What Becomes of the Brokenhearted

by E. Lynn Harris

  “Saturday. Sure, Saturday would be fine,” I said. I knew I was wishing for something magical that day, but kept my wish hidden in my heart, which is almost always the safest place when it comes to romance.

  When Saturday came, I was so nervous about seeing Mario again that I had to change my shirt four times because of perspiration. I had gotten tickets to the musical Dreamgirls, a show I had already seen more than fifty times and never tired of, especially when I got a chance to see it with someone who hadn’t. After the musical, which Mario loved as much as I did, we waited at the stage door to say hello to a couple of the cast members whom I knew vaguely through my friend Larry. I had been backstage a couple of times, so I was a familiar fan.

  I invited Mario for an early supper at JR’s, one of my favorite restaurants. A lot of the cast members from Dreamgirls seemed to always be there, because it was conveniently located next to the Imperial Theater. Over steamed mussels and red wine, I learned that Mario was in his first live-in relationship—with an older man—and that it wasn’t going the way he planned. He even hinted that his lover was physically abusive. I didn’t understand why he would stay in such a relationship, but when I asked him if he was in love, he quickly said, “Yes.” I made the decision then that even though I found myself attracted to Mario, I would be his friend, and I hoped The Group would like him as much as I did. I ended the evening by walking him to the subway stop and telling him if he ever needed to talk, he could call anytime. He smiled and looked at me like I was the first person to ever make him such an offer.

  A few days later, my phone rang at about 2 A.M. It was Mario, and I could hear in his voice that he was upset. After I got him to calm down, he told me how his lover had gotten mad about our day out and had locked him out of the house. He asked if he could come over and talk, and I quickly said yes. An hour later, he showed up at my apartment visibly shaken. We talked for about an hour, and then we climbed into my bed, me in a bathrobe and underwear and Mario fully clothed. I could sense that he was uneasy, so I pulled him close to me and held him through the night like a protective friend.

  For several months, my relationship with Mario remained platonic. The only physical contact was the occasional brotherly hug. It changed when I informed him I probably wouldn’t see him on an upcoming weekend because I was expecting a guest from Washington, D.C. Right before I’d met Mario, The Group and I had made a trip to D.C. for a weekend of partying and club-hopping. During our stay, I had met Stan, a Howard University medical student, at a bar called Nob Hill. We had exchanged numbers when we met, I had invited him to New York, and he had accepted.

  When Mario asked if my weekend guest was coming for a romantic visit, I told him I didn’t know. He was quiet for a few moments, and when I asked him what was wrong, he said he wished I wouldn’t do that. When I asked him what he meant, Mario said softly, “My feelings for you have changed, and I find myself wanting you in my life in every way.” I didn’t answer but simply kissed him for the first time on his beautiful lips. It was a long kiss.

  The next day I called Stan and told him of my new situation, but left the door open for a visit since he had seemed so excited about coming to New York. When I told Willa what had happened with Mario, he asked for Stan’s number, then called and offered Stan his apartment if he still wanted to come to New York. Stan came and stayed with Willa, but I didn’t see him because I was too busy trying to spend every single moment with Mario.

  A week later we made love for the first time, and Mario told me he would never return to his former lover, David. A few days later, when he was certain David would be working, Mario went to the Harlem apartment they shared to remove some of his possessions. For the first time since we’d met, he gave me the phone number at the apartment to use in case he didn’t reach my place by a certain time.

  I paced the floor of my apartment anxiously. I was both exhilarated and terrified—excited that Mario had chosen me, yet secretly afraid he might change his mind and never call me again. Finally, the doorman rang that Mario was downstairs and needed permission to use the service elevator to move in his things. I was so excited that I hung up the phone and rushed downstairs to help my new lover move in.

  DURING THE NEXT TWO YEARS, I was under the impression that I was in the midst of the most wonderful love affair of my life. My dreams had finally come true. Mario hipped me to the music of Madonna, Sade, and singer/comedienne Sandra Bernhard. I introduced this native New Yorker to the joys of Broadway, a then-unknown diva-in-training named Jenifer Lewis, and establishments like Sweetwater’s and Don’t Tell Mama. He acquainted me with the tasty soul food dishes of Wilson’s and Sylvia’s, and I took him to restaurants like the Water Club and the Russian Tea Room. Every day seemed like the city and I were going through a magical transformation, like when a sudden snowfall turns the planet into an apparent crisis-free fantasyland.

  Mario seemed as happy as I was, and I was so proud to have such a handsome lover to call my own. My self-esteem improved, and I hired a personal trainer to help trim the thirty pounds I had picked up during my first months in New York when my diet consisted of Popeye’s Fried Chicken and lots of vodka and grapefruit juice.

  My relationship with Mario allowed me to be honest about who I was with a couple of important people in my life. Lencola had become a dear friend, and we were still roommates, even though we led separate lives. She had her own social life, and never questioned why Mario and I shared the same bedroom. When I finally told her about my relationship with Mario as we shared Chinese food in the small kitchen, Lencola took my announcement well. In many ways it made our friendship and relationship stronger. I also knew after years of living together that Lencola was not the type of woman who gossiped.

  One of the things I loved about our friendship was that we always supported each other like loving brother and sister. As beautiful as Lencola is, she, like me, seemed to always pick men who couldn’t love her like she could them. If there was a Mister Wrong in the room, that’s where Lencola and I would usually end up. There were several New Years when Lencola and I would spend the evening at church and then come back to our apartment and pray that God would send each of us someone special. When we would meet someone and think our prayers were answered, Lencola and I would then find ourselves praying that they would treat us the way we treated them. We had many a good cry over the shape of our love lives and began to count on each other’s friendship even more.

  MARIO AND I ENJOYED an active sex and social life, and we made it a point to have a date alone at least once a week and spend one day a week talking at the dining room table about things that might be troubling us. This was my idea. I was trying everything in my power to make the perfection last forever. I was determined not to repeat any mistakes I might have made with previous relationships.

  During some of our talks, I learned of the deep emotional pain Mario brought into the relationship. Some of these incidents were so painful, I often wondered how he had survived them. Many times he shared some of his family secrets with me, and would burst into tears, and I would hold him until the tears stopped. Listening to his childhood memories made me remember Ben but also helped me realize how blessed I was to have the mother and family I had. The pain Mario had experienced at such a young age made me realize why he accepted the emotional and physical abuse from David. The way he opened up to me made me love him even more, because I felt he needed me and his need gave me a tremendous feeling of self-worth.

  I showered him with gifts, giving him full access to my ATM card and my American Express card. At first Mario was hesitant, because he didn’t want me to think he was with me for my money. I convinced him that what was mine was his, and that we were a couple, a team. I really believed that everything I had belonged to Mario, and when he told me he couldn’t give me the same, I told him all I wanted him to bring me was true love. He said that was easy.

  We traveled often, taking romantic trips to San Francisco and Vail. I was making good money selling co
mputers, and Mario was also doing well. He would ask for my advice on how to handle some of his customers when he was trying to close a big sale. Mario promised to take me to Italy when he closed his first six-figure sale. He wanted to introduce me to the Italian side of his family. I knew from some of our conversations that his family from Harlem and Italy didn’t get along too well, but Mario took great pride in his biracial heritage.

  But there were a few problems I chose to ignore. One was that with the exception of Lencola, none of my friends in The Group liked Mario. They tolerated him, and when I asked why, they told me they felt he was using me both financially and emotionally. My response was “Nobody gets to use me without my permission.”

  Mario didn’t care for The Group either, so after we had our Saturday-night potluck suppers, he would retreat to Harlem and spend the weekend with his family. Despite their differences, the Robinson family seemed close-knit to an outside observer.

  The funny thing was that Mario felt that I was much different from my friends and felt that they were using me, since it seemed to him that I was always paying for the drinks—and my friends could drink. I never saw my friends or lovers in a bad light. All I knew was that for the first time I had friends and a partner who loved me just for me.

  But there were times when I began to doubt Mario’s love. Sometimes I wanted and I needed him to be supportive of me. There were days when he became withdrawn, and when I asked him what was the matter he muttered, “Nothing you can solve.” In my idea of a perfect relationship, I felt lovers should share everything. When his emotional swings started to interfere with our sexual relationship, and when holding Mario was not soothing enough, I convinced him to start seeing a therapist. He balked because of the cost, but eventually went to therapy when I told him he didn’t have to pay any rent.

  Initially, his therapy seemed like a good move. After a couple of visits, Mario no longer seemed depressed and our sexual relationship seemed to flourish once again. He started to spend more time with his family, trying to mend some of the rips and tears he felt they had caused.

  But I would soon discover that therapy wasn’t the only thing that was making Mario happy. One weekend, a close friend from Dallas was visiting New York and I invited him and his new lover to stay with Mario and me. This particular friend had a big mouth, and I knew I could count on him to spread the word back in Dallas about how fine my new lover was and how happy I was in my new relationship.

  I asked Mario to forgo his normal weekend trip to Harlem and help me host my friends. At first he resisted, but later agreed to stay home Friday and spend Saturday night at his parents’ home. Although it wasn’t what I wanted, I figured one night was better than nothing.

  The weekend came, and Mario and I took my friends to a couple of shows, including a popular off-Broadway show called Mama I Want to Sing. We stopped at the Nickel Bar for drinks afterward. My friends were impressed with Mario and my life in New York—so much that they tried to convince him to stay home Saturday night so that they would have a chance to spend more time with him. He was polite but said he couldn’t change his plans.

  Early Sunday morning, while my friends were sound asleep in my living room, something very strange happened. I woke from a deep sleep at around 3:00 A.M., with a strong sense that something was wrong. I got up from my bed and went and looked out of my bedroom window onto Eighth Avenue, and then I picked up the phone. I was going to call Mario’s parents, but instead I dialed the number of Mario’s former lover as if I dialed it every day. When a deep male voice answered the phone, I very casually asked to speak to Mario. I was praying he would say I had the wrong number or shout that Mario didn’t live there anymore. Instead he said, “Hold on.” A chill swept over my body. Moments later I heard the voice of my lover, in a groggy voice, say, “Hello.” I was stunned and quickly hung up the phone.

  Tears started to stream down my face, and I turned to the window and watched the cars pass and a few people walk down the street. I was so devastated and wanted to leap from my ninth-floor window. I was thinking, How could this happen again? How could someone I love, who said he loves me too, be spending the night with somebody else?

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Mario returned home. He had a huge smile on his face as he hugged and kissed me while saying how much he had missed me. I returned his kiss, because at the moment I desperately wanted to forget about hearing his voice over the telephone earlier that morning. I was seriously trying to convince myself that the previous night hadn’t occurred. My lover was back in my arms, and that was all I needed.

  Mario asked me if my friends had gotten off all right and if I had gone to church. When Mario started showing signs of depression, I had encouraged him to turn to God, and so we went to church together often. I answered, “Yes” and “No”—I hadn’t gone to church because I was too tired from the weekend.

  Mario went into the bedroom, and a few minutes later I heard the shower running. Minutes later, he came out with a towel wrapped around his waist and asked me to dry his hair. He sat on the floor between my legs as I dried his curly hair in silence. When he asked if everything was okay, I told him everything was fine.

  Mario then turned around and looked up at me directly in the eyes and asked, “Do you know how much I love you?”

  Something went through me like an electrical charge, and I could no longer contain my anger.

  “So is that why you had your ass over at David’s house last night? Is that what loves means to you?” I screamed. I wanted to call him all kinds of bad names, but I didn’t because I wanted him to tell me something that would make me forgive him instantly.

  “What are you talking about?” he asked. “I haven’t seen David since the day I moved in with you,” he lied.

  “Who in the fuck do you think called you last night, Mario? Who do you think it was?”

  His face dropped, and suddenly tears filled his eyes. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. Please don’t leave me. I love you,” he cried.

  His tears and pleading made my anger rise. I wanted to tell him to get his shit and move out, to go back to his former lover, but I knew I was in love with Mario and I wanted him in my life forever. I asked him if he wanted to move back in with David and he said no, that David still hadn’t changed. I asked him if he really loved me and wanted to live with me and me alone. Mario said he truly loved me and wanted to make our relationship work. My anger subsided, and I told him I felt we could work things out, but only if he was going to be totally honest with me. He promised he would, and on that dull Sunday I chose to believe him.

  I had to.

  THE WEEKS THAT FOLLOWED Mario’s betrayal, I barely touched him. I didn’t want him to leave, but it hurt my heart deeply that I again had a lover who chose to be unfaithful. I became depressed and unsure of myself once again. I confided in Randy and asked him not to tell the rest of The Group, because I didn’t want them to dislike Mario even more. Randy suggested I get out of the relationship immediately, but I told him I still loved Mario.

  Mario was doing everything he could to show me that he loved me. He was cooking dinner for me almost every day, and he was initiating romance, even though I still couldn’t bring myself to finish the lovemaking. Since I felt no one could truly understand what I was feeling, I started to see a therapist myself.

  In therapy, I began taking responsibility for Mario’s infidelity. I told my doctor that if I had been a better lover with a perfect body, he wouldn’t have had the desire to be with someone else, and that in some way I had failed Mario. My doctor didn’t agree with my assessment, and tried to have me focus on building my self-esteem.

  With both of us seeing therapists, my relationship with Mario seemed to have a chance, and for a couple of months things returned to normal. Mario was attentive to my needs, and there were no more overnight trips to his “family.” I had convinced myself the relationship had survived the first major storm.

  When he started therapy, Mario had started to keep a journal. I suppose t
he doctor suggested it. He kept the red book in the closet right above the rack where we kept our underwear. I saw it every day but was never tempted to read its contents.

  But one day, when I was feeling a little down about our relationship, I couldn’t resist. Maybe I thought the journal would give me hope about our future. I reached for the journal and anxiously flipped it open to a page that included a type of plus-minus chart, with my name at the top of one column and David’s name on the other. Under my name he had written things like: loves me an awful lot; a good provider; honest; really, really loves me.

  Under David’s name he had: says he loves me. Great lover, great sex. Again I began to feel the devastation I had felt on the night of the phone call. I flipped back a few pages and read an entry where he recounted his recent birthday. He wrote about a surprise party I had given him at Memphis, a popular Upper West Side restaurant.

  Mario wrote how it was the first time anyone had given him a party but he couldn’t help but notice that most of the people there were my friends, like Tracey and Lencola. He went on to write how he had enjoyed the Broadway musical Cats, but how he hated spending the night at the Harley Hotel and making love. He said he felt obligated because of my generosity. As I read his handwritten words, my tears started to flow onto the pages of the journal. I slammed it shut and threw it against the bedroom wall. What a fool I had been. It was clear to me that no amount of therapy was going to save this relationship.

  Still, for some reason, I couldn’t leave Mario. I felt like he needed me and this was my last chance to have a successful relationship with a man, one where we could grow old together. I was thinking of my relationships the way most of my straight friends viewed theirs—long-term. I wanted to be loved, and I thought I could make Mario feel the same way. The only thing I wanted from Mario was honesty—something he couldn’t give me for reasons still unknown.