Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  “Later, big boy.” In one deft move, Neil has set their drinks on the coffee table, knelt on the floor, and unbuckled Manning’s belt.

  Manning laughs, getting into the spirit of Neil’s spontaneous foreplay, when the phone rings. “I don’t believe it,” he says. “Not again.”

  Neil looks up with a good-natured frown, wondering aloud, “Is nothing sacred?” They stare at each other through another ring or two. Then Neil says, “It might be important.”

  “That’s what has me worried.” But Manning can’t let it ring. There’s a phone on the console table behind the sofa—he lifts the receiver. “Yes?”

  “Hello, Mark? It’s Roxanne.” By the sound of all the background noise, she must be calling from the convertible.

  “Hi, Roxanne. What’s up?”

  Neil, hearing this, gets playful again, unzipping Manning’s pants.

  Roxanne asks, “What’s up, yourself?” Her manner is breezy, almost giddy. “You sound … funny.”

  Dryly, Manning tells her, “Let’s just say you caught me at an awkward time.”

  “Oh.” She is momentarily subdued. Then she hollers, “Hello, Neil!”

  “Hi, Rox,” he shouts back, giving up on the project at hand.

  Manning asks them both, “Shall I pass the phone?”

  “No,” says Roxanne through a laugh, “I was calling you, Mark. About Carl.”

  “How … is he?” asks Manning.

  “Never better. In fact, he’s right here. We’re driving home. We’d like to take you two to dinner tomorrow night—it was his idea.”

  Manning chooses his words carefully, thinking that Carl may be able to hear their conversation over the car’s speaker phone. “Is everything all right regarding yesterday’s meeting? You’re sounding rather lighthearted this evening.”

  “Couldn’t be better. I was way off base, Mark. We can’t wait to tell you the news.”

  “I’m listening,” Manning reminds her. “So tell me.”

  “Unh-unh. Too important. Only at dinner.”

  Manning covers the mouthpiece to ask Neil, “Dinner tomorrow okay? I need to have a talk with Carl anyway.” Neil nods. Manning says into the phone, “Fine, Roxanne. Where and when?”

  “We were thinking, there’s this marvelous little bistro we haven’t tried. …”

  “Zaza’s,” says Manning, “but you’ll never get in.”

  “Nonsense,” she snorts. “The office can reserve for us—plenty of pull. How’s eight o’clock?”

  “Sounds great. We’ll be there.”

  “With bells on. ’Bye, kids.” And she’s gone.

  Neil gets up from the floor and perches next to Manning, retrieving their drinks from the coffee table. “What was that all about?”

  Manning zips his pants, takes his glass from Neil. “We’re double-dating at Zaza’s. Roxanne and Carl can’t wait to tell us ‘the news.’”

  Neil nearly chokes, spitting an ice cube back into his glass. “What? Did she mention the m-word?”

  “No”—Manning sips—“but she was ditzy as a schoolgirl.”

  Neil flumps back into the sofa. “It just can’t be—Roxanne married?” He blinks. “Besides, I thought Carl skulked off to a meeting with the Christian Family Crusade. How would that lead to this?”

  Manning swirls his ice. “Maybe they gave him a sermon on family values.”

  “Smart-ass.” Neil leans forward, sets down his glass, and starts to unbutton Manning’s shirt. “Gee,” he says wistfully, not watching what he’s doing, “do you suppose they want us to stand up for them?”

  “I doubt it.” Manning sets down his drink, watching Neil’s fingers work their way down his chest. “They probably want us for ring boy and flower girl.”

  “If they do,” says Neil, pulling Manning’s shirttail free of his pants, “I get dibs on the ring.”

  “Like hell you do.” Manning lunges at Neil, and they roll from the sofa to the floor, Neil on top. If they were really wrestling, Manning could doubtless pin Neil, but he doesn’t even try, submitting to Neil’s mastery, arms outstretched in defeat.

  On his knees, Neil straddles Manning’s hips and fully parts the shirt, baring Manning’s chest, which heaves from the exertion of their brief struggle. Neil leans forward to kiss Manning’s chin, then trails his tongue down Manning’s neck to his chest, where Neil notices the nipples, hardened like purple pebbles. He sucks one of them into his mouth, clamping it with his teeth. Manning gasps, but doesn’t move, eyes closed to heighten a fantasy. Then Neil bolts upright, back on his knees.

  “Hey,” he says, “I forgot. Did you ever get a look at David with his clothes off?”

  Manning’s eyes are open now, and his panting stops abruptly. “Yeah,” he answers. “As a matter of fact, I did.”

  “Well …?” says Neil, eager for details. “Is he really built?”

  “Yes, he is,” Manning answers dryly, tempted but not daring to give a few more details. Overcoming a momentary pang of guilt, he nudges the memory of Door County from his head, telling Neil, “I thought you were ready for ‘dessert.’”

  Neil pauses, grins. “I’ll get the whipped cream.”

  Thursday, July 1

  THE POWDERY SURFACE of planet Zarnik retreats behind the sprint-paced beat of Manning’s shoes. Clouds of unknown gases whorl overhead, pink beneath the cold and distant sun. As Manning speeds toward the curved horizon, the clouds’ hue grows ruddy, then bloody, then black, invisible against the night sky. Naked except for his white leather running shoes, Manning trundles onward blind, spinning the globe under his feet in the darkness. His erect penis slices a path through the thin, pristine atmosphere, creating a wake of inertia that fans out behind him. Just as the sky begins to glow with yet another morning, Zarnik’s tiny yellow moon, Eros—the wad of nylon once launched by Manning himself—rises, darts through the clouds, and sets behind him.

  Glancing down, Manning notices that he runs along a path of footprints in the dust. With surreal clarity, he sees that the prints are in fact those of his own shoes—he has circled the miniature planet countless times, never veering from the equator he has traced around its featureless terrain. With the discovery that his run has been futile as well as infinite, Manning feels his body drain of the energy that has propelled him. His penis sags. His pace slows. His feet tread heavily across the chalky sands, churning cumulous puffs of grit that trail from his shoes like dwarfed thunderheads of roiling talc.

  Can he stray from the trail that his shoes have imprinted on this faraway world? Or is he forced—by the intangible but powerful momentum of repetition—to run faithfully, exclusively, forever in this rut of his own making? He can’t even remember how long it has been since he first trod this path that now seems so restrictive. Has it been an eternity, or merely a moment? Or something in between, about two years?

  He knows, however, that the trail itself, while straight and narrow, is not an active force. It emits no magnetic field, no insidious cosmic rays that he is powerless to resist. Rather, he has grown so accustomed to his perpetual path that he fears his own ability to swerve from it. He left a former life billions of miles behind, but he’s forged a new routine out here in the wilds of the universe, running a familiar path that offers all the comforts of home. Why would he even flirt with the temptation to sidle into unknown territory?

  Because he’s human, of course. He’s a man, with all his instincts intact—passion, curiosity, and a deep-rooted drive to fight confinement and convention. Dare he try, just once? Dare he even think of it?

  The thought of transgression, while frightening, excites him. His hard-again penis pulls him like a leash, tugging him to the edge of the path, toward unexplored desert, challenging him to soil those immaculate white shoes. His sluggish pace halts. He stands at the brink, mulling an option he has never before considered. He knows, though, that a decision has already been made for him, as if fated. Both the mental enticement and the physical pull are so strong that he has no will
to resist them.

  So he sets one foot across the line. The other follows. He stands in the hinterland, within stepping distance of his equatorial path, under the rosy haze of Zarnikal noon. Newly energized, Manning sets off at a run, at first alongside the rut in the sand, but gradually skewing farther and farther from it, till it disappears beyond the horizon. Wispy tendrils droop from the clouds to slip past Manning’s limbs and tease him to higher euphoria.

  Winded from his run, aroused to the point of pain, Manning slows his pace and stops. He lies on the ground, face to the sky, his body encircled by a pinpoint beam from the daystar sun. Closing his eyes, he reaches to his groin and coddles his genitals with both hands. Flopping his knees wider, he digs the heels of his shoes into the sand, piercing the planet’s surface. He strokes himself at a comfortable rate, not ready for an orgasm, prolonging his stay at this erotic plateau, riding it out. The sun glows red through the veins of his eyelids.

  But then his vision blackens. Something has passed over him, perhaps the shadow of Zarnik’s nylon moon. Or perhaps it is someone, a visitor who has come to share his launch to ecstasy—Neil or David. Or both. They both arrived here once before to goad and witness his climax. He hopes they have returned, the best of both worlds. Manning resists the temptation to open his eyes, preferring to revel in the possibilities, exhilarated by the uncertainty, like a kid waiting to open a present. He breathes more deeply now, inhaling the heady atmosphere in uneven jerks.

  Manning gasps, once, when he feels another man’s testicles lowered onto his forehead, dragging to his chin. He gropes in the sand around him, feeling for the other man’s feet, which he locates on each side of his chest. With eyes still closed, he fingers the visitor’s shoes, and he can tell, he knows, that they are white leather, identical to his own. He feels the edge of the treaded soles, the crossweave of the laces, a few inches of socks, and the fuzz of hair sprouting from the shins. Manning moans, lifting his head to nuzzle the other man’s groin. Then the visitor shifts his weight and bends over Manning, lips to cock.

  My God. Manning’s eyelids flutter open. His eyes turn in their sockets to view the form of the man above him, a shadow rocking against the drifting clouds. Glancing to his side, Manning laughs, confirming that he knew the color of his visitor’s shoes. Manning watches the flexing of the muscles in the other man’s thighs. From this curious perspective, he examines details of the physique that are rarely seen. The view is enjoyable, indeed spectacular, but reveals no features that might hint at the visitor’s identity. Manning considers stopping him for a moment. He could tap the guy’s ass and ask, Excuse me, sir, but who exactly are you? But that would be rude. If this guy is so eager to slake the libido, Manning shouldn’t pester him with trivial questions.

  But it’s not trivial—it matters. Who is he? Manning flops his head from side to side, brushing his temples against the other man’s calves, trying to get a better look at his face—but the guy’s busy down there. Manning can’t tell if he wears Armani glasses; from this angle, he can’t even get a look at his nipples, wondering if they’re ornamented with bits of silver jewelry. It might be David. It might be Neil. Or it could be anyone else, anyone at all. The uncertainty, at first so stimulating, is now vexing. Gripped by the onset of panic, Manning feels his penis shrivel in the other man’s mouth. Gobbling deeper, the faceless visitor literally has Manning by the balls.

  This never would have happened if Manning hadn’t wavered from the path. It was a rut, yes, but one of his own making, the product of countless hours’ effort, ongoing work, predictable but reassuring. Now he’s trapped—splayed on the sands of a never-never land. Even if he could escape this lusty aggressor-thought-friend, he couldn’t find his way back. He is lost.

  “Good morning.” What? “It’s six o’clock in Chicago, and cooler weather has at last arrived, pushing in from Wisconsin through the night.”

  Manning sighs, relieved but still shaken. He opens his eyes and feels the tension start to drain from his body, which is curled into a tight fetal knot.

  “It’s the first of July, which means that the opening of Celebration Two Thousand, our long-awaited civic festival of culture and science, is now only two days away. It’s the buzz of the town, and indeed, the nation. The White House has announced that the president will definitely attend Saturday’s ceremony. …”

  Neil groans from his side of the bed. “I wish I could enjoy five waking minutes without hearing about that damned festival.”

  Manning laughs, relaxes his body, and rolls over on the bed to gaze squarely into Neil’s eyes. “Good morning, kiddo. I’ve missed you.”

  “Oh yeah? Where have you been?”

  “Goofy dream. Guess I’ve been struggling with something.”

  Neil smooths Manning’s hair, mussed from a restless sleep. “Anything you want to share with me?”

  Manning flops onto his back, staring at the ceiling. “Yes, as a matter of fact. Only not right now.”

  “Sounds a trifle heavy.”

  The radio continues. “The human-rights rally, which will be the central event of Saturday night’s celebration, will be dressed up with a little extra dazzle. A press release issued from the mayor’s office by fax overnight …”

  Manning and Neil turn their heads to eye each other with a deadpan stare.

  “… announced that preparations are now complete for a surprise spectacle that will be staged as a finale to the evening. Details are sketchy, but the city’s cultural liaison revealed that the spectacle involves cutting-edge laser technology. The display will be repeated nightly throughout the yearlong festival. …”

  Manning asks, “Now what’s Victor up to?”

  “Beats me,” says Neil.

  “Turning now to our musical programming, let’s enjoy a portion of the oratorio The Raft of the Medusa. Today we celebrate the birthday of its composer, Hans Werner Henze.”

  Manning and Neil ask in unison, “Who?”

  Around eleven o’clock, Manning is working at his desk in the city room of the Journal when he senses that there is someone behind him. He looks over his shoulder to find Gordon Smith standing there, arms crossed, watching, grinning. The managing editor says, “Knee-deep in it, eh, Marko?”

  Manning swivels to face him. “No, Gordon, I’m neck-deep in it, but so far it’s only questions and loose ends. Clearly, something very strange is going on, but nothing fits. I can’t make sense of it.”

  Smith plants a palm on the desk and leans to ask Manning quietly, “Is there any reason to think Nathan Cain is endangered by all this?”

  Inching closer, Manning responds, “Nothing I’ve learned points to that, but still, I’ve uncovered nothing that explains the military’s interest in Zarnik. If my suspicion is correct—that they’re using Cain for something clandestine—we could all be in danger. Cliff Nolan didn’t fit into the plan, and look what happened to him.”

  “Then maybe it’s time to confide your suspicions to Nathan.”

  “Not yet. Give me another day or two. I’ve been trying to unravel this from too many angles, and I’ve gotten nowhere. So now I’ll concentrate on a single issue—Zarnik’s true identity. If we can lay bare the Zarnik scam, I’m reasonably certain we’ll hold the key to Cliff’s murder. I’ve got a lead, a slim one, on Zarnik now. And by the way, I may need to come up with an ‘honorarium’ for my source.”

  Smith reminds him, “Cain gave you carte blanche. Go for it. I’ll sign.”

  “Thanks, Gordon. I don’t like bribing people for clues, but so far, my ‘free’ information hasn’t been worth much. I wasted a day and a half up in Door County.”

  “I know. Nathan mentioned it to me.”

  Manning blinks. “Really?”

  Shrugging, Smith says, “He must have seen some expenses come through.”

  Possibly, thinks Manning, but not likely—he returned only yesterday. He asks, “Has Cain shown much interest in my progress with the story?”

  “He’s asked me about it a co
uple of times, but only in passing, while discussing other business. Of course, Nathan’s a hard guy to read. Why do you ask?”

  Manning rises, stretching his shoulders, working out a crick that developed from his morning at the keyboard. “No reason, just natural curiosity. It’s always worth knowing when the boss is breathing down your neck.”

  Smith laughs. “Don’t I know it! So keep me posted, okay, Marko? I’d sure like to report something to Nathan.”

  Sitting again, Manning assures him, “You’ll be the first to know, Gordon.”

  Smith pats him on the shoulder, turns, and saunters off through the newsroom toward his office.

  Manning slides his keyboard aside (he’s not on deadline—he was typing his notes to help focus his thoughts) and pulls Victor Uttley’s morgue file from the stack on his desk. There’s a phone number on a Post-it note stuck to the front of the folder. Manning checks his watch. He’s getting anxious, so he reaches for the phone and punches in the number. He flips open the folder while the other phone rings.

  A man answers, “Cultural liaison’s office.”

  “Hello. This is Mark Manning from the Journal. Is Victor Uttley available?”

  “Speaking,” he says. “I may have a title, Mark, but I don’t have a secretary. I’ll try to remedy that during the mayor’s next budget review. What can I do for you?” Then he adds with a chortle, “As if I couldn’t guess.”

  Manning stares at Uttley’s photo while speaking to him. “Just wondering if you’ve had any luck securing access to one of the laser sites. Tomorrow would be great if you could swing it.”

  “Consider it done.” Uttley’s voice rings with the pride of accomplishment. “I had to pull a few strings, but that’s what I’m here for.”

  “A true public servant,” Manning says dryly.

  “That’s right,” says Uttley, attuned to Manning’s cynicism, which, perversely, he seems to enjoy. “Let’s see now. …” The sound of shuffling papers carries over the phone. “Here we are. The other two projector sites, in addition to the Journal Building, are Sears Tower and the MidAmerica Building. Sears won’t work for you—too many tourists—I don’t even know how they managed to get all that equipment up there without drawing a lot of attention. Which leaves us with MidAmerica Oil. You’re in luck, Mark. The mayor’s pretty thick with their chairman, Bradley McCracken. I know from the mayor’s calendar that he often has lunch with Brad at the Central States Club—very exclusive, you know, top floor of the MidAmerica Building. Anyway, a favor was called in, and you’re welcome to explore the tower platform tomorrow evening at five-thirty.”