Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  “I should have guessed,” says Manning, recognizing the mannered prose that is a hallmark of Hector’s columns. He adds, “And please—call me Mark.”

  Hector and Claire invite Manning and Neil to use their own first names as well.

  Manning offers, “Let me get you a drink.” Hector and Claire both decide on kir. Manning asks for help from David, who gladly tails him to the bar, leaving Neil to get acquainted with the New Yorkers.

  He says, “It’s a shame, Claire, that your schedule won’t allow you to direct part of the theater festival.”

  “I feel terrible about it, darling, but my commitments back East were chiseled in stone, they tell me, so I’ll be watching the efforts of others for a change—which is really quite a nice idea, when you think about it.” She flips her palms in the air. “I’m on vacation!”

  “Yes, my dearest,” says Hector. “So I’ve noticed—especially while I’ve been chained to that damned modem in our hotel room.”

  “Poor baby. Man may work from sun to sun, but Hector’s work is never done.”

  Dryly, Hector tells her, “Your sympathy is appreciated more than you know.” Then he asks Neil, “What can we expect at the opening ceremonies next weekend at the stadium?”

  Neil ushers them away from the door toward a furniture grouping that anchors the central space of the loft. With a gesture, he invites them to sit. He tells Hector, “The plans are changing daily, but it ought to be spectacular. The nation’s top talent, from pop to opera, will be there doing snippets for a capacity crowd and a worldwide TV audience. But the festival isn’t only about the performing arts. We’ll also put the visual arts, the practical arts, and the sciences center stage. And then there’s the whole political aspect—the human-rights rally and the president’s address, assuming he decides to accept the committee’s invitation.”

  “Bravo,” Claire tells him. “That’s exactly the sort of coordinated effort that stands a chance to make a meaningful difference to society. When the brightest minds come together, not only to entertain but to inspire, then we can all begin to move ahead. For the first time in memory, I’m actually looking forward to a presidential election, to say nothing of the broad public debate that will precede it.”

  “You needn’t wait till the election,” Neil tells her. “The ‘broad public debate’ has already begun. The Christian Family Crusade has announced plans to stage a rally of its own, countering the event at the stadium. They’re mounting a protest march as part of the grand opening of that luxury hotel they’ve built on the North Side—the Gethsemane Arms—have you ever heard anything so ludicrous?”

  Hector admonishes Neil. “I wouldn’t be so quick to judge. The CFC has flourished under the prudent financial management of its current leadership. Even more important, they stand for principles held dear by a great many Americans.”

  “Like what?” asks Claire. “Intolerance and bigotry? They’ve been in the limelight too long already, and with any luck, they’ll find their influence has waned. It should be a wide-open race next year, and maybe this country will at last engage itself in a rational exchange of ideas.”

  “I hope so,” says Neil, sitting back, crossing his arms. “That’s why we’ve invited presidential hopefuls from both parties, as well as that upstart Libertarian, to take part in the ceremonies. If we can begin to establish common ground on only one issue—human rights, which of course includes gay rights, a topic that’s near and dear to me—our efforts will be proven worthwhile.”

  Attempting to shift the topic, Hector says, “I understand where the arts and politics fit into all this, but how do you plan to include the sciences?”

  Neil’s eyes gleam. He leans forward to say, “That’s the best part. It hasn’t been publicized, but arrangements have been made for a state-of-the-art sky show. A laser spectacle will appear over the whole Loop and Near North Side, with the new stadium at its center. As the president concludes his speech—in effect, a changing of the guard, an ushering-in of the new age—the sky above the city will burst alive with the light of a laser show, a giant floating pink triangle.”

  “Good Lord,” says Claire. “How does it work?”

  “It will be projected from masts atop three tall buildings—Sears Tower, MidAmerica Oil, and the Journal Building—forming the points of the triangle. It’ll blow people’s minds. And the show will be repeated each night of the celebration, into the year two thousand.”

  “Sounds like a marvelous spectacle,” says Hector. “But why pink?”

  Claire eyes him as though he should know better. “Really, Hector. The pink triangle symbolizes gay liberation.”

  “Ah, yes,” he says, “an allusion to the paper badges of Nazi death camps. Odd choice for the graphic identity of a progressive social movement—rather grim, isn’t it?”

  “It was, certainly,” says Neil. “Symbols can be powerful weapons, and the pink triangle originated as a symbol of hate. But by claiming it as our own, we have not only defanged it—we’ve been empowered by it. Such a metamorphosis may sound like voodoo, I know, but it truly happens. In the same way, much of the gay community has embraced the term queer.”

  Hector winces.

  Noting his discomfort with the direction their conversation has taken, Neil asks, “Is something wrong, Hector?”

  “Not in the least.” His tone is curt and unconvincing.

  Claire offers, “Hector has been a tad uneasy with gay issues of late.”

  “Sorry,” says Neil, the accommodating host. “I presumed … Well, you’re from New York, involved with theater.”

  “I have many gay friends,” Hector assures him. “A person’s sexual preference—or orientation, or identity, or whatever the correct buzz-of-the-day happens to be—is of no concern to me at all.”

  “Unless,” interjects Claire, “that person happens to be your nephew.”

  “Claire,” Hector admonishes her, as though she has betrayed a confidence.

  “Hey, no problem,” Neil says offhandedly, trying to ease the tension. “I already know about David. I’ve … had vibes.” Although it would be more precise to say he’s “heard rumors,” he assumes that Hector would not appreciate such wording.

  Claire leans to tell Neil, “Hector has always felt protective of David. This unexpected turn in his life has left Hector feeling unable to guide the boy.”

  Resigned to the fact that he will not be able to sidetrack this discussion, Hector decides that Neil should hear details from the source. “I hope not to sound mawkish,” he says, “but I’ve always thought of David as more of a son than a nephew. Though I’ve been married—briefly, more than once—I have no children of my own. And now, of course, it’s too late to begin a family, even if Claire would consent to be my bride. I’ve asked her on occasion, by the way, yet she seems obstinately determined to enter her latter years still single—with no pretense, I might add, of maidenhood.” He casts her a visual jab. She responds with an exasperated look that says they’ve covered this ground before.

  He continues, “So David, my brother’s son, has been lent to me from time to time over the years, a little boy I could help rear in life’s finer ways. His parents are good people, hardworking midwesterners who’ve given him the security and love any child deserves. And they’ve had the common sense to recognize that David’s upbringing could be enriched by a sophisticated uncle in Manhattan—none other than yours truly. I’ve introduced him not only to theater, but to music. I’ve shown him the world, at least the parts that count: Paris one Easter, Rome for Christmas, theater trips to London whenever possible. During his high-school years, he spent entire summers with me, enjoying life from a penthouse overlooking Central Park, taking advantage of the best the city has to offer.”

  Hector pauses, touches up the knot of his necktie, and settles farther into the sofa, one arm draped elegantly along its back. Unmistakable pride colors his voice as he continues, “It was also during those summers that David got a firsthand look at my day-to-day
life as a writer, which nurtured his own budding interest in journalism. I was as thrilled as his parents when he was accepted at Northwestern, and I’m overjoyed that he’s now launching his career at the Journal. Who knows? Maybe one day he’ll be ready for the Times.” Hector again pauses, savoring the prospect of his nephew’s advancement, without needing to clarify that the Times on his mind is the one in New York.

  Returning to his story, he says, “I had become his Auntie Mame. We’d joke about it—Claire too—‘Life is a banquet’ and all that. But after David entered college, his summers got busy, so his visits became shorter and less frequent. He was growing up, developing into his own person, acquiring new interests—such as bodybuilding, which I’ve never understood.” Hector shudders at the thought of David’s incessant weight training.

  He tenses, leans forward. “Then, during the semester break of his senior year, he came to spend a couple of weeks with me. I found it unusual because he seemed especially eager to visit New York, which is anything but pleasant in January. His first night there, while we were at dinner, he told me he had big news—the Chicago Journal was taking him on as an intern. He mentioned that he’d visited the newsroom earlier that week and had met Mark Manning, whom he had long held in high esteem. He judged the experience to be an omen of great things to come, explaining that the Journal’s cub reporters are typically hired from the pool of interns who are finishing college. So we celebrated his good fortune that night amid toasts to the future.”

  The smile that has reflected Hector’s happy remembrance fades as he tells them, “Surprised as I was by the news he delivered, I was even less prepared for the other morsel he would soon divulge to me. We spent most of our evenings together at the theater, then at dinner, which could last till past midnight. Instead of returning with me to the apartment to retire, David began staying out on his own, telling me he wanted to explore the nightlife. This seemed reasonable for a man of his age, and I didn’t give it much thought. He was always up and about the next morning before I was, fixing breakfast, over which he’d share tales of the previous night’s exploits. I marveled at his energy, which seemed boundless.”

  Hector again fixes the knot of his tie, but there’s no need—it’s still perfect. “One morning, however, David hadn’t returned. While making coffee, I heard the front door. A few moments later, he stood in the hallway to the kitchen. I told him, ‘I may not be your mother, but I deserve an explanation.’ He asked me to sit down and joined me at the table. He poured coffee for us both. As I reached to pick up the cup, he took my hand into his and looked me in the eye. ‘I have something to tell you,’ he said. I’m sure you can guess what it was.”

  Neil coughs. “I have an inkling.”

  “He’d been hitting the bars that week—gay bars, it turned out—and on that last night, he went home with someone. ‘Why?’ I asked him. ‘Are you sure?’ I stuttered through the predictable litany of questions. Calmly, David explained that he’d been wrestling with this for several years, since the start of college, that he’d had no satisfaction from his flings with women. The previous summer, he’d stayed on at the apartment he kept near school, and during those months, less pressured by the demands of classes and the expectations of friends, he ‘found himself,’ he said, and became comfortable with his self-awareness as a homosexual.”

  Hector’s discourse has grown agitated, and he starts to rise from the sofa, as if he needs to pace. But he stops short of standing, plops back into his seat, and gestures with both palms open, as if beseeching Claire and Neil to understand.

  “Flustered, I suggested that his comfort level should end right there. ‘Keep this to yourself,’ I warned him. ‘If you take this any further, if you spread the news, it will probably kill your parents and will certainly thwart your career.’ In truth, David’s parents are open-minded and tolerant, but I was afraid to predict how my brother might react to learning that his son had ‘gone gay’ during one of his visits to dear, worldly Uncle Hector.”

  Claire crosses her arms. She eyes Hector with an accusing stare. “Wouldn’t it be more accurate to say that you were afraid your brother might think it was you who turned David gay?”

  “That’s bullshit,” says Hector, in no mood for honesty.

  But Claire persists. “Come on, Hector. Theater, ballet, opera? French lessons in third grade so the kid might find his way around a menu? The costume parties and opening nights and weekend excursions to Provincetown? Of course David’s parents would conclude that you’d dangled a tantalizing plum before their baby. But the point is, Hector: you’ve done that all along, and they’ve known it. They’ve known that you live in a milieu that might appeal to their son, and they’ve never denied him the opportunity to be with you. In fact, they’ve encouraged it. So I don’t understand …” She stops short, having thought of something. “My God. Do you think they’d suspect you’d slept with David?”

  “For Christ’s sake, Claire, they’d know better. They’ve often razzed me about the effete company I keep, and I admit that I project something of an affected persona, but they understand, as I’m sure you do, that I’m playing a role. I’m a theater critic—New York-based, nationally syndicated, with a public that likes to imagine me as a glib socialite. I have no problem with that. Indeed, I enjoy it. But I am not gay, which you know better than anyone. David’s parents know it too. I would never take advantage of their son, under any circumstances.”

  Neil clears his throat and wonders aloud, “Where are Mark and David with those drinks?” The party is filling in with other guests, and there’s a crowd at the bar near the kitchen. Neil spots Victor Uttley, someone from the mayor’s office who’s had his fingers in much of the committee work for Celebration Two Thousand.

  Returning his attention to Claire and Hector’s discourse, Neil cautiously enters the conversation. “I’m sure you’re right,” he tells Hector. “Intelligent people no longer fear gay ‘recruiting.’ Gays have always known instinctively what is now accepted as fact: Sexual orientation is in you. It’s genetic, and it’s there from day one.”

  “Okay,” says Claire, conceding the issue, “but then I’m all the more bewildered, Hector. Why are you so uncomfortable with David’s homosexuality? You are glib—I’ve rarely seen you frenzied by anything more serious than a sluggish first act. What could possibly concern you about something so pedestrian as your nephew’s sex life? It’s not rational.”

  “I never claimed it was ‘rational.’ But it troubles me. I’m worried.”

  Neil asks him, “It’s AIDS, isn’t it?”

  Hector looks from Neil to Claire, whose eyes ask, Well, is it?

  Hector exhales, then he lays the issue bare. “Of course it’s AIDS. The worry wrenches my gut. I don’t give a damn what David does with his dick—do excuse my rather crude indulgence in alliteration—but I don’t want him to die doing it. He’s at exactly the age when he should explore life to its fullest, tasting from the ‘banquet,’ but in historical terms, this is exactly the wrong age to belly up to that smorgasbord.”

  He pauses to clear his mind, then sums up his concerns: “If David became infected, his parents would never forgive me for introducing him to a world turned deadly. Worse yet, I could never forgive myself.”

  The tenderness of Claire’s smile declares a truce in their squabbling, revealing that her affection for Hector is deepened by the knowledge that his displeasure with David’s gayness is ultimately selfless and loving. She pats his hand. Then she turns to Neil. “Where are Mark and David with those drinks?”

  The music has kept pace with the changing tempo of the party, and the tasteful cocktail tunes have segued to jazzier selections that sound a tad nasty. Some of the guests have started dancing. Others graze at the buffet. But most are clumped near the bar—reaching for drinks, greeting acquaintances, marveling at the loft, flirting with the boys from Happy Happenings.

  “Kir,” Manning tells the bartender over the din, “nor kirsch.” He passes back the two snift
ers. “Put a spoonful of cassis in white wine.”

  David says, “Leave it to Uncle Hector to stump the help. He’d never think to ask for gin and tonic, your basic hot-weather standby.” He shrugs, as if to offer a lame apology for his uncle’s refined tastes. David downs the last of his drink, the second gin and tonic he has managed to procure during the confusion over the kir. He orders a third.

  “Easy there,” Manning tells him. “The night is young.”

  David smirks. “Promises, promises. …”

  God help me. Manning tells David, “Take this, will you?” It’s one of the kirs. Manning carries the other, along with his own drink.

  Jostling through the crowd, David spots one of the Journal’s new interns, just hired for the summer. There’s a splotch on the back of his hand, and he’s showing it off. “Tough tatt,” says David, leaning to admire a little portrait of Beavis.

  “Thanks, dude.”

  As they move onward with the drinks, Manning says, “I hate to sound like an old fart, but what’s with these tattoos?”

  David gives him a vacant I-dunno look. “Lots of kids are doing it. Just a trend.”

  “I mean,” Manning grapples for the words, “it’s so … permanent. Trends are fine. They’re fun. By definition, fashion is fleeting, but an entire generation will go to their graves wearing those.”

  “I imagine we will,” says David, agreeing but not caring.

  “‘We’?” says Manning, stopping right there. “You mean …?” Now he’s truly curious. “Where?”

  David laughs. “Relax, Mark. My ‘we’ merely acknowledged membership in generation X—isn’t that what you call us? I’m not into tattoos. That’s kids’ stuff.”

  “Thank God,” says Manning, visibly relieved.

  “Not so fast,” David sounds a note of warning. “I’m into something else entirely.” He fixes Manning in his stare.

  Manning returns the stare, half smiling, half sure that David isn’t serious. “Okay, what?”