Blink

by Rick R. Reed

  The food for the reception was already picked out and would have a French flair, the menu supervised by a celebrated chef who had restaurants downtown and in Highland Park. The cookies would look like lipstick on a pig. The guilt stabbed at me for thinking such a thing.

  “I think it would be great. No one in Alison’s family has had cookies like that.”

  My mother laughed with relief. “I don’t know why you were giving me crap about it, then. I’m just so glad you came to your senses. We’ll do the candied almonds too. And your cousin Angela already has the design for the cake—yellow and white, right?”

  “Yeah, Mom,” I said, a little out of breath and feeling the heat of tears prick at the corners of my eyes. “With the bridges and the little fountain.”

  What was wrong with me? How could I have even contemplated doing what I had almost just done? I looked over at Carlos on the bed. He had turned against the wall, no longer looking at me, which compounded my shame. He was a good guy. How dare I drag him into my turmoil and confusion?

  No, I needed to make things right. To get back on the—you should pardon the pun—straight and narrow. I had to atone.

  I don’t recall the rest of our conversation. It was most likely more about the wedding, whether my mother should invest in a long dress, how they would handle the rehearsal dinner, stuff like that. All the while we talked, I groped around in the shifting blue light from the TV, gathering my clothes and pulling them on as Mom yammered, blissfully unaware of the crisis her son was having at that very moment.

  By the time we hung up, I was dressed again and knew what I had to do. Carlos was sitting on the edge of my twin bed, looking at me.

  “I guess we’re not gonna finish,” he said sadly. He glanced at me, and I could see the hope in his eyes as he waited, presumably, for me to correct him.

  “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.”

  He didn’t say anything for a while, then, softly, “It’s okay.”

  I went over to the closet near the front door, opened it, and reached inside my jacket pocket for the note I had written. I returned to the bed and held it out.

  “What’s this?” he asked, turning it over in his hands.

  “Not much. But I think when you read it, you’ll understand where I am.” I looked into his eyes, much as it pained me to do it. “And why we can never allow this to happen again.”

  He nodded and set the note down on the mattress. He stood and got dressed quickly.

  He left a few minutes later, without saying a word.

  I curled up on my bed in a little ball, feeling nothing.

  CHAPTER 6: CARLOS

  I HURRY down the stairs, emotions ricocheting through me like I’m some kind of human pinball machine. Disappointment, rage, and sadness compete in equal measure. Part of me wants to turn around, march back up the stairs, and make Andy finish what he started. It had all been going so well until the call from his mother.

  Why didn’t he just let it ring? Would it have made that much of a difference if he had simply talked to his mom a couple of hours later or tomorrow?

  I shake my head, knowing I will do the right thing. I get to the bottom of the stairs, thinking how it’s appropriate that the entrance to Andy’s home is a set of back stairs, hidden away. They kind of reflect who he is. I pause before exiting, knowing the door will lock behind me, and questioning myself. Am I sure I want to step out into the night? In a sense I’ll be burning my bridges behind me.

  But then I think of Andy telling his mom how he can’t wait for July and that “Alison” is “dying” to see her.

  That bridge is already in cinders.

  I step outside. The night is still. The rain has stopped and the air is cool, fresh, and clean. Lake Michigan, opposite the apartment building, shimmers under the light of a half moon, peeking out from behind a bank of slate-blue clouds. Waves dissolve on the shore in soft yet rhythmic pounding.

  I walk across the street and climb up on the boulders near the breakwater at the south end of the beach. It’s cold here, and I shiver. I’m grateful for the chill—it’s bracing. I take a few breaths of the marine air, inhaling its slight fishy tang, and try to let my anger go. Yeah, you could call the guy a tease. He had flirted with me from day one on the train. And then he invites me over, gets me all worked up—if there really were such a thing as blue balls, I’d now have the world’s worst case—and then pitches me out the door. I know I have every right to be furious. My emotions and my libido have been toyed with. It isn’t fair to me, who had no idea this guy was getting married, for Christ’s sake. He’s so deep in the closet, he’d have to drive just to get to the hangers.

  I shake my head. I can’t be mad. I watch a seagull fly across the sky, its form a silhouette against the moon’s illumination.

  The poor guy. I knew from the first moment I saw him that he was conflicted, tortured, whatever word you want to use. Maybe that’s what drew me to him. I have always wanted to be the one who bestows kindness on strangers. I was always the one to coax the stray home and feed him, build a nest in a shoebox for a wounded bird, let countless friends cry on my shoulder. Maybe that’s why I started out studying for the priesthood. Maybe that’s the reason I now work with little kids, who drive me nuts and, at the same time, make me happy.

  Andy. Andy. Andy. Why are you doing this? Why can’t you just let yourself be who you are? You can hide from your mom, from Alison, from your family and friends, but you can’t hide from me how hot you were for me. You can’t hide that you were hungry for me. Starving. That’s so sad. Will you carry this burden, this need, around with you forever—never getting it met? Are you going to spend your whole life pretending you’re someone you’re not? Will you go through the rest of your days wondering if those who love you would if they knew the real you?

  It’s tragic, really. I understand Andy’s confusion. I went through it myself. The priesthood was my naïve way of thinking I could escape my own feelings toward other guys. I tried to bury those urges beneath scripture when I was younger. How stupid was that? A bitter laugh escapes me as I think how entering a seminary to get away from homosexual inclinations was like a dieter hunkering down at Dunkin’ Donuts.

  But at least I can take comfort in the fact that I’m not running from myself. While I don’t broadcast who I am (it would not go over well at the Catholic school where I teach), neither do I hide it from those closest to me. My good friends know and don’t care. Yes, some of them are gay too, but even the straight ones just look at my proclivities as a variation on the human theme.

  I think Andy looks at his desire as something revolting. And how can he? It’s part of him. He’s one of God’s children, created in his image. He’s beautiful and whole just the way he is.

  I wish there were a way I could help him see. I wish now we hadn’t begun having sex, because maybe there would have been a chance I could have befriended him and talked to him about his conflicted feelings and desires. But I know that would have never worked. It was our loins calling to each other, not our intellects.

  It was all about sex. And a damn shame we didn’t even get to finish that. The poor guy’s probably up there right now—I turn my head to glance at his window, where the blue light from the TV flickers—beating off and thinking about what we could have done. After, he’ll feel soul-crushing guilt and will probably renew his promises to himself that he will not allow himself to have these urges ever again.

  I could save him the trouble if I could talk to him. I could tell him you can’t wish away who you are, any more than you can wish away those green eyes that so captivated me.

  I remember the folded piece of paper he handed me and open it. The moon’s light is just bright enough that I can read his words. They’re stark black letters, typewritten, on the page, but that just belies the emotion and melancholy that accompanies them.

  The note pulls at my heart, and I feel tears spill over as I read. He talks about having a “clean heart” when he gets married. Oh, carino, yo
ur heart isn’t dirty because you want something she can’t give you. I wish I could make you understand.

  But the part that really makes me hurt deep down inside, an almost physical ache, is when Andy confesses his hope that he can change. I know firsthand how impossible that will be for him. And I can see into his future, into this life he will have with the innocent “girl,” Alison, and the pain that’s in store for both of them.

  It doesn’t have to be that way, Andy. You’ll hurt her if you back out now, but in the long run, you will all be better off.

  How can I know that? Maybe Andy is the one in a million who can make the lie work. Maybe, deep down, he’ll be miserable the rest of his life, but he’ll make Alison, none the wiser, happy and be a good dad to the children he hopes to father with her.

  I know what the odds are, and I don’t have high hopes for Andy or his future.

  I slip down from the rocks because I’m finally getting too cold. I will go home, and yes, I will masturbate thinking of Andy, completing what was begun in his cramped little studio in the much wider and more open space of my imagination. There, there will be no hesitation, no guilt. There we will couple like animals, devouring each other in our lust, and it will be okay. It will be natural. I will enter him and will feel the gripping, smooth heat of his hole as it tightens around my cock in joy and passion. And in my head and in my hands, I will spurt.

  I think of communion, “This is my body,” and push the thought away.

  After, I’ll try and forget Mr. Andy. I’ll begin a new regimen for work and get in at least a half hour sooner each day, taking the train earlier so chance will not afford us the possibility of meeting again. I can do that much for Andy, give him that much.

  And I will pray for him. First that he has the wisdom to not move forward with his plans, to recognize that he cannot be someone he isn’t. Not really. Not deep down inside.

  Maybe he’ll wise up.

  Maybe I’ll still be around, waiting.

  Maybe not.

  But I will also pray that, if he does go through with his wedding and the years of marriage that will follow, he will somehow come to terms with his desires and find a measure of comfort in the love of his wife and the companionship I hope she will offer.

  I head up South Boulevard and see the train tracks ahead. I quicken my pace, now in a hurry to get back to my little apartment in Bridgeport. I’ll be safe there, and I’ll do my best to put this episode behind me, shaken as I am by it.

  I cross the street and hurry into the station as I hear the rumble of an approaching train. I pause before the ticket window and promise myself:

  I will live an honest life. For myself. For Andy. And I will steer clear of men who cannot do the same.

  CHAPTER 7: ANDY

  FOR A long time, all I could do was lie on my bed and stare at the flickering images on television, letting its pale light wash over me. I muted the sound, so it was just the images. The officers of the Hill Street station chased another bad guy in what looked like the area just south of me, at Wilson and Broadway. After a time, though, the images ran together, blurred by tears and my own inability to understand myself.

  I knew I should have been happy. The biggest day of my life was only a few weeks away. All my family would be here from Ohio. My older sister, Annette, would read from Corinthians at the service. My little sister, Kay, would walk down the aisle as Alison’s maid of honor in her floral print gown from I Magnin. My mother would cry as she was escorted up the aisle, and my father would beam, proud.

  And what would I be thinking? Would I be full of hope or despair? Would I be confident that the love I felt for Alison would be enough to beat this thing?

  Of course it would. It had to be.

  I had to admit, though, if only to myself, that I wanted to know how my little dirty story might have played out if Mom hadn’t called. Part of me wanted to believe I would have been strong and turned away from the temptation of Carlos without outside intervention.

  But here, alone in my studio, I knew I wouldn’t have. Couldn’t have.

  Things had gone too far. The switch had been flipped.

  Thank you, Mom, for turning it back to its rightful place.

  I guess I should have been relieved, grateful, that I hadn’t sinned, given in to the desires I wished fervently I could rip from inside me.

  But I wasn’t. My mind strayed to what would have happened had the phone not rung.

  And with images of Carlos and his dark eyes rising above me, our bodies slick with sweat and glued together, I drifted off to sleep.

  “Come sit down.” Carlos pats the couch next to him. “Supper can wait, Papi. Today’s our anniversary.”

  I look out at Carlos from the kitchen. He’s an old man now but no less handsome. He can still make my heart beat faster. His black hair is now silver but has the same luster, even if it’s now cropped much closer to his head. His brown skin is weathered these days, the lines around his eyes and mouth from laughter etched deeply. Wrinkles have crept across his broad forehead, and his firm gut has turned to a little potbelly. He wears chinos and a white T-shirt.

  And he still looks hot. My Latin lover.

  I adore this man. Our love has grown and matured, just like Carlos, aging with distinction, showing the wear and the joys and heartaches of the years, a fine patina. Yeah, he’s still the same beautiful man I fell in love with on the ‘L,’ but he’s so much more.

  He’s my soul mate, my best friend, my person. The one I threw everything away for but got so much in return.

  I put down the garlic press I was about to use to make a salad dressing, rinse my sticky fingers under the tap, dry them, and go in to join Carlos on the couch.

  He smiles at me when I sit down beside him. He slides an arm around me. Oh, that smile! It can still set off alarms inside. And one thing that hasn’t changed about my Carlos, through all the years, are those dark chocolate orbs that drew me in the very first time I saw him. They’re regarding me now, making me feel like I am the only man in the world.

  I give him a small peck on the cheek. “Now, what did you want to show me?”

  Carlos opens the wide leather-bound photo album that’s been a fixture on our coffee table for all the decades we’ve been together. We don’t look at it much anymore, but come rain or come shine, Carlos unfailingly pulls it out every anniversary.

  “Here we are,” he whispers, close to my ear because I don’t hear so well these days. “Weren’t we the gorgeous pair?”

  “If you do say so yourself!” I laugh. And then I peer down at the picture on the very first page of the album.

  It’s Carlos and me, back in the early 1980s. We are at Rosehill Cemetery on the city’s north side on an autumn day, our arms around each other, smiling for some stranger we had asked to take our picture. I remember her still—a middle-aged woman, beautiful, in loose fitting slacks and top, with dark hair and bangs—taking two or three shots with our Nikon to make sure we got one we would like. Why I remember her is because there was no judgment in her brown eyes, only a kind of wonder and collusion at the happiness that was obvious in our being together.

  The day had been the kind you get only in autumn, with a sky so brilliant and blue it almost glowed. It seemed crafted from paint, as though the birds would be stained by it, disappearing into its shocking color. The trees on the leaves behind us were at the peak of fall beauty—brilliant orange, yellow, and red competed to see which could shine brightest.

  “People probably thought we were weird, wandering around a cemetery,” I say to Carlos. “Who does that?”

  “Chulo, we are weird. That’s why we’ve stuck together through all these years.”

  “That and hot sex.” I wink at him, and he shakes his head, but he’s smiling.

  Rosehill was a special place. We loved wandering among the crypts and tombstones there, the manicured lawns, the pond with its geese and swans. It wasn’t a place of death for us, but a sanctuary of peace and serenity, an oasis in
our busy metropolis. Early on we spent many happy weekends wandering among the tombstones, reading them, seeing how far back in history we could go, and wondering about the lives of the people buried beneath our feet or entombed before us.

  “Look at us.” Carlos taps the photo, and I do. I see two young men, one impossibly, exotically handsome and the other vibrantly young, a mutt that occurred when Italian met German met Welsh. Both guys are dark. Both, as befitting the times, had big moustaches that now look a little silly.

  Both are in love. There’s no denying it. It shines out from the photograph, which is why Carlos and I have put it by itself on the very first page of the album that traces our lives together through imagery.

  We turn the pages, our heads close together. There we are under our first Christmas tree. We had waited until the last minute to pick something up, and it was a true Charlie Brown affair, with bald patches and brown spots. If I close my eyes, I can still hear the needles dropping quickly to the sheet we had wrapped around its base. Carlos would later amass an expensive collection of ornaments that we still pulled out with reverence each year, but this first Christmas, we had made an emergency trip to a Goldblatt’s on Christmas Eve and picked through what was left. The tree was decorated with strings of blinking multicolored lights, candy canes, and, oddly, Star Wars figurine ornaments left over from 1977. We topped the tree with a Dorothy doll from The Wizard of Oz.

  “That had to have been the ugliest, or gayest, Christmas tree ever,” I say.

  Carlos nudges my shoulder with his own. “It’s beautiful. It was our first. Remember the present you gave me under that tree?”

  We both let out a low-pitched chuckle, my mind drifting back to the blowjob I had given him that morning as his first present in the glow of the flashing lights. “You mean the bikini underwear?” I ask innocently.