Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  As we stopped to listen, Frank asked, “What’s wrong?”

  Hangdog, Tommy looked up to tell us, “My car. It’s just a beater, but it gets me around—at least it did. Today the transmission went. Guess I’m scr—” He rephrased, “Guess I’m skunked.”

  Frank smiled. “Tell you what. Your place isn’t far out of my way. Why don’t I just swing by and give you a lift for the rest of the run?”

  “Would you?” asked Tommy, looking much relieved. “That would be great. Thanks, Mr. Gelden.”

  “Then I’ll pick you up at twelve-thirty tomorrow for the matinee. Do you need a ride home tonight?”

  “It’s covered, thanks. But tomorrow would be great. Really—I appreciate it.”

  As we four adults continued toward the den, I told Frank, “You struck me as a hell of a nice guy last Wednesday when we met, and you just proved I was right.”

  He shook his head, looking a bit bashful, which made him all the more endearing. “With kids that age,” he said, “wheels are everything. Tommy comes from a large family of modest means—his wreck of a car won’t be in working order soon. So he’s stuck bumming rides, considered particularly humiliating among his peers. He doesn’t need such a pointless source of anxiety during the play. Why wouldn’t I help out?”

  Cynthia tugged his earlobe, telling us, “God, I love this guy.”

  Frank blushed. Pretending not to notice, I slung an arm around Neil’s waist and opened the door to the den.

  My uncle Edwin’s den, now my own domain, was intentionally kept off-limits to the party that night. Located in a front corner of the house, just off the entry hall, the room would have been a logical target for revelers in search of somewhere to talk and eat, away from the crowd, but this was my space, and I didn’t want it invaded by strangers. The huge old mahogany partners desk, flanked by matching leather chairs, was laden with paperwork I’d left in progress, as well as my calendar, assorted sentimental curios, and a few framed pictures—personal stuff—it was nobody else’s business. So I’d left the room closed, dark, and unwelcoming. Our guests got the message, and my turf had not been violated.

  Entering with Neil and the Geldens, switching on the lights, I was struck again by the room’s uncommon beauty, a handsome quality, distinctly masculine. Even the air felt good—while the rest of the house had begun to warm up with the party, my sequestered bailiwick felt cool and fresh.

  “Oh, my,” said Cynthia as she stepped inside, “what a charming little retreat.”

  In truth, it wasn’t all that little. The oversize desk occupied only a corner of the room. The remainder of the space, on the opposite side of the door, was used as a sitting area with a comfortable chesterfield suite of tufted-leather furniture facing a fireplace. The unique mantel and surround were architect-designed in the same Prairie School style as the house. Though the hearth was now screened and dark for the summer months, it provided an inviting focal point that seemed to stimulate conversation and camaraderie. Instinctively, the four of us settled around the cocktail table, facing an imaginary fire.

  “Well,” said Frank, “at long last—we can all get to know each other.”

  Neil had mentioned earlier that the Geldens seemed eager to make our acquaintance, couple to couple, and now I felt glad to know them—we fell easily in sync, with a promising rapport. These optimistic thoughts were tainted, though, by the troubling circumstances that had prompted Neil and me to pull the Geldens aside that night.

  When I sensed a lull in our small talk, I got to the point, shifting from banter to business. With a soft laugh I observed, “There’s a certain topic we seem to be talking around tonight.”

  Frank nodded, tracing a finger around the rim of his glass. “Jason’s death has been here in the room with us all along—like a pink elephant lolling on your desk.”

  “And everyone was reluctant to mention it,” said Neil, setting his drink aside.

  Cynthia sipped her wine, then set her glass on the table near Neil’s. “I’m aware of the general situation, of course, but I’m not as close to it as any of you are. Forgive me if this question seems insensitive, but am I correct that the circumstances have led some to see Thad in a bad light?”

  Neil assured her, “The question isn’t at all insensitive, Cynthia. We’re beyond the point of denial—yes, there are some who suspect Thad of involvement in Jason’s death.” He summarized the “boy toy” incident at dress rehearsal, ending with Thad’s paraphrased threat from the script. “Now some people are wondering if Thad made good on his threat.”

  “But that’s ridiculous,” said Frank. “That’s just kids talking. I heard the threat, and Jason clearly provoked it. This is mere circumstance.”

  I cleared my throat. “Unfortunately, the circumstances got stickier this afternoon.” Frank and Cynthia exchanged an apprehensive glance. “Sheriff Pierce and I spoke to the coroner, who’d just completed his initial examination of the Thrush boy.”

  Though I did not intend to tantalize my listeners with this narrative, Frank had inched to the edge of his seat. “And…?”

  I paused. “And we may need your help.”

  Frank and Cynthia again exchanged a glance, but now they were simply confused. Frank turned to me, saying, “Of course, Mark, I’d do anything to help Thad. But how?”

  I told the Geldens what I’d learned: “Dr. Formhals has so far determined that Jason died of respiratory failure, which in turn was caused by something that severely complicated the symptoms of his cold. Formhals stressed that this is speculative, and it does not necessarily point to foul play, but he called it his ‘best theory.’ He thinks that Jason may have died from mushroom poisoning.”

  “Good Lord,” said Cynthia, reflexively raising a hand to her throat.

  Though visibly shaken, Frank tried to remain analytical. “Do you mean that the mushrooms themselves were lethal, or did they have a deadly effect because of Jason’s cold?”

  “The latter, I think, but I’m not sure. Formhals himself was just starting to piece this together. Jason’s stomach contents still need to be analyzed, and then they’ll run tests for specific toxins. It could take a while.”

  “And meanwhile,” said Frank, nodding his understanding, “suspicion could continue to mount against Thad.”

  Neil answered, “Exactly. We hardly need to tell you that Thad’s knowledge of mushrooms is fairly impressive.”

  “Very impressive,” Frank corrected him. “He’s an astute student and an avid enthusiast. That would normally be a high compliment, but under the circumstances…”

  “Which is why we’re turning to you, Frank,” I told him. “Hell, I don’t know a jot about mycology, but you’re an expert, and to be perfectly honest, we’re desperate to stay one step ahead of the coroner—and the sheriff.”

  “Say no more,” said Frank with a smile, raising his hands in a comforting gesture as he sat back in his chair. “As you can well imagine, you’ve piqued my interest—not only at a professional level, but at a very personal level. Cynthia and I are proud to count you and Neil as friends. If I can, I’d like to help you trash the coroner’s theory and put Thad in the clear.” Frowning, he added, “Come to think of it, this tends to cast suspicion on just about anyone in Fungus Amongus.”

  I had to laugh. “Sorry to say it, but I’ve always felt that mushrooming has some decidedly creepy overtones.”

  Neil smirked, shushing me, then turned to Frank. “Seriously, we appreciate your offer to help. It goes without saying that Mark and I are also proud to count you and Cynthia as friends.”

  Cynthia clutched Neil’s forearm. “And at the moment, you and Mark are ‘friends in need.’ Don’t worry. Soon, we’ll all look back and laugh at these developments.”

  Daring to feel a bit of optimism, I leaned forward in my chair, asking Frank, “Any initial reaction to the coroner’s theory?”

  “There are at least five thousand species of mushrooms growing in the United States. Of these, perhaps a hundred a
re poisonous, causing reactions that range from mere indigestion to death. Because the symptoms of mushroom poisoning can be easily confused with those of other illnesses, we don’t really know how many Americans die from mushrooms each year, but the number is probably in the range of a hundred to a thousand. Most victims are amateur hunters who should have spent more time studying their field guides.”

  I asked, “What about instances of actual murder by mushroom poisoning?”

  Frank shook his head. “Very rare. A would-be killer could never predict with certainty the effect of particular mushrooms on an intended victim. Poisonous mushrooms—‘toadstools’—would make a chancy murder weapon at best.”

  Neil reached for the cocktail he’d set aside and drank a goodly slug. He told us, “I feel better already.”

  Frank raised a hand in mild admonition. “Even though mushroom poisoning strikes me as unlikely, the coroner has called it his ‘best theory.’ He’s based that on something, some particular results of his examination that we simply aren’t privy to. Anyway”—he grinned—“I could use a refresher in Toadstool Pathology 101, so let me do a bit of research and pin down some facts. It may take me a day or two, but once I’m up to speed, let’s regroup and figure out what’s next.”

  On instinct, the four of us lifted our drinks and exchanged a silent toast.

  “I know,” said Cynthia, fingering the stem of her wineglass, “let’s do dinner at the house. We’ve been dying to get together with you two, and now we have the perfect excuse to entertain.”

  “Not that we need an ‘excuse,’ ” Frank added.

  “Actually,” Neil told Cynthia, “the timing works out perfectly. You and I ought to go over the final plans for your home office. I’m ready when you are.”

  Frank asked her, “What’s your schedule next week, hon?”

  “Same as last week—Tuesday through Friday, I’ll be in Green Bay. So Monday evening would be good.” She asked Frank, “Is two days enough time for your toadstool refresher?”

  He assured us, “I work best with a deadline.”

  “Mark?” Neil asked. “Shall we call it a date?”

  I smiled. “It’s a date.”

  Sunday, August 5

  WHEN NEIL AWOKE THE next morning and suggested that we go for a run together, I didn’t think twice about answering, “Sure, great idea.” Either the heat was letting up, or I was getting used to it. Though dawn was already an hour past, it was Sunday, so the house was still quiet when we left through the front door and took off at a trot down Prairie Street.

  Neil laughed, his voice blending with the chatter of birds and with the sound of our shoes on the pavement. He turned to me and said, “Even Barb was still in bed.”

  “How could you tell?”

  “She hadn’t made coffee—at least I couldn’t smell it. Deductive reasoning, pal.”

  “Actually, I believe that’s inductive.”

  “Oh.” He was normally a stickler for such distinctions, but it seemed he couldn’t care less about this one. I interpreted his nonchalance as a sign that he’d slept well, that he’d put aside, at least for now, the vexing developments of last week.

  “Barb should sleep all day,” I said. “She really knocked herself out last night—I don’t know when she finished cleaning up.”

  “I told her we’d all pitch in if she’d leave it till morning. Not her style, I guess.”

  “Good.” We laughed while turning the corner at Park Street, moving along our regular route. As usual, I simply enjoyed the sight of Neil at my side, and I let him pull a half pace ahead of me so I could get a better look. As usual, he wore nylon shorts; mine were cotton. Neither of us wore shirts.

  We soon left the street, following a steep, shady path that led us through a bank of trees at the park’s perimeter. As the path leveled off and we entered a clearing, I asked, “When did Roxanne go to bed?”

  “Didn’t notice. It must have been late. Why?”

  Running at a comfortable pace now, I told him, “Earlier in the evening, she mentioned again that she wanted to ‘talk’ to us. We planned to sit down after the party, but things got late, and I forgot about it.”

  “God”—Neil shook his head, an awkward feat while running—“I forgot too. There’s obviously something important on her mind. Hope she doesn’t think we’re neglecting her.”

  “I hope she doesn’t think Carl’s neglecting her, but that’s the impression she gave me yesterday at the office.”

  “Once we get back,” Neil said with resolve, “we’ll give her all the time she needs.”

  Our conversation lapsed as we entered the long middle portion of our run. I like to think of that phase of our workouts as “the cruise.” Between the warm-up and the cooldown, it’s the extended period of serious exercise, burning calories at a steady, elevated rate. The challenge at this stage is not performance, but endurance, and I’ve always marveled at the trancelike momentum of a runner’s “second wind,” which masks pain as pleasure.

  Neil understood this as well. He’d learned this secret of the cruise long before he knew me, and indeed, this common knowledge was one of the things that would bond us when we met. The first time we ran together, on a mountainside road near his home in Phoenix four Christmases ago (it seems like another life, on another planet), the rigors of running took on an erotic edge for both of us. That same morning, I first made love to a man. It was the morning when Neil truly entered my life, entered me, and changed the world as I knew it. No wonder, then, that our runs became an earthy ritual, a shared fetish that sometimes roiled our passions, sounding an overture to sex.

  On this August morning, though, my thoughts were more sublime than lusty. The man I loved was there at my side as we ran through a pristine world inhabited by us alone—a piney Eden shared only with benign little creatures, some furry, some feathered, but no snakes.

  “Rest?” asked Neil. We had looped three times through the park’s valley floor, logging some four miles. Ahead lay the lagoon. A pavilion near the water’s edge had a broad porch with benches where we often relaxed in summer or warmed ourselves in winter. A pair of ducks splashed near the bank of a tiny island, just big enough to ground a willow.

  I replied with a nod, and we veered from the path, slowing our pace to a jog, then a walk, as we approached the shelter. During our run, the bright day had grown hotter, and we were both now drenched with sweat. Having not worn shirts or carried towels, we had nothing we could use to blot ourselves, so we trudged up to the porch, dripping.

  Choosing the center bench, which faced a perfectly framed view of the lagoon and the leafy slopes of the hills beyond, we sat and rested. Despite the heat of the day, we had settled mere inches apart, and we instinctively touched knees. Flexing the muscles of my calf, I felt Neil do the same, and I thrilled at the grinding of his ankle against my sock—simple pleasures.

  I had not yet told him about my conversation with Kwynn at the party—that she had confirmed my fear that Thad was badly shaken by the mounting suspicion of his friends—but this serene moment was not the time to burden Neil.

  After a minute or two, our breathing eased. “So,” said Neil, “what did you think of the Geldens?” The question may have seemed out-of-the-blue, but in fact, the Geldens had crossed my own mind more than once that morning.

  “Cynthia’s not quite what I expected, but I do like her. And Frank’s great.”

  Neil squinted. “What did you expect? Cynthia, I mean.”

  “I’m not sure. Having just met Frank on Wednesday, I didn’t know him well enough to expect anything about his wife.” I hesitated. “But I thought she’d be prettier. And younger.”

  Neil mulled my words for a few seconds. “Cynthia’s intelligent, sophisticated, and really quite charming—she has plenty to offer.”

  “Absolutely,” I agreed at once. “Once I got to know her, I could see that.”

  Neil nodded. “But still, she’s not what you expected. Hmm. I met Cynthia first at my office,
then Frank a few meetings later. Now that you mention it, he wasn’t what I expected.”

  “You were pleasantly surprised?”

  Neil grinned. “And how.” He rubbed his leg suggestively against mine.

  Laughing, I patted his inner thigh, brushing his crotch with the edge of my hand. Aware that I was starting something we couldn’t finish, I removed my hand from his leg and languidly crossed my arms. “I will say this: they both seemed to take a genuine interest in Thad’s predicament.”

  “I told you before: they seem to have a genuine interest in us.”

  Considering this for a moment, I admitted, “I’d like to get to know them better too. It would…round us out.”

  Neil swung his face toward mine. “I beg your pardon.”

  “Think about it. Since our move to Dumont, by and large, the town has ‘accepted’ us. Sure, we’ve made friends, but most of them are either coworkers or gay—or both—which is fine. It wouldn’t hurt us, though, to count at least one straight, married, normal local couple among our social circle.”

  Neil snorted. “In other words, we could broaden our horizons.”

  I shrugged. “Precisely.”

  He ran a hand through my wet hair, flicking the sweat from his fingers. “We could all go to PTA meetings together.”

  I reminded him, “Not with the Geldens. They’re childless; until recently, so were we. They’re affluent and worldly; forgive my immodesty, but so are we. When you think about it, we’ve got quite a bit in common.”

  “You needn’t convince me. She’s a good client, he’s easy on the eyes, and they’re both decent people—a great couple, period. What’s more, they’ve taken the initiative to seek out our friendship. Why not reciprocate?”

  “No reason whatever. I’m looking forward to having dinner with them tomorrow night. We should bring something nice.”

  The two of us thought about this in silence, gazing at the lagoon. Then we looked each other in the eye, saying in unison, “Wine.” Not very original, perhaps, but we knew we could compensate for the predictability of our gift by liberating an unexpected, impressive vintage from our cellar.