by Peter Gadol
“No worries,” Carlo said. “Everything is fine. I can manage.”
And Robbie thanked him with a cursory kiss on the cheek and then switched off his night table lamp.
• • •
EVERYTHING WAS HARDLY FINE, and not for a moment did Carlo believe Robbie had moved beyond Tom or the tragedy at their home, nor did he think they were done being taunted by whoever wanted to prolong the aftermath of that tragedy. A liar knows when he’s being lied to, and Carlo was certain he was being misled. He regretted raising the address book but he couldn’t stand wondering any longer. Robbie knew something, and he wasn’t admitting it. Or maybe he knew nothing, and there was nothing to admit.
The only remedy for Carlo’s anxiety seemed to be working out back on his fountain. He spent that weekend digging a trench for a pipe from the house to the fountain and in the process made a muddy mess. He had to pull out some lavender that had been allowed to shrub and gather cobwebs, and dead irises, and withered flax, and then the dead plants had to be bagged and carted off to the conservation center. Also he was working on hoeing the dirt down where the fountain would go, leveling the plot. As long as he was engaged physically, he could be level. When he stopped to rest and leaned on his hoe, dark thoughts returned, although he tried to soothe himself with this thought: The holiday season was always a kind of mountain pass—make it through, and the flat valley ahead would be easy to traverse. The holidays were a time of joint-survival, and the New Year this year, he hoped, might occasion renewal and rededication. The two men would find their way. So he had to hold on. He had to hold it all together for the two men, and he could resent that burden all he wanted, but it remained his to bear.
At the office the Monday after Thanksgiving, he calculated which bills not to pay but quickly lost his focus. He made fountain doodles, cascading water doodles. He gazed out at the street. There were ten phone messages from the television producer, and so finally, reluctantly, Carlo called him back.
“Where the fuck have you been?” the producer asked. He was on a ski slope somewhere out of state. “Did you see what I got in the mail? Did you fucking see?”
Carlo had not yet opened the envelope that had been messengered from the producer’s office but did so now, skimming what turned out to be a letter from a neighborhood association.
A complaint had been filed with the buildings department protesting the scale of the producer’s house (and these were for the old non-villa plans), in particular its height, which citizens of a street up the hill claimed would obstruct their view, and which citizens across the street said would effectively block sunlight. Carlo was inclined to side with the neighbors, and the new villa scheme would be much, much worse.
“Does this happen to you often,” the producer asked, “one fuck-up after another?”
Carlo began to compose a temperate response.
“Fix it,” the producer said.
“Fix it?”
“Maybe I should have my attorney file suit to recoup the money I’ve wasted on you so far, not to mention you being in breach,” the producer said.
In breach? This was rich. “I wouldn’t worry. With the new materials, the upgrades, the neighborhood association will like your new plans much better,” Carlo said.
The producer didn’t respond. He probably could tell he was being played. It was what he did professionally, play people.
“With the revisions we’re making,” Carlo said, “you’ll end up with a more traditional home. I promise you, everyone will be happy.”
“You promise—”
The connection was lost. Moments later, the phone rang again, the producer calling back.
“I’ll take care of everything,” Carlo said before the producer could speak.
“When am I going to see these new plans? What the hell do you do all day long?”
“You enjoy your skiing, and I’ll speak with you when you’re—”
“When are you—”
“Next week,” Carlo said.
“Next week what?”
“A full set of new plans will be ready for you to review next week,” Carlo said. “We’ll pull the new permits. We’ll break ground in January.”
Silence.
“You’d best not be fucking with me. Do you know who you’re fucking with, if you fuck with me?” the producer asked.
“See you next week,” Carlo said, and of course nothing he’d said was true, his word worthless. And considering his worth, he called his bank and set up an appointment with a loan officer. The firm had maxed out its credit cards. Hold it all together, he told himself. One month, and then the New Year, and new clients would turn up the way they always did. They would survive and they would survive.
• • •
LATER THAT AFTERNOON, Carlo was standing in the front window when he glanced north toward the convenience store at the corner and noticed Gabriel standing in the parking lot next to a squad car. The boy was talking to Detective Michaels, who tapped her pad with her pen and who made the occasional notation.
Carlo’s first instinct was to bolt across the street and demand she stop interrogating the boy without a parent or guardian present. Of course, it was possible the detective was asking Gabriel about some other matter beyond the investigation into Tom’s death. Maybe the boy’s association with Lonny had caught up with him. The detective had her back to Carlo, and so he couldn’t quite tell whether she was satisfied with Gabriel’s responses, but Gabriel, meanwhile, kept shrugging. With each shrug, he tugged at both backpack straps. Then he nodded and slipped into the convenience store. Carlo half expected Detective Michaels to walk across the street to his office, but she didn’t. She got in her squad car and drove off the other way toward the Reservoir.
Carlo waited a moment until he was sure she was truly gone, and then he dashed diagonally across the street, avoiding the liquor store, and heading for the convenience store right as Gabriel emerged, a candy bar in hand.
“Hey,” Carlo said, trying not to sound out of breath.
“You’re not going to tell me I eat too much sugar, I hope,” Gabriel said.
“Oh, gosh no, I don’t care. So what are you up to?”
Gabriel nodded toward the liquor store, indicating he was headed there next.
To which Carlo said, “You don’t need to be hanging out there, do you?”
Gabriel cocked his head. “What did you do to Lonny, anyway?” he asked.
“Nothing,” Carlo said.
“What did you say about me owing him money?”
“Honestly nothing,” Carlo said. “He said you said something.”
Carlo hooked Gabriel’s arm. “I need to go to the stone yard. Come keep me company.”
“I’m sure I have homework,” Gabriel complained.
“It can wait.” “Nice.”
“I’m lonesome today,” Carlo said.
Which was true enough, and maybe sweet Gabriel detected as much and therefore went along for the ride.
As they rounded the Reservoir, Carlo said, “I saw you with Detective Michaels.”
“The lady cop?”
“She shouldn’t talk to you without your aunt being there.”
“It’s not like she arrested me. She can ask questions. I know my rights.”
“Do you now? And what did she want?” “
She was asking me questions about that guy.”
“That guy? What guy, Tom?”
“The dude who offed himself.”
“Tom.”
“Like had I ever seen him around your place before.”
“What did you say?”
“I told her,” Gabriel said.
“You told her … what?”
“And then she wanted to know crazy shit. How well did I know you and Robbie, what’s your relationship like.” Gabriel stopped. He was studying Carlo.
“What?” Carlo asked.
They had turned onto Glendale and were at the stoplight at Fletcher.
“It’s not
like you guys did anything,” Gabriel said.
Carlo’s heart beat hard.
“Right?” Gabriel asked. “That dude was a freak.”
“Tom,” Carlo said again, and maybe he half nodded, sure, a freak.
“You guys were asleep, you said. Only trying to keep the guy from driving drunk, and then he got twisted. That’s not your fault.”
Was this what Carlo told the boy, that Tom had gotten twisted?
“Is that what you said to Detective Michaels?” Carlo asked.
“The guy was a freak,” Gabriel said, “and the cops should leave you alone and go fight crime or something.”
All Carlo could do was nod again, and he knew then he should not have distorted the truth about Tom and the night Tom died, and that the misconceptions he’d allowed the boy to believe, the unfair depiction of Tom as a freak, would catch up with him, would wash ashore, soaked and bloated.
“I’m sure someone was murdered somewhere last night,” the boy added.
Now they were on Fletcher and heading for Riverside. Carlo kept both hands on the steering wheel. He’d stashed the gun in the glove compartment of this car, the better car, which he drove exclusively, and knowing a loaded weapon was there somehow kept him steady. They approached the underpass, and he wondered, if confronted, would he actually use it? He might. He would have no choice. But in front of the boy, would he draw it? No. Well, if threatened—
“Why are you driving so fast?” Gabriel asked.
Carlo was unaware he was speeding and slowed down.
“So who is Robbie’s new friend?” Gabriel asked.
Carlo didn’t know about any new friends.
“The blond dude,” Gabriel said.
A pickup honked and cut around Carlo’s car—now he was driving too slowly—and he maneuvered into the right lane.
“You have no idea who I’m talking about,” Gabriel said.
“This is someone you’ve seen Robbie with,” Carlo said.
“The other day,” Gabriel said. “Oh man. Dude.”
“Oh man dude, what?” Carlo said. “Robbie can have his own friends.”
“Friends?”
“What are you saying?”
“Friends he doesn’t tell you about.”
“It was only the other day you saw him? Maybe he hasn’t gotten around to it,” Carlo said, but in point of fact, Robbie always told him as soon as he met someone interesting.
“People look a certain way. You can tell something is going on,” the boy said.
“And what way is that?”
“Loose.”
“You know about these things. You speak with authority about these matters.”
“My mother,” was all Gabriel said. “Whatever,” he said. “Pretend you don’t care.”
“I care,” Carlo said. He looked at the boy: “I care. But I don’t think there’s any need to worry about anything.”
“Whatever,” Gabriel said, and the subject was dropped.
Carlo turned onto San Fernando and found the stone yard. In silence, he and the boy wandered the yard and checked out all the gray slate. There wasn’t much to choose from, but the boy had slipped into a pouty mood and would not express an opinion. Carlo placed an order.
At home that night, he regarded Robbie differently. For one thing, Robbie’s hair had grown longer than usual, and given the December wind, was more of a mess. He had started wearing untucked snap shirts open over T-shirts, and a pair of scuffed square-toe boots he hadn’t worn in years. If Carlo didn’t, say, note a faint wrinkle at Robbie’s earlobe, he could have mistaken forty-year-old Robbie for twenty-year-old Robbie. When he was alone in the kitchen or bathroom, Robbie whistled songs Carlo didn’t know. Robbie’s easy giggle was back, too, although whatever he was laughing about, he kept to himself. He was getting text messages, phone calls. Carlo could ask point blank if something was going on, but Robbie would lie the way he’d lied when he said he was over Tom. Carlo was miserable—this erosion of trust—he felt awful.
They hadn’t talked about Christmas. Their policy was that in lieu of major gifts for each other, together they would buy something they needed or wanted. One year it might be a new washer-dryer, and another year, a painting. But so far, they hadn’t discussed what (if anything) they would purchase, nor had they talked about getting a tree (which some years they did, but not other years), or if they’d try to have friends over or throw a small New Year’s party.
Carlo wanted to dislike him, but he couldn’t, the opposite. He remembered how one weekend senior year during the winter reading period, the two men had gone to Provincetown for the day during the bitter, bleached-sky off-season, and managed to get turned around walking back to wherever they’d parked their rental car, which seemed a feat given how small the town was. No one was around and they kept passing the same cottage with the same unseen barking dog. They should have been worried that perhaps their car had either been towed or stolen. They were not concerned, however, and these were not the years when concern came quickly. Their teeth were chattering and they kept walking around and amused themselves with a game they improvised, which later they called Double-Alpha-Meltdown. You took a name and said the name—Carlo Stein—and then the other person removed the first letter from the first name, as well as the first letter from the last name, and then pronounced the truncated formation: Arlo Tein. The name was then tossed back to the first person for the same treatment again, and the mutated words were eventually merged, until nothing was left but a sound: Rlo Ein, Loin, On. Robbie Voight, Obbie Oight, Bbieight, bieght, ieht, et.
It was dumb and it was silly, but they were giggling as if intoxicated, and Carlo’s ribs ached because he laughed so hard and the air was sharp to breathe, and they kept playing their little game with the names of friends and relatives and professors and ex-boyfriends and famous architects. They did find their car and drove back to campus, and thereafter the game was played whenever in the dull chill of winter they were keeping themselves warm while walking from Robbie’s dorm to Carlo’s apartment in Cambridgeport, and vice versa.
When had they stopped playing Double-Alpha-Meltdown? Was it in graduate school when a practical lexicon took the place of their invented language? Was it when they began making presentations to clients? Was it when they took on a mortgage and accrued credit card debt? Or was Carlo being too severe with himself, because in fact, weren’t the two men still capable of silliness?
Gabriel Sanchez, Abriel Anchez, Brielnchez, Rielchez, Ielhez, Elez, Lz. It wasn’t much fun to play alone.
Even before Tom killed himself, Carlo realized, he’d been in mourning for something terrible that had not yet occurred, as if this was where he had arrived in life: grief now preceded loss.
• • •
ROBBIE SAW JAY EVERY DAY. He stopped by the bookstore on Vermont at the end of Jay’s shift, and the plan was to see a movie next door, but instead Robbie tagged along while Jay completed some urgent errands, like buying stamps at the post office so he could mail in his bills, like picking up cat food for the neighbor cat Jay was taking care of, like pumping his bike tires with air at the gas station. The most mundane rounds, and yet Robbie was floating.
“This is hardly the movie you wanted to see,” Jay apologized.
“I’m fine,” Robbie said. “I’m great.”
“Surely you have something you need to get done, too,” Jay said.
“No, nothing.”
“I must seem like a mess to you. All these late bills, no stamps.”
“Not the least bit a mess,” Robbie said.
And yet Jay didn’t appear to take him at his word and bought him a mocha as consolation for dragging him around. At the café, Robbie tried to explain that an uncomplicated ordinary day brought him greater pleasure than an extraordinary one. Venturing to the grocery store and the bank and the dry cleaners was possibly more fulfilling than a museum outing or day trip to the desert, go figure.
“Go figure,” Jay said.
; “Maybe I’m strange that way,” Robbie said.
“Possibly,” Jay said. “But it’s a good kind of strange.”
They spent the next afternoon together before Jay had to be at the bookstore for an evening shift, and then the day after that, and all they did was wander around performing everyday tasks, shopping for tennis shoes, whole grains, guitar strings, hair product. All the while, their conversation was fluent and increasingly intimate.
What did they talk about? About Tom at first, like when they went over to the bar on Fountain where the bartender with the big arms had to call the police when Tom got too rowdy. They talked about Tom’s promise as a sketch artist and his autodidactic nature and the way he merrily held forth on any topic. Robbie wondered what Tom was like as a lover, and Jay reminded him that Tom needed to be drunk to have sex. But the kissing was phenomenal, Jay reported, accompanied by mapless foreplay prone to digression because Tom could never really stay on point, as it were. But eventually Tom became less a special topic and more a naturalized presence in the normal course of conversation.
What did they talk about? The European capitals where Jay had lived growing up, his father an economist for world banks. Washington for high school, New York for college. He studied anthropology, he studied film, he studied acting. He’d been engaged in every art form, piano since childhood, painting only recently. He always thought of himself as moody but never perceived himself as classically depressive. He never connected an inability to stay with anything (or anyone) as related to clinical malaise, but clearly there was a link. Jay never questioned why he was perpetually drawn to manic boyfriends—he didn’t see them as manic. They were colorful was all.
“You said once Tom saved you,” Robbie said.
“We’d had sex, drunken sex, a rare instance of all-the-way sex,” Jay said, “and in the morning, after Tom left, I realized we hadn’t used a condom. I freaked. I went to my doctor. I did the protocol, kept retesting fine—Tom by then was out of the picture. But with the doctor, I started talking about how sad I was all the time, and I resisted it at first but agreed to medication. It helps. I sleep at night. My doctor tells me I may not have to take this goop forever, and I hope not because I hate the thought of being dependent on anyone. I mean, anything. When I say Tom saved me, I guess I mean he was a decent guy to hit bottom with, or skid pretty close.”
