Where Do I Start?

by Chase Taylor Hackett

  The dog came tearing into the kitchen—it was breakfast time for him.

  “Hey, Hags—remember me?” I said, waving my bandaged hand as he bolted past me on the way to the bowl. “I’m the one whose blood is still drying on your little black lips, you heartless man-eater.” He was only interested in kibble.

  Roger hung the leash up on a hook.

  “Hey, I borrowed some clothes—hope you don’t mind.”

  “No—” Roger stopped as he saw what I was wearing, and what I wasn’t. “No, on you they look…”

  “Yeah, don’t they, though.”

  “Maybe you don’t want to go out like that?”

  “Promise.” I watched the dog crunching his food. “I thought after they’d tasted human blood, they never went back.”

  “I think that’s tigers, not terriers.”

  “Oh. I was thinking about fixing us breakfast.”

  “Don’t—you’ll pull a stitch or something. Hey, I know—” He opened the freezer and pulled out a box of toaster waffles. “Ta-da!” he sang, triumphant.

  “You are clearly the most brilliant person who ever walked the face of the earth,” I said.

  “I try.”

  “And so damned cute.” I let my good hand brush across his ass as he turned around.

  “Hey!”

  “Sorry. Accident.”

  “Just watch it. Don’t start getting all boyfriendy.”

  I raised my hands in surrender and turned back to making breakfast.

  “Toaster waffles. Julia Child—stand back. Pull up a stool, Dweeb, and I will work my one-handed magic.”

  I had seen maple syrup in the fridge, so I knew we were good. Roger pulled his tablet out, sat at the counter, and read the Times online while I made more coffee, pulled out plates and butter, and waited on the wonder-waffles. Spreading cold butter with one hand, however, turned out to be a lot trickier than it looked. Roger wanted to take over, but I insisted I would do it. In the end he held the waffles with his left hand while I put some butter on each with my right, all of which involved us being really close, lots of contact, and it was funny, so there was lots of laughing too. If Jeff had walked in at just that moment, it would have looked far more incriminating than when we were in the bedroom in our underwear, and this time it was exactly what it looked like. Two guys being totally boyfriendy.

  Roger read to me what was interesting online, and he showed me funny stuff on Facebook, jokes that started with things like “This quarter note walks into a bar….” It was easy to feel we had magically turned the clock back and the last two dreadful years hadn’t happened, nothing had ever come between us, and no one had ever been hurt. He even helped me put the socks on, occasionally looking up at me with those melted-dark-chocolate eyes.

  It was a beautiful morning. October sunlight streamed in through the yellow leaves of the tree out front and onto the living room floor. Roger practiced while I flopped on the couch and pretended to read the book I’d taken to the emergency room, but mostly I just listened to Roger, watched Roger. We talked a bit about the dog, about Trevor, about ushering (it was Sunday, and I was scheduled for the matinee but had e-mailed in sick).

  “Hey, Roger,” I asked. He was studying a score on the kitchen counter while I continued to recuperate on the couch.

  “Yeah?”

  “You really enjoy teaching Trevor, don’t you?”

  “I do.”

  “People can earn a living teaching lessons, can’t they?”

  “Yeah, some do. It’s not a lot of money. But teaching is an important part of music. Everybody teaches.”

  “Have you thought about it?”

  “Course. And since Trevor, especially.”

  “You hate being a lawyer.”

  “I don’t hate it. But I don’t love it either. Katrina really likes it. My dad loves it. I’m never going to love it.”

  “So?”

  “So why not teach? To teach in a school, I’d probably have to go back and pick up at least some education credits. Maybe even a master’s, I don’t know.”

  “Oh.”

  I went back to my book for a second, but I’d rather talk to Roger.

  So we talked about music, or mostly Roger talked and I let him talk. When he lagged, I poked him with another question (“so explain to me about Beethoven”), but mostly he went on without any help. He talked about his new passion for everything by some French guy named Ravel and how the guy only wrote one quartet and Katrina hated it. About a critic at The Times who pissed him off regularly. He played me a live recording he had from the fifties where you could actually hear the conductor yelling at the orchestra and how amazing and passionate that was. How he’d rather hear a college quartet play with enthusiasm and mistakes than an older group (I won’t mention any names) who play like robots.

  I don’t have the words to tell you how awesome it was to hear him talk like this. Happy about something. I was pretty sure he didn’t share this stuff with Jeff. His eyes shone with excitement. I was sitting up now, chatting over the back of the couch with him. It was just as well that we had the back of the couch between us because the urge to pick him up and throw him on the bed was starting to talk seriously and I was starting to listen, and to hell with Dr. Scruff and his common sense.

  It was at that point, we heard a key in the door. Jeff.

  Man-oh-man-oh-man, did I hate that guy.

  I flopped back on the couch, feet up, facing the door, totally disgusted.

  Jeff let himself in.

  “Hey baby—” He stopped when saw me on the couch. I grinned and gave the shithead a cute little finger wave with my good hand. “Fuckaduck. What’s he doing here?”

  “Me? I spent the night.” I smiled at Jeff and adjusted one or two things in my sweatpants. Did I mention how obscene those things were?

  “First of all, Jeffrey,” Roger began icily, “I’m not even sure why I have to explain this, but I will invite whomever I want into my apartment, and I will give keys to whomever I want. Understood?”

  “Okay, baby, I get it. I crossed a foul line. My bad. I’m sorry.”

  “And don’t call me baby.”

  “I thought you—”

  “No, I never did.”

  “Sorry.”

  “And don’t even try to apologize to me until you apologize to Fletch.”

  “No need,” I said, intervening. “Jeff and I know exactly where we stand with each other, don’t we, Jeff? It’s totally cool.” I could afford to be generous, and I was already having too much fun watching them fight.

  Jeff’s days were clearly numbered. And it was a really low number.

  “And another thing, Jeffrey,” said Roger, “America’s most-wanted criminal here earned his place on the couch. Show him your hand, Fletch.”

  I held up my bandaged hand and stuck my lower lip out like a five-year-old.

  “Caught in someone’s zipper?”

  “Haggis bit me.”

  “Good dog!”

  “A huge cat attacked Haggis—” Roger explained.

  “And this cat is like straight from The Island of Dr. Moreau.”

  “Don’t tell me you’ve read a book, Fletch.”

  “I have! Wanna see my library card?” I tucked my thumb in the waistband of the sweatpants.

  He sneered and turned away.

  Hypocrite.

  “Both of you, chill.”

  “Chill?” I asked. Roger said, “Chill?”

  “Fletch, don’t even. And Jeffrey, yes he reads, and when was the last time you read something that wasn’t a brief? Just so you know, Dr. Moreau’s cat attacked my dog, and Fletch broke them up, but he got all scratched up by the cat, and Haggis bit him really badly. I didn’t even count how many stitches are in there. And better his left hand than mine,” Roger said, wi
ggling his long, elegant fingers.

  “I risked my life for that hand,” I said.

  “Well, if you spent the night on that couch, I suppose you have my sympathies.”

  “Who said I slept on the couch?” You didn’t think I was going to pass that up, did you? “Oh, but you have! Interesting!”

  Jeff made a sudden move to the couch, and I was immediately on my feet. Only one good hand, but I so didn’t care.

  “Go ahead, Jeff. Please. You spineless, nutless—”

  Jeff was shouting something similar, but I wasn’t really listening.

  “Okay, that’s enough!” Roger yelled. “Have you guys totally lost your minds?! Fletch. Go get some clothes on. Time to go.” Roger stood there for a second. Was he shaking?

  “Hey, Dweeb,” I said quietly and moved toward him, but he stopped me with one hand held up.

  “Get dressed.”

  “Okay,” I said. I wasn’t going to push anything. “I should go anyway, check to see if that cat’s okay. It will be really hard to explain later—‘No, really, I’m sure he only had one ear when you left!’”

  Roger smiled.

  “It would serve him right, though.”

  Good. Roger needed to smile.

  And he needed to think about me a little before he faced off with Jeffrey.

  It was time for the ultimate weapon.

  I yawned.

  I stretched slowly in front of Roger. I let Jeff watch, too, I wasn’t going to begrudge him. I reached both arms up and out to the sides and arched my back, in the certain knowledge that this tiny t-shirt would give a generous view of some abdominals, the belly button. And I turned around. The back side was as good as the front, with a little bit of butt cleavage.

  Think about that, I thought, before you jump into an afternoon of makeup sex with Mr. Oh-So-Very-Wrong—who was now staring at my crotch. You wish, dick brain.

  “Just give me a second to get dressed, boys,” I said, excusing myself to the bedroom.

  “For God’s sake, you too, Jeff.” I could hear them through the bedroom door I didn’t bother to close as I peeled out of the sweatpants.

  “Did you really sleep with him last night?” asked Jeff.

  “No! He passed out from all the drugs he got in the emergency room. I got the couch—which, as you know, means I haven’t slept at all, which is why you need to go.”

  “Roger, I think we should talk,” said Jeff.

  “Isn’t there a football game or something?”

  “This is more important. You’re more important.”

  Roger sighed.

  “You really want to do this right now?”

  “I think we should.”

  There was a long silence.

  “Fine,” Roger said finally.

  I considered trying to pull my boxers back on one-handed and decided the jeans were going to be hard enough, and they were. Trying to button the fly, however, defeated me. One-handed wasn’t quite working, so I used my left hand as much as I could—which wasn’t much before it started throbbing. I got three and bailed. My shirttail would have to keep me and the dark blond curls from getting arrested on the D train.

  When I got back to the living room, Bornic was still standing, staring at the floor. Roger was flipping through a score. Neither looked at me.

  “Dweeb, call me if you want?” Roger nodded. “And thanks again for taking care of me. See you ’roun’, Jeff,” I said all super friendly.

  I grabbed my library book. I soooooooo wanted to kiss Roger good-bye and not just to be an asshole to Jeff. That would have just been a bonus.

  But I restrained myself.

  Chapter 35

  Lunch with Father

  Roger

  It happens on the last Monday of every month, although it tends to get lost during the holidays, so this, the October lunch, was probably the last one of the year.

  I sort of dread these things, but I should be fair, and tell you that there’s a lot I like about my dad. My mom too.

  My mom figured out I was gay when I was about sixteen. No, that’s not quite right. I’m not sure when she figured it out, but I was sixteen when she shared her conclusion with me. I just nodded in agreement.

  Of course Tommy had already broken the ice.

  Tommy and I had always been friends. Really, I can’t remember a time before Tommy. His family lived nearby, and Tommy and I are actually second cousins on my father’s side (Tommy’s mother is a Prescott).

  Tommy was always my best friend, and Tommy was always Tommy. He was always exactly as he is. He was a fabulous four-year-old. In third grade, he was talking about cute boys. He used to use his birthday money to buy Barbie clothes. For his G.I. Joe.

  And it never occurred to him that I might not be interested in cute boys. He just assumed that I was as interested in boys as he was.

  For the longest time I didn’t know what to think. I mean, compared to Tommy, I was a goddamned lumberjack, so I was always a little confused. I was pretty sure I wasn’t like the other boys, but I also knew I wasn’t quite like Tommy either.

  So yeah, I was interested in cute boys, but I was never as interested in boys as Tommy. But seriously, was anyone? Ever?

  In the end, though, when my mother just sort of put it to me—sweetly and sensitively—as a statement of fact, with only the tiniest hint of a question mark in her voice, I had to admit—she and Tommy were right.

  My dad didn’t flip out. (Let’s face it; lots of parents do. Tommy’s dad, a doctor, didn’t flip out; he was just quietly a total dick about it, until the dick finally ran off with his nurse. Whole other story.)

  My dad, the lawyer, treated it like a case. When he learned his son was gay, he did what he always does with a new case.

  Research.

  I’m sure his secretary and probably a paralegal were pulling books and articles for him. I bet he dictated memos with detailed outlines and at least three levels of numbered subparagraphs, full of thoughtful analysis.

  A family trait that I believe was passed down to us through the generations from our puritan ancestors: We might talk about someone or something, but we never actually talk directly to the person involved. That sort of thing isn’t done.

  I had inherited this trait, too, apparently, which explains why I’d never asked Fletch about his past. We don’t pry.

  My father couldn’t talk with me about my being a gay teen because that would be intrusive and embarrassing; it would be rude. But he could go to a parents-of-gay-teens meeting. I swear to God. How do I know this? My mother told me.

  That’s how we communicate in my family: rumors.

  My mother’s reaction was completely different. I was in my room one morning—it was summer—practicing and moping, exactly like every other summer morning when I wasn’t at Interlochen (orchestra camp, where I first discovered chamber music) or Kinhaven (chamber music camp, where I first discovered a couple of other things)—when my mom came in, made me put the violin down, and pulled me out to the car while I whinged, and we drove into the city.

  First stop, Dr. Feldman, a dermatologist. Holy crap, there was actually something you could do about acne? Who knew!

  It was going to be a day of revelations.

  Second stop, Le Salon Lilo, a hideously chichi hair salon in pink, where Miles, the big oh-so-very-gay guy who did my mother’s hair, plucked at the huge mass of curls on my head—it was a ridiculous shapeless blob, but I didn’t have a clue what to do. He pulled it here, pushed it there, looked at me in the mirror, looked at my mother in the mirror, told her it was under control, and he shooed her out beyond the curtains.

  The second miracle of the day—it was possible to shoo my mother. Miles was easily the most effeminate man I had ever seen, which, considering my best friend was Tommy Radford, was really saying something; but that day I re
alized—Miles was also the bravest.

  And Miles cut my hair, leaving this big poodle thing of curls on my forehead, and that’s how it’s been pretty much ever since.

  After the salon, Bloomingdales and then a handful of little shops all over. She bought me a boatload of new clothes, all picked out by her, and all much better than anything I’d ever have picked out myself. The woman has taste.

  I remember being in a dressing room that day and seeing my reflection in the mirror. Cute hair, cute clothes.

  Miracle number three—I could almost believe that maybe someday someone might want to go out with somebody who looked like me.

  Imagine.

  So. That was my parents’ response to having a gay child. To my father, I was a case to be solved. To my mother, I was a home-improvement project.

  I can’t complain.

  They coped as best as they could, and there was never a hint of judgment or disappointment from either of them. I have a sister and brother, so: There will be bloodline.

  The sibs:

  My sister Andrea. (Pronounced on-DRAY-uh. You probably knew that, but I have to be clear because she’ll eviscerate you if you get it wrong.) She’s a gorgeous girl torn between two roles—the spoiled rich princess and the stoner. She’ll grow out of one someday, but I won’t make any bets which.

  My brother, Todd, is still in school, where he plays football. Harvard—of course. Not a school where you’re likely to end up in the pros, but still, he plays college football, the games are on TV (cable, but still), and this is America after all. He is revered.

  You can guess who’s the center of attention at family gatherings. The violin phenom is so far overshadowed by the football player that it isn’t even funny. That sounds like I resent it, but I so don’t. It takes a lot of pressure off my sister and me. Nobody expects mere mortals like us to compete with a college football star—and we don’t. We watch Todd bask in their attentions, and we exchange sly smiles. Then we go outside, make bitchy remarks, laugh, and I watch my sister get stoned.

  If anybody, out of politeness, asks me about my law career—which is rare—or about my violin playing—even rarer—I say it’s going well, thank you, and did you hear about Todd’s latest whatever? Which is, of course, what they’d rather talk about anyway, because this is America, and then I excuse myself and go outside to make even bitchier comments and to watch my sister get even more stoned.