The others laughed, Cynthia the most heartily. “I know where you’re coming from, Mark. Before I married Frank, my idea of harvesting mushrooms was limited to the challenge of prying Saran Wrap off the package. I wonder why people get so ‘funny’ about wild mushrooms.”
Neil answered bluntly, “Fear of an agonizing death.”
“Oh, sure, that,” said Frank with comic nonchalance, dismissing the issue with a flick of his hand. Then he put down his fork. “Seriously, mycophobia is a typically English trait that seems to have been inherited by America and dispersed through the melting pot. There’s really nothing to fear, though. Any well-trained mushroom hunter knows enough basic mycology to distinguish between edible and poisonous mushrooms—and he knows never to gamble when he’s not sure. The basic tool is a good field guide. Beyond that, spore tests provide the most reliable method of identification. Sometimes, the spore color can be identified by the use of light and dark papers used as contrasting backgrounds; other times, a microscope is required.”
I was tempted to ask, Why bother? Don’t pick mushrooms; buy them.
Frank continued, “Fear of mushrooms seems to be giving way to a wave of interest, with mushroom clubs popping up everywhere now. Fungus Amongus, Thad’s club at Central High, is a good example; its membership has risen steadily every year I’ve served as adviser. We try to combine rigorous textbook training with the fun of the hunt, and the kids love it. What’s more, we add practical lessons by outside lecturers.”
Cynthia said, “Like Nancy, right?”
“Sure, Nancy Sanderson, owner of First Avenue Grill.” Frank turned to us. “You know her, don’t you, guys?”
“We’re there all the time,” said Neil.
I asked, “What does Nancy teach the club?”
Cynthia said, “Recipes, of course—what else? In fact, Nancy and I have exchanged any number of mushroom recipes over the years. She’s a great gal.”
Frank clarified, “Nancy doesn’t exactly use her time at the club to swap recipes. She visits once each year to lecture on the do’s and don’ts of cooking with local wild mushrooms. She’s very thorough. Passionate too.”
Tentatively, I asked, “Does she cover bad mushrooms as well as edible ones?”
“Certainly, that’s an essential part of the drill. I’ll be the first to concede, though, that mushrooming wasn’t always so ‘scientific’ as it is today. Much of what used to pass as knowledge was essentially folklore. I remember when I was little, my grandfather thought his testing method was state-of-the-art. Get this: he kept an old silver dollar to throw into the pot whenever he boiled mushrooms.”
“Huh?” asked Neil and I.
“Whatever for?” asked Cynthia, turning to face Frank.
“If the silver tarnished, the mushrooms were exposed as toadstools and thrown out.”
We all chuckled at this, but Cynthia stopped short, telling Frank, “That makes a certain amount of sense though. If your grandfather’s coin tarnished, it was probably due to an interaction between the silver and hydrogen cyanide or sulfide, which are components of many mushroom toxins.”
How, I wondered, did Cynthia know that? I understood that she’d learned mushrooming from Frank, but her grasp of these particulars of chemistry struck me as beyond the realm of a mere enthusiast.
“Yes,” Frank was saying, “but the test wasn’t foolproof. Silver can react that way with some good mushrooms as well as many bad ones; conversely, some deadly mushrooms would produce no chemical interaction with silver.”
“True,” said Cynthia, nodding, “but still, the test had some scientific basis.”
“Excuse me,” I said, intruding on their academic discourse, “but I have to tell you, Cynthia, I’m impressed. You knew nothing about mushrooms when you met Frank, and now you’re talking like Mr. Wizard.”
“But, Mark,” she said, breaking into laughter, “I’m a molecular biologist.”
Neil asked, “You are?”
Then Cynthia and Frank leaned together. Wagging their heads in unison, they singsonged, “Birds of a feather!” The routine looked well practiced.
Neil said, “I thought you worked for a cell-phone company.”
“Neil!” she scolded through a laugh. “BayCell Industries is a biotech company. We develop bioengineering and DNA technologies that have many applications in industry. You thought I sold phones?”
Neil echoed her laughter. “God, Cynthia, I’m sorry. I guess we never discussed your work.”
Frank explained, “That’s what brought us together. Not quite nine years ago, I put a call in to BayCell, asking if they could provide a guest lecturer to discuss some of the practical applications of molecular biology. They sent Cynthia to visit my class at Woodlands.”
She looked at him with goo-goo eyes, a fawning smile.
“And the rest,” she told us, “is history.”
Tuesday, August 7
SOMETIME AFTER MIDNIGHT, CLOSER to one, Neil and I arrived home, switched out a few lights that had been left on, and climbed the stairs together.
Our evening with the Geldens had been thoroughly enjoyable. We’d lingered for hours at the table—through the mushroom course, the meat course, the salad, dessert, then coffee. The meal was splendid, conversation nonstop, laughter frequent. I was glad they had invited us; not only did Neil and I discover strong potential for our future friendship with them, but I’d gleaned some immediate rewards as well.
I now knew, for instance, that if Jason Thrush had been poisoned by mushrooms, the fatal fungus was most likely fly agaric. I also knew that any student member of Fungus Amongus would have sufficient knowledge to harvest the fly agaric and put it to use—including Tommy Morales, who resented the victim’s affluence and coveted his role in a small-town theatrical production. What’s more, I’d learned that restaurateur Nancy Sanderson, who apparently harbored animosity toward the victim, was considered an expert in the do’s and don’ts of preparing local wild mushrooms for consumption. And on a different note entirely, I’d figured out that Neil’s cryptic promise of a fantasy masseur had been inspired by Frank Gelden’s hobby of pleasuring his wife.
These were all, in a sense, promising developments, but they could not outweigh my mounting concern for Thad. In the three days since Jason’s death, my nephew had come under heavy suspicion, and his friend Kwynn had clued me that my fears were well-founded: though Thad was still attempting to maintain a facade of indifference, the speculation and gossip of his peers had clearly gotten to him. The possibility of severe emotional damage seemed very real. Even worse, I now had to wonder if there was any possibility that Thad might face arrest. There was nothing imaginary about the tide that was turning against him. The ugly, prank phone call was proof enough for me, and the attack by a vengeful gang of jock thugs was proof enough for Thad—he was in a real predicament. This mess was not simply going to “go away,” and in fact, it was getting worse.
On top of everything else, there was the stash of fly agaric I’d spotted in his bedroom. Surely there was an innocent explanation—a class project, no doubt. Surely the hidden jar of poisonous mushrooms was not what it implied.
Though it was late, and though a busy day awaited me at the Register, I had more than enough on my mind to keep me up and thinking for a few hours.
“All in all,” said Neil as we reached the top of the stairs, “I’d say the evening was a total success.”
Stepping from the hall into our bedroom, I forced myself to dismiss my vexations and told him, “Any evening I spend with you is a total success. What more do I need?”
“God, you’re full of it.” He laughed softly, closing the door. Stepping near, he gave me a hug and a kiss—a friendly kiss, nothing passionate.
“In terms of your architectural practice, the evening was decidedly successful. Cynthia bought your plans, right?”
“Hook, line, and sinker. The design phase is complete, and she gave me the go-ahead to send the project out for bids.”
&n
bsp; “Must be exciting for you.”
“Every project is, but this one in particular. The pavilion has—what?—sort of a fantasy element about it. Clients like Cynthia, who are open to such expressive design, don’t come along every day.”
I sat on the bed to remove my shoes. “Speaking of fantasy, I became suddenly aware this evening of what inspired your promised payback.”
Coyly, he asked, “Are you referring to my debt of honor?”
“I am. ‘Fantasy masseur,’ indeed. It seems you’ve had Frank on your mind.”
“I’ll say,” he confessed without shame.
“I have to admit, he gives a certain kind of guy—guys like us—plenty to think about.” I stood, removing my shirt. With a laugh, I told Neil, “In fact, at one point tonight, I was convinced that Frank was my fantasy masseur, that you’d somehow managed to deliver him as your surprise payback.”
“Mark,” said Neil with a loud laugh, flabbergasted. “That’s nuts.”
“Well,” I said lamely, “all the pieces seemed to fall into place.” As Neil was still laughing, and it was late, I shushed him.
“No one can hear,” he reminded me. “Thad’s room is across the hall, at the back of the house, and Barb is in her quarters behind the kitchen. We can hoot and holler all night.” He slipped out of his loafers, bent, and picked them up.
“Maybe you can,” I told him, heading for the dressing room (more precisely, a large closet), “but I’ve got a long day tomorrow.”
“Party pooper,” he pouted.
Our banter continued, none of it important, as we prepared for bed. We yakked in the closet, yakked in the bathroom, yakked as we passed each other, setting out clothes for the morning. Our backchat petered out as I made a last visit to the bath, needing to pick something from my teeth that I’d missed while brushing. Neil was in the dressing room, rattling hangers, sliding drawers.
Standing at the sink in a comfortable old pair of linen lounge shorts (I have always worn something—shorts, robe, whatever—during the transitions between daytime dress and bedtime nudity and back again), I watched the offending gray fleck of gristle swirl down the drain. Finally, I switched off the light and returned to the bedroom.
Neil was still fussing in the closet, so I checked the clock radio’s alarm and, finding it properly set, switched off the lamps, except the one on my nightstand. Stepping out of my shorts, I tossed them onto a nearby chair, then lay on the bed. With arms crossed behind my head, I watched the shadows cast by Neil in the dressing room, and I waited.
After a few moments of dead silence, Neil appeared in the doorway, and contrary to my assumption, he was not ready for bed. Softly, he said, “Surprise.”
Backlit by the closet’s yellow glow, he wore all white—a tight T-shirt that showed every gym-honed feature of his torso, a crisp pair of pleated tennis shorts with cuffs that hugged his upper thighs, ribbed cotton crew socks folded down to his ankles, and a spotless pair of all-white leather low-tops, fresh from the box. He knew my every little fetish, and there he stood, punching buttons even I had forgotten. With a smallish workout towel slung around his neck, he looked like a tennis pro heading out for a match. No, more precisely, he looked like a masseur—an erotic, hunky fantasy of a masseur—arriving for duty at my bedside.
“Payback time?” I asked with a grin.
Smiling, he nodded, once.
“Right here?” I meant the bed. I was ready to roll over.
Still smiling, he gently shook his head.
Okay, I got it—he wasn’t going to speak. “Where, then?”
He turned, switched off the closet light, and moved across the room, where he opened one of the doors leading to the sunporch. He come-hithered with a tilt of his head.
The sight of him, the anticipation of what was to follow, had already aroused me, and he smiled at the sight of it as I rose from the bed, turned off the last lamp, and crossed the room to the sunporch. He stepped aside so I could enter first, then followed, closing the door behind us.
The scene was set. Earlier that day, I don’t know when, he had carefully arranged everything for this dreamlike encounter. The low bench in front of the sofa would serve as his massage table; its cushions were draped and tucked with a smooth white sheet, devoid of the slightest crease or wrinkle. Several rolled white towels would serve as pillows and props, as needed. A stack of huge, folded, white bath towels also stood at the ready, for later. On a little table near the bench, a tray held an assortment of oils and lotions. Had I staged this event, I would doubtless have added music and candles, but Neil had conspicuously nixed these elements, preferring the simple serenity of night. Warm air drifted through the outside wall of screens, as did an oblique shaft of cool moonlight, casting tree-dappled shadows on the white-sheeted bench. I would like to think that this last detail had also been planned by Neil, almanac in hand, but in all likelihood, this bit of astronomical mood-lighting was the product of happy happenstance.
The total effect left me momentarily breathless, and I paused to kiss Neil before we began. With his face in my hands, I touched my lips to his mouth. He returned the kiss tenderly, but again there was no passion in it—he knew that if we opened the door to lovemaking just then, his long-plotted plan would be scuttled by quick rapture. Stepping back from me, he gestured that I should lie down.
Stepping to the bench, I asked, “Face up or down first?”
He pointed down.
And I complied. It was a little awkward getting settled, as I rarely lie flat on my stomach, but Neil waited silently as I adjusted myself, the most crucial adjustment being the position of my nearly erect penis—it ended up pointing down between my legs, not up against my belly. With that conundrum solved, he took one of the rolled towels and positioned it under my head, facing me toward the screens, where I could see the moonlit lawn under a black sky, but sideways.
I also saw Neil’s legs as he stepped to the side table, where his tray of unguents awaited. I heard the gentle pop of a bottle’s plastic cap. He squeezed a small puddle of oil into one palm, then rubbed his hands together for several long seconds, distributing and warming the oil. Stepping back to my head, he faced my body lengthwise.
He spread his feet slightly, and I saw one foot at the corner of my vision. I saw the shoe he’d bought to please me, the exacting crisscross of its laces. I saw his shin, the muscled calf behind it, and the sparse, silky nap of hair that shone silver in the bluish light.
Then I felt his touch as he leaned and placed his fingertips on my neck behind my ears. He began slowly, moving his fingers in tiny circles that barely touched my skin. While doing this, he bent close and blew his warm, soft breath into my hair. His lips grazed the stubble of my neck; the tip of his nose slid between my shoulders; then he lifted his head.
The circles traced by his fingers now grew wider, till his hands had worked their way down my neck, under my chin. With both hands at my throat, he lifted my head from its nest and gently flexed it. My head seemed to bob on a placid sea. The trees beyond the screen swung lazily, as if suspended from a slow pendulum, till my head was again set to rest on its makeshift pillow. The trees stopped swinging. The tensions of the previous week—something to do with mushrooms?—ebbed from my muscles and my mind. My eyes stared blankly at the backyard.
Neil moved around me to pour more oil on his hands, which he again spread and warmed between his palms before returning to my head. Standing wider now (I saw the angle of one leg), he touched my shoulders, then slid his palms down my spine, working the oil across my entire back. For a moment, the wetness of my skin felt cold, but it was soon warmed by the friction of Neil’s hands, kneading my back with long, forceful, steady strokes.
This could go on forever, I thought, and indeed, it seemed to. Neil was breathing harder, and I could tell he was starting to sweat—his pores projected the scent of Vétiver, which hung over my head like a mist. The pungent smell, the sliding pressure on my back, my lover’s touch, the dreamy view of trees and moo
nlight, all converged to lull me into a dreamlike state, a waking trance. Time stopped. My life could be measured only in terms of the sensations that enveloped my body.
I wasn’t even aware that Neil had moved around to my side, the side away from my outdoor view. His foot had left the corner of my vision, though, and the sound of his breathing no longer came from overhead. He was working his way down my back, past my buttocks, toward my legs. Another pause allowed him to replenish the oil in his hands, then he began working a thigh with long, brisk strokes toward my knee. He repeated this routine on my other leg, continuing with the calf, toward my foot. He switched legs again, and when both had been fully oiled and pampered, he focused his soothing toil on my feet. Each toe received his attention, followed by a brisk stimulation of the soles. I may have moaned. I felt drool moisten the towel under my head.
One at a time, he lifted each of my legs, resting a foot on his shoulder so he could massage each shin, stopping at the knee. Then he finished off my legs with long strokes, working back up to my hips. During our travels together, we had frequently indulged in spa treatments when visiting better hotels, and so far, Neil was doing a credible job of re-creating the mood and movements of a professional massage. At this point, however, his performance took a distinctive turn.
With both hands, he began to rock my hips slowly, inching upward to the mounds of my buttocks. This continued uninterrupted for some time, and I felt a woozy smile twist my mouth as I vacantly watched the tranquil scene beyond the wall of screens. With his thumbs, he kneaded each cheek more forcefully, circling nearer the crack. As his oiled fingers neared their target, my penis (which had relaxed with the rest of me) became suddenly alert, growing hot between my legs. Neil had apparently been watching for this sign, for I instantly felt a warm, slippery finger trace the length of my penis—or was I feeling the tip of his tongue? I could not see his movements, only the scene outdoors, which grew steadily more surreal.
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