Where the Boys Are

by William J. Mann

  I take a step closer to him. “I did care—I do …”

  “If nothing else, Jeff,” he implores, “please be honest with me.”

  I can’t speak.

  “What I want,” he says, “what I think everyone wants, is what I’ve seen between you and Lloyd. Two people trying to work out a life together. Struggling and accommodating and making dreams actually happen.”

  “You’ll find it someday,” I manage to say, my voice cracking.

  He shakes his head. “I’m not so sure. I don’t think it’s possible for me, with you or anyone else.” He smiles tightly. “Why should it be? Why should I have what I took away from Robert and Anthony?”

  I have no reply for that.

  “Good-bye, Jeff,” he says softly.

  “Where are you going?” I ask. “Will you remain in Provincetown?”

  He smiles, looking up at the sky. “I can go anywhere now,” he tells me.

  I watch him walk off down the beach until he’s nothing more than a tiny speck, the waves eager to lick away his footsteps, leaving no sign, no trace, that he was ever here.

  A Week Later, Boston, The Westin Hotel

  Henry

  I know he makes his way through here every evening on his way home, and I’m counting on his adherence to routine. Sure, he might’ve had an appointment, or stopped off for dinner, but I trust that I’ll see him. If it’s meant to be, Lloyd said, he’ll be there. And I believe strongly it’s meant to be.

  See, I want to surprise him. I want to be standing here with this big array of balloons, looking like some geek from the Publishers Clearing House Sweepstakes waiting to surprise the big-money winner. But there’s no cash prize tucked inside my pocket, just the thirty balloons I hold in my right hand. The yellow ones are emblazoned with HAPPY BIRTHDAY; the pink ones read, YOU LOOK MAH-VELOUS.

  I check my watch. It’s a quarter after six. He usually passes through here between six-fifteen and six-thirty. I find a spot near the escalator and stand with my balloons. People passing me either smile or completely avoid my eyes. That’s what happens when you let yourself look like a fool.

  Did I mention I’m wearing a clown suit? And a putty nose? And an enormous wide-brimmed pink hat? Well, I am.

  Finally, I spot him. I honk the horn that’s strapped to my belt.

  “Shane!” I call. “Happy Birthday!”

  He approaches me warily.

  “Happy Birthday to you!” I sing. “Happy Birthday to you! Happy Birthday dear Shaaaaaaaane! Happy Birthday to you!!!”

  His face reddens. Do you know how delightful it is to see Shane embarrassed by someone else’s antics for a change?

  “Henry?” he asks, peering in at me past the red nose and white makeup. “Is that you?”

  “In the clown flesh!” I say, honking my horn again. I thrust the balloons at him. “Take ’em, sweetheart! They’re yours!”

  He just looks up at them in disbelief. Several passersby stop to wish him happy birthday.

  “And many moooooooore!” I sing.

  Shane looks down at me with a crooked smile on his face, folding his arms over his chest.

  “Henry,” he says, “today is not my birthday. My birthday was months ago.”

  I grin. “Figured that would be the case. The odds were stacked against it being today. Actually, about three-hundred-sixty-four to one that I’d get it wrong.” I draw in close to him. “But I’ve known you almost a year now and I never knew the actual date. You never told me and I never asked.” I pause, my voice going serious. “I’m sorry about that.”

  Shane’s eyes suddenly grow moist. “Henry. Why did you do this?”

  I place my putty nose against his. “Because friends celebrate each other’s birthdays. And because I figured I’d missed yours. So I wanted to celebrate it tonight.”

  He’s staggered. He can’t speak. Some kid walking by with earphones hoots, “Hey, happy B-day, dude!”

  Shane gives a little laugh. “Henry, I’m … overwhelmed.”

  “See?” I slap my knee with my free hand, delighted my idea has worked so well. “You’re not the only one who can come up with a gimmick.” I grin, my big clown mouth stretching across my face. “Got you to notice me, didn’t I?”

  He’s shaking his head, his eyes locked on to mine. “You went to all this trouble … just because …”

  I touch his face with my polka-dotted clown mitt. “Because I thought maybe you’d give me another chance.”

  A mischievous smile slips across his face. “Wanta go back to my place and fool around?”

  “Yeah,” I tell him. “Right after I make you a fabulous birthday dinner.”

  “Well,” he says, easing back into his cocky old self again, “make sure you scrape that paint off your face. I’m not getting pancake on my tongue.”

  “You got it, buckaroo. I’ll run back home, take a quick shower, and pick up the wine and the groceries. Give me half an hour. Forty minutes, tops.”

  Shane twinkles, heading toward the escalator. “The clock’s ticking,” he says.

  “Hey!” I call. “These are yours.”

  I hand him the balloons. He takes them and then impulsively leans forward, kissing me on the mouth. “Hell,” he says, laughing. “A little pancake never hurt anyone.”

  I’m still laughing when I head back out through the mall and into the skywalk.

  That’s when I spot Jeff coming toward me.

  I could, of course, just let him pass. He’ll never know it’s me under the clown suit. I’ve gotten so accustomed to dodging Jeff whenever I see him that it almost comes automatically now.

  I’ll just let him pass by. I’ll be late to Shane’s if I dawdle, anyway.

  But I can’t. I can’t let him just walk by me. If I’d been planning for days how to make things right with Shane, I’ve been thinking as much about Jeff. About the friendship I treasured so much and then pushed away.

  I once asked all of you not to judge him, to hear him out, to see him in his entirety. I asked you to give him a chance, but I did exactly the opposite. For the past few days I’ve been thinking about it all. About the way we often blame other people for the very things we do ourselves. About how much I’ve missed Jeff, whether I’ve allowed myself to admit it or not.

  “Jeff,” I say.

  He appears startled, glancing over at the funny-looking clown with big, floppy feet calling his name.

  “It’s me,” I say. “Henry.”

  He approaches me, a smile on his face. “Dare I ask? A client with a Bozo fetish?”

  I laugh. “No. I just surprised Shane with balloons. For his birthday.”

  “That was sweet of you.”

  I shrug. “I’m trying.” I pause significantly. “How have you been, Jeff?”

  His eyes wander away. “Well, it’s kind of hard to say.”

  “Look, Jeff, I know we’ve been distant. I know we’ve had some harsh words between us. But I also know you’ve been really struggling about your feelings for Lloyd and Anthony. I know it’s not been an easy time.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “You’re right. Easy it hasn’t been.”

  “I just want you to know … that I care. About you, I mean. And if you ever want to get together and talk—”

  Jeff smiles. “Henry, are you suggesting we might be friends again?”

  I look at him. Yes. Yes, I am. I am indeed suggesting we be friends. Sisters, the way we once were, or claimed ourselves to be. For the first time, I feel as if I can honestly, truly be friends with Jeff. I’m suddenly hit with a freight train of memories, from that first night on the dance floor to working out with him in the gym to him telling me that I have so much to offer and to stop selling myself short. I had blocked out all that was good, refusing to remember it. I was terrified of it, really. Terrified of remembering that it was Jeff who was the first person in my life to tell me I could be anything I wanted to be.

  “Jeff, I was wrong,” I blurt. “You can be a good friend. I’m sorry I sai
d what I did.”

  He shakes his head. “No, you were right, Henry. I haven’t always been the best friend I could have been.”

  I look him deep in the eyes. “Well, maybe we can both do better from now on. I want to really be friends with you, Jeff, with all that real friendship is supposed to mean.” I hesitate, knowing how guarded he can be, but I decide to plunge on. “I know how you took care of Javitz, how you were there for him. How awesome that must have been. You were there for him in a way that defines what friendship is all about. What an honor that must have been. For both of you.”

  Jeff seems moved by this little speech. I see the moisture well in his eyes.

  “That’s what I want, too, Jeff. I want us to be real with each other. I know you think you’ve shared stuff with me, confided in me, but you’ve always been so guarded, Jeff. You’ve held back when it got too deep. You wouldn’t admit when you felt vulnerable, when you felt weak.”

  “You’re right,” he admits. “I’ve drawn a line and lived pretty insistently behind it.”

  “Why, Jeff? Because you didn’t trust me?”

  He can’t seem to hold back the tears. “It was never about that, buddy. Never about trust. I’ve trusted you more than I have anyone since Javitz.”

  “Then what was it?”

  He’s crying now. Jeff is actually crying.

  “I thought you wouldn’t like me if I were weak,” he manages to say. “If I wasn’t the hero, the mentor, the know-it-all.”

  “Oh, Jeff …”

  I put my arms around him, wrapping his torso in my puffy sleeves and polka-dotted clown mitt hands.

  “You’ve taught me so much,” I tell him. “Now let me use it.”

  He pulls back a little to look me in the eyes. “Javitz always said eventually the student teaches the teacher.”

  “You’ve been an excellent teacher. Now be my friend.”

  He gives me a smile. “I’m sorry, Henry. Sorry for everything.”

  “Jeff, there’s no reason to apologize. I’ve been caught up in my own struggle, my own drama. I let myself forget how you’ve been there for me.”

  He’s shaking his head. “I wasn’t always as sensitive as I could have been.”

  “As if any of us are.” I smile wryly. “Why do you think I’m trying to make things right with Shane?”

  Jeff is clearly touched. “Henry, I would love to be friends with you again. I’ve missed you so much, buddy.”

  We hug. “I want to be the kind of friend Javitz was,” I tell him. “I know I can never replace him, but I want it honest like that. Real. Where you know things about each other. Where you trust each other completely.”

  “You know an awful lot about me, Henry,” Jeff says. “Sometimes more than I know myself.”

  It means so much to hear him say that. “Thank you Jeff,” I tell him. “Thank you.”

  He smiles. The smile bubbles up into laughter as he takes a step back from me. “Henry,” he says, “as poignant as all of this is, you do realize that it’s very difficult not to crack up looking at you standing there dressed like Ronald McDonald.”

  I laugh. “And if I start to blubber, I’ll look like one of those crying-clown velvet paintings my aunts have hanging on their walls.”

  Jeff looks over at me and lifts one of my mitts to his lips. “I love you, buddy.”

  “I love you,” I reply.

  “You want to go dancing this week?”

  I beam. “Yeah. I so totally want to go dancing.”

  “Alex Lauterstein is spinning at Machine on Thursday,” he tells me.

  “Alex Lauterstein? The hunkiest DJ on the entire planet?”

  “The very same.”

  “Well, of course we have to be there,” I say, grinning.

  Jeff grins back. “And bring Shane,” he tells me.

  Shane. I realize I have to hurry. “I’m making him dinner. I have to go …”

  Jeff nods. “Don’t keep Shane waiting. You never know what he’ll do. Drop a bucket of water on your head or zap you with a stun gun.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” I promise.

  We embrace again. I must make quite the sight. Big old gay clown kissing all these boys in the middle of rush hour. Jeff keeps laughing as he looks back to wave as we continue in opposite directions. I’m grinning so hard myself that my painted cheeks start to hurt.

  If it’s meant to be, Lloyd promised, it’ll happen.

  It was meant to be.

  Christmas Day, Boston

  Lloyd

  We chopped down the tree together, just like old times, a tall, fragrant blue spruce with some of its cones still intact. We hauled it back into the city on top of my car and then up the three flights to Jeff’s apartment, where we secured it into the stand only to find its branches were much longer and heavier on one side, making it look squat, like a fat lady curtsying. Once, after we’d gotten all the ornaments attached to her body, Miss Lucy (as we dubbed the tree) toppled over, and we came running back into the room to the sound of glass breaking and aluminum beads rolling across the floor. We simply laughed, righted the poor old girl, and tied her to the wall.

  Out had come the gifts: a pile for Jeff, a pile for me, a pile for Mr. Tompkins. When he was a kitten, Mr. Tompkins would climb up inside the Christmas tree, meowing through the tinsel. Now the best he can do is sit underneath beside his pile of gifts, idly knocking low-hanging ornaments with his paw. It’s a game that quickly bores him, however, and with a heavy sigh, he curls up back on the couch and falls asleep.

  “He seems so much more content these days,” Jeff observes. “He hasn’t taken off anybody’s finger in weeks.”

  I smile smugly. “Maybe he’s just glad to have me back around.” Jeff wraps his arms around my waist. “He’s not the only one.” We kiss. We’ve just returned from a day at Jeff’s sister’s house, where we dressed as Santa and Mrs. Claus and surprised little Jeffy with a sackful of gifts. The kid looked up shrewdly at Mrs. Claus and instantly identified her as Jeff under the wig and red lipstick. “Hey, Unca Jeff,” he said. “Are you a big old drag queen?” We all just cracked up.

  It’s been a lovely day. Even Jeff’s mom gave me a hug and a kiss, not to mention a gift (a flannel shirt, a size too big). I placed a call to my parents in Iowa, promising we’d visit soon. Yes, we. Jeff and I. Maybe in February. Jeff even got on the phone and wished them all a happy holiday. My dad said it seemed maybe I was “settling down.” I said I just might be, at that.

  Tonight we’ve planned a little gathering with Henry and Shane. Henry actually brought Shane home with him for Hanukkah, and last night he spent Christmas Eve with Shane and his mother in Portsmouth, New Hampshire. They’ve been together almost constantly since Henry cooked that birthday dinner. “The pasta was a little soggy,” Henry admitted to me, “but everything else was tasty and firm.”

  It’s good to see him happy and focused. Whether he and Shane will be able to make something work between them remains to be seen. Henry’s been pretty fixated on muscle-boy types for a long time, and Shane shows no inclination to head to the gym. “If it’s meant to happen,” I’ve told Henry, with him finishing my sentence: “It will.”

  “Lloyd,” Jeff says now, “before they get here, I thought we might want to open these gifts.” He reaches far behind the tree and withdraws two small boxes wrapped in red cellophane, both topped with white satin bows.

  “Who are they from?” I ask, but even as the words came out of my mouth, I know.

  “They’re from Eva,” Jeff replies.

  Eva. She hasn’t been far from my thoughts all day. I know she’s back at Nirvana, she and Candi, taking care of our houseful of guests. Two days ago, she came to me and told me she’d decided to sell me her share in Nirvana. “This isn’t easy,” she admitted. “But the work I need to be doing right now doesn’t involve running a guest house.”

  “And what is the work you need to be doing?” I asked her.

  She just smiled. “I’m finding
that out, little by little, every day.”

  It was, in truth, what I’d been hoping for. I didn’t want to lose Nirvana. There was no way the two of us could go on together, but I’d come to love the guest house and my work there. Yet is it even feasible? Could I possibly afford to buy her out? What might she ask as a price? Could this be her strategy—one last manipulation to get what she really wants? If she demands an amount she knows I can’t pay, she could then buy me out, and keep the place all to herself. Maybe sell it later for an enormous profit.

  I remember looking at her as she told me of her decision. She seemed so different. For the first time in months, I felt inclined to trust her words, not second-guess her motives. Part of it’s simply knowing she’s in therapy, working on her stuff—the “work she needs to be doing.” Part of it’s Candi: underneath her tough exterior, she’s a good woman, loyal—and introspective, too, if she was the force behind Eva’s finally seeing a therapist. In fact, we’ve all spent so much time debating whether or not Eva is really a lesbian that we’ve overlooked the real significance of the relationship. It’s the first time in her life that Eva has formed a bond with another woman. That’s progress. That’s breaking out of the pathology. No matter what she turns out to be, no matter the truth of her relationship with Candi, she’s turned some kind of corner.

  But there’s yet another reason Eva seems different to me. I’ve had time to digest what she said, to live with it. It does take two to tango, and I can see quite plainly now my own part in the dance. “Darling,” Javitz used to say, “the first step toward enlightenment is recognizing our own accountability.”

  “Eva,” I said to her, “I want you to know that I’m sorry, too.”

  She looked at me.

  “For everything and anything,” I added.

  “Thank you, Lloyd,” she said simply.

  I look down now at the gifts in Jeff’s hands. “How did you get these?” I ask.

  “She gave them to Shane, who brought them by.”

  I look up into Jeff’s eyes. “I have to admit I’m a little scared to open it.”