattern, Henry?”

  One tear escapes. Just one. “I tried to be more honest with you,” he says thickly. “I was never honest with Jeff.”

  “He does love you, you know,” I tell him, “very much.”

  That’s when the tears come. He puts his head down on my shoulder and just starts to bawl like a baby. It’s good for him. I pat his hair.

  “He was the best friend I ever had,” Henry sobs. “Next to you.”

  “Maybe you ought to tell him that,” I suggest.

  “I’ve allowed myself to forget all the good, concentrating only on the bad.”

  I pat his hair. “Maybe you needed to do that for a while.”

  “Jeff was there for me. He gave me courage. He taught me to believe in myself.”

  “All he did was point out the strength that was already there.”

  Henry wipes his eyes. “That image you described, of Jeff combing Javitz’s hair and singing to him—I keep thinking about it.”

  I nod. “And do you know that on the night of Brent’s overdose, he sat up with you nearly all night? He stroked your hair, too. You should have seen the concern on his face.”

  Henry sniffles. “Do you think it’s too late for me to make up with him?”

  “I don’t think it’s ever too late, Henry. You ought to call him and—”

  Just then I notice headlights sweeping past the front windows into the driveway. Eva’s back. I hear her car door slam shut.

  Henry’s on his feet, wiping his eyes. “I’ll just go into the back room,” he says. “If you need me, I’m here.”

  “Are you okay?”

  He nods. “Thanks, Lloyd. Thanks for being my friend.”

  I smile. He disappears into the back just as the doorknob starts to turn. I pick up a magazine from the coffee table and begin thumbing through it.

  Eva says nothing. She comes inside, carefully removing her boots so she won’t track slush all over the front hallway. Then she heads upstairs to her room. I wait for fifteen minutes, keeping watch for her. But she doesn’t return. It would be so like her to try to thwart any confrontation by hiding out in her room. I stand, prepared to walk upstairs and knock at her door. But just as I do so, I spy her coming down the stairs. She’s carrying two suitcases.

  “Excuse me, Eva, but I think we need to talk.”

  “I suppose we do.” She sets the suitcases beside the front door and faces me calmly. “But I’m on my way to Candi’s. I’ll be staying there from now on. Don’t worry. I won’t neglect my duties here. I’ll be here to do whatever needs to be done. But I see we don’t have any guests scheduled until the weekend.”

  “Candi’s?” I ask. “So you’ve reconciled.”

  “Yes, we have.”

  I fold my arms over my chest. “Did you tell her where you were all week?”

  “No. Not at first.”

  I shake my head. “Don’t you think disappearing like that was completely irresponsible of you? I was ready to call the police and file a missing person report.”

  “I regret if I caused you any worry.” Her voice is even, emotionless. “You might not believe that, Lloyd, but it’s true. I’m sorry.”

  “Eva,” I tell her, “I can’t go on like this.”

  She stiffens. “Neither can I.”

  “We need to discuss terms,” I say.

  “I’m happy to do whatever it takes, Lloyd.” Her voice remains calm and without a trace of passion. “You can buy me out or I’ll buy you out. Whatever works. Just so that we can get this whole thing over with.”

  She seems so hard. This whole thing. As much as I know it’s the right thing to do, her lack of emotion over the shattering of our dream distresses me. Had everything really been so insincere?

  “Well,” I suggest, “maybe we can call Ty and ask him how we can go about—”

  “Not Ty,” she says quickly, efficiently. “I have my own attorney now, right here in town. To be honest, I don’t think I’d feel very comfortable working with Ty at this point.”

  I guess I can understand that. “Eva,” I say, unable to keep up this facade of efficiency, “I am filled with tremendous sadness that it has come to this.”

  Finally, a spark of emotion behind her eyes. “Do you think I’m not?” she asks. She sighs, running her hands across her short-cropped hair. The cardigan sweater she’s wearing parts to reveal a low-cut red blouse. Funny how she’s stopped trying to conceal her breasts, how she seems to have lost any self-consciousness about them.

  “Look, Lloyd,” she explains. “I am doing my best not to resort to any emotional tricks. I suppose that means I’m coming off indifferent. It’s not how I feel.”

  I just look at her.

  “Do you know why Candi took me back? Because I’m in therapy, Lloyd. When I was in Boston, I found someone on my own. Someone I like. Not someone you recommended, not someone Candi wanted me to see. Someone I found all by myself. And she’s good, Lloyd. She’s very good.”

  “I—I’m glad.”

  She takes a step toward me. “The other day on the breakwater you hurled some pretty powerful things at me. And you were right, Lloyd. I’ve been taking a good, long, hard look at myself, and I haven’t liked the woman I see. The woman I’ve been for much of my life.” She doesn’t cry, and somehow, without her tears, her emotion seems more believable, more trustworthy.

  “I’m sorry, Lloyd. I’m ashamed of many things that I did. I convinced myself that deleting Jeff’s E-mails to you was merely a way of protecting you from being hurt. The same was true for locking you in your room. But I see now they were merely the acts of a desperate, sad, pitiful woman. I am truly, truly sorry for all the grief I caused you.”

  She lets out a long sigh and turns, as if there’s nothing more to say, as if she’d just pick up her suitcases and leave. But she stops and looks back at me, seeming galvanized to speak.

  “You always talk about sharing your truth, Lloyd,” she says, her voice steady, even strong. “Well, here’s mine. I’ve been a scared, lost, insecure little girl whose father was not the great god she has long tried to believe. No, not a god. Not at all.” Her voice catches, but she continues. “So I grew up a scared, lost, insecure little girl—but one who believed that such things as compassion, self-sacrifice, commitment, and loyalty might ward against any future loneliness.”

  She laughs, a little bitterly.

  “Why I should have thought so seems strange now. I was compassionate and committed and loyal to my father, and then to Steven, but still they left me, each in their turn. Did I get carried away at times? Did I allow myself to go overboard? Did I indulge in daydreams and fantasies? Yes, I did, and I’m sorry for all that. You don’t know how sorry.”

  “Eva, I—”

  “Let me finish. You’re always the one talking at me, telling me the way things are. Maybe for once I have something to say on my own.” Her eyes fasten on mine. “You were the one to tell me, in no uncertain terms, that we were not lovers.
That I mustn’t delude myself into thinking that we were. You would make that point very clear, Lloyd—and then you’d allow me to sit at your bedside rubbing your feet after a long day of climbing ladders and fixing the roof. You’d let me hold you and cook for you and take you for long walks on the beach. When Jeff or Henry or another friend came to visit, you’d keep me at arm’s length, insisting that it was for my own good—but then, when they were gone, when you felt alone and full of your grief, you’d come to me with your thoughts, to seek my counsel or find solace in my words. Oh, how often you would assert our great differences—that I was a straight woman and you a gay man—but then you’d take comfort in our sameness, sitting there half the night in my arms on my couch in New York, talking about grief, and love, and the human condition.”

  She closes her eyes.

  “No, we were not lovers. Wherever would I get such an idea?”

  I just look at her. There are tears in her eyes now. But they aren’t any tears I recognize. They aren’t noisy or dramatic. They’re genuine. They’re not manipulative. They ask for no consolation.

  “I will bear my responsibility as a scared, lost, insecure little girl, who did some terrible things,” she tells me. “But might you consider your own accountability, for whatever it’s worth? I don’t need you to, nor am I even asking you to do so. It’s just a suggestion, Lloyd. Take it or leave it.”

  She bends down and retrieves her suitcases. “I’ll be back by the weekend. If any unexpected guests arrive, call me at Candi’s.”

  There’s nothing I can say at that moment. I just let her go. I hear her start the engine of her car. Henry comes out of the back room and stands behind me, placing his hand on my shoulder.

  “How’d it go?” he asks.

  “I’m not sure,” I tell him. “I think … I think I just want to be alone.”

  Whether Henry feels hurt, I can’t tell. He just nods, and I gently touch his cheek. He squeezes my hand.

  All I want at that moment is Javitz. If only he were here … God, how often have I wished that over the course of the past year. I know I said it’s time we started trying to figure things out on our own, to stop lamenting the fact that Javitz isn’t here to do it for us. But I can’t. I need Javitz to help me make sense of what Eva said. Have I really been as complicit as she described? Where do her issues end and mine begin?