Lies With Man

by Michael Nava

  “Something made you decide against it.”

  “There was the practical problem of how I was going to do it, and then there was my mom. I thought about how much it would hurt her and how she would blame herself. And my sisters— even my dad.” He shifted away from me on the couch, drew a breath, and said, “I thought about it again when I got my diagnosis.”

  “About killing yourself?”

  “Yeah. For about a minute. Well, maybe five minutes. It was the same thing as when I was a kid, seeing a future filled with suffering. I didn’t know if I would be strong enough to take it.”

  “You’re not alone anymore.”

  “You say that like you mean it.”

  “I do mean it.”

  “Will you mean it when things get ugly? When I look like— you know. One of those walking skeletons you see all over Boystown?”

  I reached for him, but he shook me off.

  “Josh, we don’t know what the future holds.”

  “We know you’ll be alive in ten years and I—” he slumped against the back of the couch.

  “You don’t have to torture yourself this way,” I said. “It’s a choice.”

  “What’s a choice?” he snapped.

  “Your attitude about being infected. With all the uncertainty of what might happen, that’s really all you have any control over. You can choose to live in fear or to live in hope. You can choose to isolate yourself from the people who love you or let them love you. Learn, even under these circumstances, to love yourself.”

  His serious expression dissolved into a grin. “That’s pretty woo-woo coming from you.”

  I reached for him again, and this time he let me pull him toward me, stretched out on the couch, and laid his head in my lap.

  “I learned it from Larry,” I said, “who was the least woo-woo person I ever met. But he was right,” I continued, stroking Josh’s face. “Our minds want to take us to dark places, but we don’t have to go. We can stay right here. And if we are going to fantasize about the future, why not fantasize about a happy one?”

  Josh smirked. “That’s called wishful thinking.”

  “I prefer to call it hopeful thinking.” Our eyes met and I said, “If you could see yourself the way I see you. . .”

  “What would I see?”

  “You’d see why I love you so much.”

  He looked into my eyes as if he was looking for a glimmer of his own image. Whatever he saw satisfied him because he said, “Let’s go to bed.”

  ••••

  I lay on the bed, naked, watching him undress. He quietly removed his shirt, pants, and T-shirt, and draped them over a chair until he stood wearing only a pair of black briefs banded with the inevitable Calvin Klein logo. His body was lovely, slender, smooth, leanly muscled— the body of a young man who gave no more thought to his body than a bird gave to its wings. He stepped to the edge of the bed within my arm’s reach and asked, “Are you sure you want to do this with me?”

  “Never been surer of anything.”

  He reached his fingers into the waistband, pulled down his underwear, and kicked it off.

  ••••

  I woke up the next morning alone in the bed. Josh’s clothes were still draped on the chair, but my bathrobe was missing from the hook on the door where I hung it. Images of the night drifted though my head— his shudder of pleasure when I took him in my mouth, the taste of him, how, lying on his belly, he had looked over his shoulder, eyes clouded with want, and how his flesh yielded as I slowly entered him. Afterward, as he lay with his head on my chest, he said, “When I got my diagnosis, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to have sex again.”

  “Why would you think that?”

  “This is how I got infected, doing this. I didn’t think I’d be able to stop thinking about that when I was in bed with a guy and it would freak me out. But I didn’t feel that with you. I mean, I did a little, when you went down on me but then the way you touched me . . .” His voice trailed off.

  “Yeah?”

  “I’m trying to think of how to say it. I mean, it was hot, and you clearly wanted me but there was something else. It was . . . healing.”

  “I felt it, too.”

  “You did?”

  “Mm-hmm.” I threaded my fingers through his hair. “I haven’t been with anyone since I moved down here from San Francisco two years ago.”

  He tipped his head up. “Come on, really?”

  “Really,” I said. “At first, I was too busy setting up my practice and then Larry died and that knocked the wind out of me and then with everything else going on— this quarantine thing, people getting sick— sex seemed trivial.” I kissed the top of his head. “But sex isn’t trivial. It’s kind of the whole point. I’m not talking about an anonymous blow job in a bathhouse— that’s its own thing and not what I’m looking for anymore. But this kind of sex, it opens a door to something deeper . . .”

  I ran out of words and kissed him, and we again sank to each other’s bodies.

  ••••

  The sun was shining in my eyes as I awakened alone in the bed. I got up, pulled on my boxers, and went out to find Josh. I followed the smell of brewing coffee to the kitchen where he sat at the table with the Times spread out before him.

  “Morning, baby,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee.

  He lifted his head. “You should read this. It’s about the church bombing. Someone was killed. One of the priests or whatever they call them.”

  I stepped to the table and looked over his shoulder. There were pictures of the church— the front entrance blown out, a second building shattered, the wall blown out to expose a burned-out room— and then a photograph of the victim, the senior pastor of Ekklesia, a man named Daniel Herron.

  I sat down. “I know him.”

  “The priest?”

  “Pastor,” I said. “Yeah, him.”

  I told Josh about the Dan who had called me seeking alternative treatments for his son with AIDS and how Jack Mulvany and I had met with him.

  “I had no idea who he was; all he would tell us was his first name. Then, I saw him at the hearing where the judge struck the casual transmission language from the pro-54 ballot statement. He was sitting with Schultz. Wen and Katie told me who he was.”

  Josh said, “You mean, this guy who runs a church that’s supporting the quarantine has a son who has AIDS?”

  “Yes. He wanted to get him into the AZT trials. Said he had a powerful friend. I’m pretty sure he meant Schultz.” I scanned the article. “Two bombs. No suspects. No motive. Very strange.”

  Josh folded the paper. “I guess QUEER can cross that church off their list.”

  “Josh, a man died. A father who loved his son enough to cross enemy lines to try to help him.”

  “Sorry,” Josh replied. “You’re right, it’s terrible. His poor son. Was he at least able to get him into the AZT trials?”

  “I don’t know. I hope so. You know, once it’s approved, you’ll have access to it too.”

  “Sure,” he said, in a clipped voice.

  “Did I say something wrong?”

  “No, it’s just— after last night, I don’t want to think about it.”

  “I understand.”

  “I’m not in denial,” he said.

  “I know you’re not. Will I see you again tonight?”

  With a slight shake of his head, he replied, “I need to deal with Theo.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean,” he said decisively, “that I’m going to tell him to move out. Now he’s smoking meth right in front of me. He laughed when I suggested rehab. Plus, Freddy’s practically living with us. I’ve let them run me out of my apartment. I’ve had enough.”

  “Do you want me to come as backup?”

  “I can handle it myself,” he replied. “I need to handle it myself.”

  “Will you call me and let me know how it goes?”

  “Sure,” he said. He picked up the pap
er and said, “You know, if this fundie preacher could accept his gay son, maybe my dad will accept me someday.”

  ••••

  That evening after a sandwich dinner I was working on some long overdue billing when I heard the front door open and then Josh saying, “Henry? Where are you?”

  I got up from the dining table and met him in the foyer.

  “Hey, I wasn’t expecting you.” He set down the backpack that carried his toiletries and change of clothes. “You’re staying? Is everything okay? You have a fight with Theo?”

  He embraced me, kissed my cheek and said, “Yes, yes and no.”

  I released him. “You evicted your roommate?”

  “I didn’t have to,” Josh said. He unzipped his backpack, removing a foil-covered package. “I brought you dinner.”

  “I ate,” I said.

  He scoffed. “What, peanut butter and jelly again? Come on,” he said, heading into the kitchen. “It’s pasta in cream sauce with prosciutto and zucchini blossoms. One of the chef’s best dishes.”

  I followed him into the kitchen. He removed the foil, and the fragrance of garlic, cheese, and cream filled the room. He pulled a bowl out of the cupboard, filled it with pasta, slipped it into the microwave, and set it for ninety seconds.

  “Theo was gone when I got to the apartment,” he said, leaning against the counter. “His house key was on the kitchen table and he’s taken all his stuff, clothes, toothbrush, everything.”

  “No explanation?”

  “He left a note.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out a scrap of lined paper, and handed it to me.

  Josh, I’m taking off. Thanks for everything. I didn’t mean to get you into trouble. Love, Theo

  “Got you into trouble? What’s that about?”

  “His comings and goings late at night disturbed my next-door neighbor who complained about him to the manager, who reminded me I was the only person on the lease,” he replied. “I’m a little worried about where he’s gone.”

  “With Freddy?”

  “Could be, but he told me Freddy lives with his folks and isn’t out to them.”

  “It’s not your problem anymore.”

  “No, I guess not.” The microwave dinged. “Sit down and eat this. It’s amazing and afterward . . .”

  “Afterward, what?”

  “You can take a shower with me.”

  EIGHT

  I followed the story of the church bombing in the Times, feeling personally invested because I’d met Dan Herron. After a week, the story dropped from the front section to the Metro section and the articles were shorter and repetitive. I took that as a sign either that there were no new developments or that the cops were keeping quiet because they were closing in on a suspect and didn’t want him to know how far the investigation had gone.

  There had been two bombs. The first, planted at the entrance to the chapel, had a showier impact because of all the glass it shattered, but was less powerful than the second one, which had been planted in a doorway at the administrative building behind the chapel. The second explosion brought down a wall, killed Dan Herron, and blasted the garden where the founder of the church was buried, damaging his grave. The cops said the bombs were homemade pipe bombs set with timers. No other details were given, but I figured bombs that powerful were probably made by someone who knew what he was doing. The cops were also silent as to motive while stunned church members were at a complete loss as to why their church or leader should be the target of a bombing.

  I stereotyped all evangelicals as fanatical Bible-thumping religious bigots, but Daniel Herron’s obit, published five days after the explosion, revealed a more complicated character. He wasn’t raised in a religious family but had converted in the late’60s in San Francisco during the Jesus People movement, an odd amalgam of hippie counterculture and evangelical Christianity. Afterward, while attending Bible college in LA, he had run a street mission in Skid Row that not only proselytized but also fed and clothed the destitute. He’d joined Ekklesia as its youth minister where he apparently rejuvenated the congregation by bringing in young families and had raised a lot of money that went into expanding its facilities to include a school and various charitable programs. The founder had designated Herron as his successor, and he assumed leadership when the founder died.

  Unlike other evangelical leaders, he tended to stay out of politics. His message, read the obit, “was always one of uplift, hope and God’s love.” Also unlike other evangelicals, he was something of an ecumenicalist. Hester Prince said he was the only evangelical clergyman to call and congratulate her on her ordination as the first woman Episcopalian priest in Southern California. Titus Jones, a bishop in the AME church, remembered that Herron had given the invocation at Mayor Bradley’s third inauguration and had always maintained a bond with LA’s Black clergy. Nonetheless, the obit continued, he fully subscribed to the tenets of his church’s fundamentalist theology, was vocally opposed to Roe versus Wade and abortion for any reason, and favored the return of prayer in school. The biggest surprise for me came at the end of the obit, which listed his survivors: wife, two sisters, both parents. But no children, no son.

  On a whim, I called Jim Mulvaney with whom I’d met with Herron when he came pleading for help for his son.

  After some catching up, I asked him, “You remember Dan, the guy we met at the court cafeteria that day with the infected son.”

  “Sure,” Jim said. “The mysterious stranger.”

  “Did you ever hear from him again?”

  Jim ruminated for a moment. “As a matter of fact I did. He called me a few weeks after we talked and asked me about getting ribavirin and Isoprinosine for his boy up in San Francisco. I gave him a name and a number.”

  “That was that?”

  “He was just as tightly wound over the phone as he was in the flesh.”

  “I guess he wasn’t able to get his son into the AZT trial.”

  “I guess not,” Jim replied. “Why are you asking about him?”

  “You read about the church that was bombed on La Brea? He was the pastor there. He was killed in the explosion.”

  “No shit,” he said, astounded. “Isn’t that a fundie church?”

  “Yeah, apparently.”

  “Wow, that’s really strange, but I guess it explains why he was so cagey with us. Really sorry to hear he was killed. Whatever else he may have been, seems like he was a good dad.”

  To a son he had apparently never acknowledged, I thought, as we said our good-byes.

  ••••

  I’d been expecting Josh for an hour and had ordered a big takeout dinner from a local Lebanese restaurant to thank him for all the meals he’d made for me when the phone rang.

  “Hello.”

  I heard a shaky, “Henry?”

  “Josh. Are you okay?”

  “I’m at the Hollywood police station,” he said. “The police are saying they’re going to arrest me.”

  “Arrest you?” I said, trying to make sense of the conversation. “For what?”

  “Bombing that church,” he said.

  “What!”

  “They’re serious, Henry. They came with a warrant and searched my apartment and dragged me down here.”

  “Have you answered any questions?”

  “I told them I wanted to talk to my lawyer.”

  “Good boy. Sit tight. If the cops try to question you again, tell them you won’t talk until your lawyer arrives. I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

  I hung up, ran to my car, and sped down the hill to the police station.

  ••••

  At the station I had a testy exchange with the beleaguered desk officer about Josh’s whereabouts and his status; the cop conceded he wasn’t under formal arrest.

  “Detained,” the cop growled, “as a person of interest.”

  “But not arrested.”

  “That’s what I said, counsel.”

  “Then he’s free to leave,” I pointed out. �
�I want him released. Now.”

  The cop gave me a feral look, but I was used to that tactic; mad-dogging it was called on the streets when gangbangers used it to intimidate each other. I wasn’t sure if the cops got it from the gangs or the gangs got it from the cops.

  “My client has invoked the right to counsel. I’m his counsel. You are preventing me from talking to him in violation of his constitutional rights. You might not care about that, Officer . . .” I glanced at his name tag “. . . Healy, but I can promise you a judge will. If he’s not under arrest, I want him released. Every moment you delay is an unlawful detention.”

  The words constitutional, judge, and unlawful detention seemed finally to register.

  “Wait here,” he barked and disappeared into the back.

  A few minutes later he emerged with Josh and practically pushed him through the doorway into the waiting room. Josh looked disheveled and exhausted but managed a weak smile when he saw me. As soon as we were outside, though, out of eyesight of the cop at the counter, he threw himself into my arms, sobbing.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” I said, holding him. “Are you okay? Did the cops do anything to you?”

  He pulled away a bit. “No, not physically, but I’ve never been so scared in all my life.” He wiped his nose on his sleeve. “They said I helped Theo blow up the church.”

  “Let’s go home. You can tell me the whole story there.”

  He slumped silently in the passenger seat. I had a hundred questions, but he was still shaken by whatever had happened at the station, so I let him be. We stopped for a light on Sunset. On the left side of the street a billboard featured a diminutive, sweet-faced middle-aged woman in a house dress and frilly apron pointing a wooden spoon at a shirtless hunk. Above them were the words, “Mother says, Play safe.”

  Josh glanced at it and murmured, “The police officer called me a faggot. Faggot. Queer. Pervert. Every name he could think of. He said, ‘don’t worry, punk, where you’re going, you’ll have all the dick your ass can handle.’ He pushed me against the wall and was screaming in my face. Accusing me of murder. I almost pissed myself, Henry. I thought he was going to beat me up. If you hadn’t come when you did, I would have confessed just to get him to stop.”