“Got me?” he replied, shrugging his shoulders.
He threw down a lit match. The body went up in flames. The smell of burned hair made me sick.
Chi took hold of both my arms, pulled me close and kissed me on the lips.
“What the hell are you doing?” I shouted, pushing him away.
“Sorry…I’m sorry…I just get too excited,” he laughed nervously, letting go of me.
“Let’s get out of here,” I said.
We rushed back to the bus, jumped in and drove off.
“Maybe, we should go back and help Margaret Ann?” I asked.
“Nonsense…she’ll be just fine,” Chi grunted.
We turned onto the main highway.
“Sure, she’ll be scared stiff when she first wakes up; but she’ll probably dress and sneak off. Her husband will pay a few prominent higher-ups off to keep her name out of it…I gar-run-tee. Tonight…she’ll take a double dose of valium, sleep like a baby, and wake in the morning feeling right as rain and it’ll all be forgotten.
“I’ll tell you one thing, though; she’ll never cheat on her husband again…not even with you!” He broke into a belly laugh.
Later, I was to find out Chi’s prophecies had been right on the money. Government officials received large sums of money to look the other way during the investigation of Mr. Doug Anderson’s murder. Margaret Ann’s name was in no way, or at anytime, connected with the deceased.
Rumor was and confirmed (by reliable, but unidentifiable sources) Mr. Anderson had an expensive gambling habit and had run up a few large gambling depths in the last few years. The powers that be felt it best to make an example of a welcher such as Mr. Anderson, and collect in blood rather than in legal tender.
Of course, this was all a lie. Although it is the kind of lie newspapers like to write about and it is the kind of lie people like to read about and like to believe.
Rest assured the investigation file on the murder of Mr. Doug Anderson is rotting away in a folder, in a locked metal cabinet, in a police station somewhere in the bowels of darkest Canada.
On our return trip, we retraced the route from which we had come, minding not to stop at the same places – different gas stations, restaurants and motel.
The motel…now, that set an alarm off in my head.
Again, on entering the motel room, I discovered Chi had only asked for a large single bed. I didn’t say anything; but when it came time for sleep, I took one of the blankets, wrapped it around me and plopped down into one of the chairs.
“What are you doing?” Come to bed!” Chi said, sitting up in bed.
“I’m fine just where I am,” I replied.
“Oh, I get it. I see what this is all about,” laughed Chi, “It’s about me kissing you. I told you…I’m just excitable. I just had to kiss someone. I would have kissed a goat, if there had been one around.”
“Gee, thanks!”
“That’s not what I meant and you know it, I told you I just got caught up in the excitement; there was nothing behind it. Believe me. Now, come to bed.”
“That’s all right; I’m fine where I am.”
“You know, Alex, you think you’re so damn righteous, you judgmental son of a bitch! I opened up to you and told you stuff about me; about my past I’ve never told anyone else. We’ll I’m not a faggot! I did what I had to do, and I still do! We’re not so different; you and I…we both do what we have to do. Now, quit playing the saint and get in bed!”
I sighed, got up from my chair and slipped into bed. Chi reached over and turned off the light.
“We’re not so different from each other,” he whispered in the dark, “We both do what we have to do…only, I have the ability to do it with just about anybody and everybody…you’re the one with the limitations.
“If you want to talk about queer…you shouldn’t be so quick to point a finger…look at yourself…the only time you ever get it on is when you’re with a rich, old, married women. How queer it that?”
He had a point.
***
The rest of our journey back home was uneventful. In other words, Chi behaved himself the entire time. There was one small incident, though, which made me a trifle uneasy. It was when we reached the border and had to stop for customs. A border patrol officer came to the side of the car and motioned for Chi to lower his window.
“Do you have anything to declare…any fruits, vegetables, plants or animals?” he asked, “Any alcoholic beverages?”
“No, sir,” replied Chi.
The officer eyed us up and down, slowly, and carefully.
“So…how was it?”
“Huh…?” Chi sounded confused.
“How many of them did you get?”
“How many…?” Chi still sounded confused.
“Yeah…fish, man…how many fish?” asked the officer, pointing to the fishing rods (our unused fishing rods) in the back of our bus, to suggest what he was talking about.
“Oh…that!” laughed Chi, sounding relieved, “Oh, just one…we caught only one big one.”
“What kind was it?” There was excitement and enthusiasm in the officer’s voice.
“Oh…it was a…a flounder,” replied Chi, sounding a bit unsure.
“A flounder!” laughed the officer, “Quit kidding, what was it…a salmon…or a trout?”
“That’s it…it was a big old trout!” said Chi.
“Oh, man, I do love fresh trout,” the officer smiled, “How did you cook it…did you bake it or fry it?”
“We just put the fire to it till it turned nice and brown,” replied Chi.
“You know,” said the officer, shaking his head in harmony, “sometimes the simplest ways are the best.”
“I couldn’t agree with you more,” smiled Chi.
***
I’d like to say something at this point…and I say this with all sincerity.
I wish I could tell you the image of Margaret Ann lying on the floor of the cabin, covered with Doug’s blood and crying frantically, brings me to my knees. That tears well up in my eyes, and I fall down and beg for forgiveness.
I wish I could tell you whenever I hear the sizzle of food frying; it reminds me of Doug’s brains dripping down over the hot flaming logs of the fireplace. And that I bend over in pain and dry heave for hours – unable to eat anything.
I wish I could tell you the sounds of Doug Anderson pleading for his life, or the vision of the blood trail we made dragging Doug’s body through the snow haunts me to madness. But…I…just can’t!
To be honest, I seldom think about any of it. Even now, in this place where I have all the time in the world to think, it rarely enters my mind; and when it does, it moves me not.
Oh…now, I’ve disappointed you, again. Well…how do you think I feel?
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
“Not a creature was stirring – nothing”
Christmas Eve dinner at my parent’s home was not only a family tradition, but it had become compulsory. The last few years I kept my distance, and my visits with them were minimal. It was not that I no longer loved them; perhaps it was for the love of them I stayed in the shadows. They could never have understood or approved of the life I had chosen. Still, amidst it all, I did keep my promise and always spent the Twenty-Fourth of December with my parents.
Preparing for the occasion had become an interesting challenge. I had to choose what I wore to this get-together with care. I couldn’t wear any of my usual daily outfits; some of the suits I owned cost more than the monthly salaries of both my parents combined – this would be a cause for alarm on their part. If I down played it too much, and looked too poorly – this also would be a cause for concern by them.
It was the same with my selection of Christmas presents. If I bought them something too extravagant and expensive this would alarm them, but if I brought gifts that might hint I was hurting for money, it would fill them with concern. Alarm and concern…two emotions I did not want to stir up in my parents or any
thing else that tempted them to look into or become more involved in my life. I loved them, but I wanted them to remain at a distance.
They had long since moved into a large three-story brownstone on the east side. They did this with the expectation my grandparents would need assistance as they grew older; this never happened. Both my grandparents died before such measures became necessary. They died suddenly, painlessly, and within a year of each other.
***
I came storming through their front door with presents under my arm. My father greeted me with a hug. My mother was in the kitchen making her renowned coq au vin – true; not your normal yuletide fare, but it was her signature dish.
“Smells good,” I said as I entered the kitchen and kissed her.
I went into the living room to deposit my gifts. To my surprise, seated on the couch, drinking hot mulled wine, were Aunt Francine and her daughter, Sissy.
Aunt Francine was not my real aunt. She and my mother worked together from day one. She had been there all my life; and out of respect, I always called her Aunt Francine.
Her daughter, Sissy, was two or three years my junior; and like her mother, had always been there in my life. It was easier when we were both children. We played together, the closest of chums; but when we matured and became more aware of our sexuality, we grew apart.
It was no big secret that both women, my mother and Aunt Francine, always held the most ambitious of dreams; their children, that being Sissy and me, would someday start dating and eventually marry. They made this clear, all our lives.
“Let’s go into the parlor, and let the young folks spend some time,” one of them would say during these gatherings. This was embarrassing for Sissy and me; our faces flushed crimson red, but it never stopped those two.
Though Aunt Francine and her daughter attended many a dinner and family function with us over the years, they never received an invitation to Christmas Eve. I suspected my mother and her best friend were up to something; this was going to be uncomfortable.
After I placed the gifts in the corner, I made my respective greetings. I walked over to Aunt Francine and gave her my traditional kiss on the cheek.
“Aren’t you going to give Sissy a kiss hello?” Aunt Francine smiled, pointing to her daughter.
So, it was starting early. I smiled and nodded to Sissy. Poor dear was red in the face and noticeably uncomfortable. She saw a hint of sympathy in my eyes and smiled back.
“Please, excuse me, there’s something I need to ask my mother,” I said, backing out of the room.
In the kitchen, my mother was in her usual stance in front of the stove.
“Why didn’t you tell me Aunt Francine and Sissy would be here?” I whispered so they wouldn’t hear in the living room.
“Why? What does it matter? It was a last minute thing. I invited them; they came. What does it matter?”
“Because…” I searched my mind for a protest, “Because I didn’t bring a gift for either of them.”
“Don’t worry. I bought a gift for both of them and signed your name,”
“Mom…” I whined just like a small boy.
“Aunt Francine is a silk scarf, and Sissy is a pair of leather gloves…so you don’t look surprised.”
***
The seating at the dining room table was no surprise – my father at the head, my mother sat on his left nearest the kitchen, Aunt Francine to his right, Sissy next to her, and I next to Sissy. Though it seemed logical for Sissy and me to sit across from each other, they seated us next to each other. “This way the young people can talk.”
The entire meal, Aunt Francine went on and on about her daughters finer qualities and her achievements. She just graduated second in her class from some school and was now holding a degree in something to do with dentistry. I’m sorry about not relaying specifics, but I often drift off, mentally, during such dribble.
Sissy spent the entire time with her face pointed at the center of her plate; she was never able to look any of us in the eyes when her mother carried on in this manner – bragging on her.
Now folks – and I’m not saying this just to be nice – you know I would never do that. But I have to admit, after knowing Sissy all my life, the finished result, the now young adult version was a flawless, eye-catching, head-turning beauty. She was a dark, long-haired, vision of loveliness. Her shadowy hazel eyes twinkled in the dimmest of light, and blazed like fire in full brightness. Her face was angelic with a small mouth that had pursed cherry lips. Her stature was small, her body slim and willowy, with round protruding breasts, her tiny waistline emphasized. She wore the simplest of black dresses with a large belt around her waist. She sat next to me in all her shyness and youthful loveliness, like a princess from a fairytale, the quintessence of any young man’s sexual fantasies – and she stirred me not.
I couldn’t understand why I felt no arousal; it bothered me – very much and deeply.
Then, after dinner, those expected and dreaded words were uttered, “Let’s go into the parlor, and let the young folks visit.” Next moment, Sissy and I found ourselves alone.
“Does that infuriate you as much as it does me?” asked Sissy, turning in her seat to face me.
“What’s that?”
“The shameless way our parents have been throwing us at each other since we were little.”
“Oh, that! Yes, it does,” I answered, laughing. I was glad she said that, it made me feel at ease with her.
“I must admit, though,” she added, “When we were younger, I did have a crush on you.”
“Probably, it was around the same time I was having a crush on you,” I confessed, “and you weren’t half as pretty as you are now.”
“You turned out pretty good yourself,” she smiled, “You know, if it were up to our mothers, we would have been married long ago. Marriage…not for me…at least not now…I’ve got my career.”
“That’s the truth,” I agreed.
For the next half hour we talked. I asked her about her plans and tried to be considerate and appear interested. She asked about my artwork. Maybe, she was doing the same with me, trying to look interested. Whatever, it was not uncomfortable; and that was important to both of us, and it did pass the time.
***
“We need the tree,” my mother said, protruding only her head into the dining room. “Do you know where it is?”
“Of course I do, where it’s been for the past ten years,” I said.
“Well, could you go get it, and let Sissy help you?”
“I don’t need any help; I can get it by myself.”
“It takes two; let Sissy help you,” she ordered; her head disappeared back into the parlor.
It was an old Defy family tradition to have a Christmas Eve get-together, and after diner put up the Christmas tree just in time for Christmas. When I was young and the grandparents were still alive, we made quite a Ta-do about it. We’d go buy a real tree, drag it home, and spent hours decorating it. But now, the old folks were gone, I’d grown older, and much of the magic had vanished. We resorted to a small aluminum tree with twinkling lights, which we keep in a box down in the basement the other three hundred and sixty something days each year.
The basement was dank and dark with just one swinging light bulb overhead.
“You know, you didn’t have to come down here with me, if you didn’t want to,” I told Sissy. “Ah…here it is,” I said, taking hold of the slender box containing the aluminum tree.
“But I wanted to,” Sissy said in a low voice. “Alex, that crush I had on you when I was little hasn’t fully worn off.” She took hold of my arm.
Next thing I knew, I dropped the aluminum tree, she was in my arms and we were kissing.
She lifted herself on top of an old steamer trunk, spread her legs apart and pulled me in close. Our hands were all over each other. I suddenly became aware of how strange it felt.
What is so strange? I questioned myself. Her body felt out of the ordinary to me.
<
br /> Her skin was soft, yet tight, smooth and elastic. There was a natural firmness to her breast. It was all very different from what I was used to; and a realization came over me…I didn’t particularly like it. I knew I should have been in a young-man’s sexual bliss, but I was remarkably uncomfortable.
She reached down and slowly hiked up her skirt. I looked down to see her young firm white thighs; above I could see her panties – a pair of pink panties with an inscription on the side, which read, “Tuesday”.
My attention shifted to my own body – nothing was happening. I understood at that moment I had turned that corner! Chi was right…I only could get it on with rich, old, married women – and it scared me.
I backed off and scooped up the aluminum tree. “They’ll be wondering what happened to us. We better go back upstairs.” I started up the flight of steps.
“Oh, Alex…!” I heard her moan out in frustration.
I spent the next hour or so avoiding Sissy the best I could. At nine o’clock, I announced I had to be going. I said my good-byes to all; I hugged my father, kissed my mother, and kissed Aunt Francine. When it came to Sissy, I took her hand and kissed her on the cheek. She boldly took hold of me and gave me a good-bye hug. As she did, I could feel her slip something into my hand. She whispered in my ear, “Call me.”
I stood for a moment outside my parent’s home; and I felt tempted to toss the slip of paper away. I knew what it was; it was her phone number. Then I thought, if she were looking at me from the window she would see. I slipped the paper in my pocket; I would throw it away when I got home.
When I arrived at my studio, I checked with my answering service – there was only one message. It was from the wife of a wealthy uptown dentist.
“Harry drank to much punch; he passed out. Mind if I come over…call me.”
I dialed her number, “Sure you can come over. See you in an hour.”
As I waited in the dark for what’s-her-name to arrive, I poured myself a drink and wondered. An hour earlier, I had been kissing a beautiful woman my own age and I felt nothing. In an hour, I would be kissing a married woman a little more than twice my age and already I felt excited – and that scared me.
Memoirs of a Gigolo Page 17
