Object of Desire

by William J. Mann

  Bruno was studying me. “Well, he ain’t riding now,” he said, and I recognized the voice from the answering machine. “What’s he got his helmet still on for?”

  My eyes swung around and latched onto the face of the dark girl. If it was Becky, I was prepared to run. If not—

  My eyes found hers. She was looking straight at me.

  And she wasn’t my sister.

  I took off the helmet. “Hey,” I said casually.

  Bruno immediately lost interest. He examined the bike a bit more, then exchanged a few words with Lenny on the sidewalk. The girls wandered back inside. Then Lenny told Bruno he’d see him around and nodded for me to hop back on the bike. I replaced the helmet and once again gripped him around the middle. We roared off.

  “Not her, huh?” he shouted over the sound of the engine.

  “No,” I said.

  Waiting for us outside the Blue Dog, standing beside Troy’s car, Mom was furious with the news. She acted as if somehow I’d made a mistake.

  “It’s been a year!” she shrilled. “You might not have recognized her. She could have changed. She could have lost weight, put on weight…”

  “It wasn’t her,” I said.

  “What about inside?” Mom demanded. “There could’ve been another girl inside.”

  “The word is that Bruno’s living with two girls right now,” Lenny replied. “And we saw both of ’em.”

  “Up close,” I told her. “It wasn’t Becky.”

  Mom went on. “But Warren said the Rubberman said—”

  “The Rubberman was wrong,” Lenny told her. “And frankly, Peg, I think he’s been wrong all along.”

  Mom’s face was so red, the vein in her forehead pulsing so prominently, that I thought, quite truthfully, that her head was about to explode. Clenching her fists at her side, she leaned back and looked up the darkening gray sky and screamed at the top of her lungs. One long howl. Lenny rushed over and put his hands on her shoulders.

  “Listen to me, Peg!” he shouted. “I don’t know where your daughter is, but she’s not with Bruno! Maybe she was at one time, but she’s not anymore! Stop giving money to Warren! You’re just pissing it away.”

  She yanked herself away from him and threw herself into the car, slamming the door behind her. “I’ll talk to Warren myself!” she yelled through the window. “You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about! I won’t listen to you! Just wait till I call Warren! Warren will know what to do!”

  I slipped into the backseat as Troy started up the car. Mom was angry and sputtering all the way home. I kept trying to tell her that I’d done my best, but she just barked at me to shut up. “I can’t think,” she said. “I just need to talk to Warren.”

  I settled back against the seat and closed my eyes, realizing I’d probably never see Lenny again, and that made me sad for an odd reason. I liked how he’d called me buckaroo.

  Back at our apartment, Mom stormed inside, leaving Troy and me to lean against his car and watch the sun drop behind the trees. The sky was stained pink and orange.

  “You think she’ll ever find her?” Troy asked, pink light on his face.

  I just shook my head.

  “So what do you think happened to Becky?”

  I shrugged. “Guess you were right in the beginning. She’s probably dead.”

  I felt no emotion speaking the words.

  Troy pressed his shoulder against mine. “You know, I was worried about you when you took off on that bike. I didn’t know what might happen to you at Bruno’s house.”

  “Well, nothing did,” I said.

  “Still, I was worried.”

  At that moment, a car came screeching into our complex, a car I recognized. It was Chipper’s Mach 1. My heart quickened. He slammed to a stop on the other side of the parking lot so that Mom wouldn’t see him. He saw us and got out of the car, motioning us over. I could tell by his movements that he was pissed.

  “Oh, man,” I said and ran toward him, Troy at my heels.

  “Where the fuck were you?” Chipper was asking, wearing a football jersey with the number eleven on the front and a pair of faded blue jeans. “I waited for you at that fucking nursing home for a fucking hour.”

  “I’m so sorry, Chipper. It was my Mom. She—”

  I noticed the look he threw at Troy.

  “Oh, I see,” he said. “You had a meeting of Fags Anonymous.”

  “Fuck you, Chipper,” Troy said.

  Chipper lunged forward, grabbing the front of Troy’s shirt. Troy’s face was terrified.

  “Stop!” I shouted, pushing my hands between them. Chipper let go, and Troy backed off a couple of feet. “Chipper, you know that Troy hauls Mom and me around when she’s out hunting for Becky. She had another crazy scheme today, and I had to leave my grandmother. I’m sorry. There was no way to let you know.”

  Chipper folded his arms across his chest and looked away. “Whatever. I just had a really shitty day, and I didn’t appreciate waiting around at that frigging nursing home, feeling all stood up—especially after I’d been good enough to offer to give you a ride home.”

  I stood in front of him, feeling horrible. “You’re right. I am so sorry, Chipper.”

  Chipper moved his eyes suddenly to meet mine, and the intensity of them startled me. Chipper had beautiful eyes. So dark. So reflective. I could almost see myself in them.

  “Let’s go for a ride,” he said in a low voice. “Just us.”

  I turned to Troy. “I gotta go with Chipper now.”

  I could see the hurt on Troy’s face. Troy had shown courage in standing up to Chipper, but it was stupid, too. Chipper was right. Troy was a fag. A stupid fag. At least I was bisexual. That little bit of straightness in me made the difference between us, I thought.

  Troy looked at me through his tinted glasses. “You want me to come by tomorrow and pick you up for school?”

  “No,” I said. I realized I needed to redeem myself in front of Chipper. “You know, Troy, the only reason I still hang out with you is that my mom makes me. She needs you to drive her around. But that’s over now, after what happened today. I think from now on you should just keep your distance.”

  Troy took a step back, as if I’d punched him. “Fuck you, too, then,” he finally said.

  “Okay, whatever,” I said.

  He turned to Chipper. “Hope you continue to enjoy playing tailback on the team. Every time you get out to play, Coach says to get your tail back on that bench.”

  Chipper’s eyes went wild. He made another mad lunge at Troy, but Troy sprinted away too fast.

  Hopping into his Jaguar, he sped off.

  “Get in,” Chipper said, swearing under his breath. I ran around to the passenger side of the Mach 1. In moments we were squealing out of the parking lot. Chipper drove with one hand and dug out his marijuana pipe from under the seat with the other. He handed it to me to light.

  “You know, it pisses me off to come over here and find you hanging out with that fag Kitchenette again,” he said.

  “His name is Kitchens.”

  “Whatever,” Chipper said. “He’s still a fag.”

  I lit the pipe and took a hit. It was the last of the pot I had stolen from Troy. I was feeling pretty bad about what I’d said to him. It would be hard to be in the play together and not be friends. When I saw him the next day, I’d have to apologize.

  “He’s really not so bad,” I told Chipper, handing him the pipe. “He gets good weed, you gotta give him that. Plus he puts up with Mom’s crap.” I laughed. “She got this tip that Becky was living with Bruno down in Naugatuck.”

  “Naugatuck? Where the fuck is that?”

  “Down near Waterbury. So we drove down there, and it wasn’t her.” Chipper handed me back the pipe. “I’m starting to think she’s not with Bruno at all.”

  “I coulda told you that.”

  I looked over at him. “How could you have told me that?”

  He scoffed. “All that talk abo
ut Becky running off with bikers. That’s bullshit. She wasn’t into bikers. That’s not why she disappeared.”

  He had never been quite so definitive before. “Then why did she disappear?” I asked.

  He didn’t answer.

  “Chipper,” I said, pressing, “do you know why Becky disappeared?”

  “All I know is,” he told me, taking another hit off the pipe, “I had one fucking long, shitty day.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  We turned into Eagle Hill Cemetery. The Mach 1 jostled over a dirt road, climbing the hill to the summit of the old graveyard.

  “That little fucker Kitchenette was right.” The car dropped down into a rut, knocking us around a bit, but Chipper didn’t comment, just drove on. “Coach O’Brian says I’m not big enough to play against St. Thomas. All the guys are frigging brutes on that team.”

  “Well, he’s making a big mistake,” I told him.

  “Damn straight he is. I think I’m plenty big enough.” He came to a stop and shut off the ignition behind a large tree. Only a few orange leaves still clung to its branches. “Okay,” Chipper acknowledged, “so maybe I’m not as big as that dickhead Tommy Masters, the coach’s kiss-ass quarterback, but Masters hasn’t won a single game for us all season. He’s the clumsiest player on the team.”

  “He’s terrible,” I agreed.

  “And if I’m not as big as some of those freaks, I’m strong. I’m stronger than any of them.” Chipper suddenly popped open his car door and jumped outside. “I’ll show you how strong I am.”

  I got out of the car as well, watching him. The sun had set, but there was still enough blue light to see as Chipper made his way to an overturned gravestone. Bending over, he struggled with it, getting his fingers underneath, digging into the moist earth. Finally, he budged the stone and lifted it up toward his chest, grunting. He managed to get it up off the ground by about five inches; then he let it drop. I think he was disappointed that he couldn’t lift it over his head, but I decided to cheer, anyway.

  “Aw right!” I said. “That was awesome!”

  There was a hint of a smile on his face. “Fucking coach,” he muttered under his breath. “I’m plenty strong.”

  “You are. You have an amazing body, Chipper.”

  Shadows crept across his face. From the top of the tree, a crow cawed several times. “I’ve been going to the gym every day,” he said, cocky now. “I’ve been getting really ripped up. You wanna see?”

  I could barely answer. “Yeah…”

  He pulled his football jersey over his head and tossed it to the ground. His torso was leaner than those of most football players, but he’d developed a nice set of round shoulders. His pectorals were defined but flat against his body. A six-pack of abdominals dropped down into his jeans. He flexed me the classic double-bicep pose.

  “Wow,” I said, and I meant it.

  Suddenly he sat, plopping down on the gravestone he’d attempted to lift, and covered his face with his hands. I thought he might be crying. “I’ve waited four years to make a name for myself on the team,” he muttered. “And now that fucking asshole won’t let me play! All four years of high school down the fucking drain!”

  I sat down beside him and placed my arm around his naked shoulders. “You’re a great player, Chipper. He’s got to see that.”

  He looked at me. “Do you have any idea what I’m going through? All my life was leading up to this year. This year! My senior year! I was supposed to be the big star of the school! My dad always told me I’d be the top guy. He said I had everything going for me. And now he acts like it’s somehow my fault that I’m not playing, that the coach keeps me on the bench. He blames me!”

  “Well, he doesn’t know what he’s talking about….”

  Chipper leaned his head back, his face contorted, the veins on his neck standing out. “I was supposed to be the star, not that asshole Tommy Masters! It was supposed to be me!”

  “If you were the star, we’d be undefeated. Masters sucks!”

  He put his face in his hands again and moaned. “Everything started going wrong for me the day Becky left,” he said in a muffled voice. “From that day on, I was cursed.”

  “Why?” I asked, drawing in a little closer. “What happened that day?”

  Chipper stood up. “I am fucking strong! Nobody can say otherwise! Come here! Feel my bicep!”

  I stood and obeyed, cupping my hand over his left bicep. A jolt of electricity shivered through my body.

  “Wow,” I said again, and once again meant it. Even more this time.

  “Okay, that’s enough,” Chipper said and pulled his jersey back on.

  Without saying another word, he got back into the car. I followed.

  For much of the ride home, we didn’t speak. When the apartment complex was in sight, Chipper turned to me and said, “You liked that, huh?”

  “Liked what?”

  “Feeling my muscle.”

  I shrugged. “I liked it okay.”

  “Then maybe you are a fag.”

  I was silent.

  “If you keep hanging out with that Kitchenette kid, mark my words, Danny, you will turn into a fag,” Chipper told me. He pulled the car into the lot outside my apartment, making sure to park far enough way so that Mom wouldn’t see us. “And if you turn into a fag, we can’t hang out anymore.”

  “I’m not a fag,” I said.

  “Hard not to think so the way you jumped on my muscle.”

  “You asked me to.”

  “I was just testing you.”

  I sighed.

  “You’re the only one who understands me,” Chipper wailed suddenly. “My father is on my ass all the time. And Coach O’Brian is an asshole.” He turned and looked at me hard. “So I don’t want you hanging out with Troy anymore. Okay?”

  “Okay.”

  “See you tomorrow, then.”

  “Okay, Chipper.”

  I got out of the car, and he sped off.

  Inside the apartment, Mom was already in bed. I imagined she’d cried herself to sleep again. Dad was sitting on the couch, drunk, watching Match Game PM. There was nothing in the refrigerator to eat, so I just went to my room. I couldn’t get Chipper’s words out of my head. He had felt cursed since the day Becky disappeared. Why? What had happened that day?

  He drowned her.

  The idea hit me like a freight train.

  He drowned her in the pond.

  But I was sure the police had dragged the pond in their search for her. I was being crazy. Chipper would never do such a thing. Why would such a crazy idea come into my mind?

  I pulled out my scrapbook of Beautiful Men. I turned each page, gazing into their eyes, caressing the glossy magazine images, no matter that they were bumpy and scarred from the paste underneath. Recently I’d added Erik Estrada, John Schneider, and David Naughton to the collection—the last of whom hailed from Hartford, so he was my current favorite. David Naughton was proof that somebody from here could grow up and make it.

  But none of them, I decided, were as beautiful as Chipper, whose shirtless torso in that dark cemetery remained burned into my mind.

  PALM SPRINGS

  It was Penelope Sue’s annual Halloween party. Everybody who was anybody—or at least everybody Penelope Sue had decided was anybody—was there. My invitation, I was certain, had come courtesy of Donovan, since his wife seemed determined to cling to her complete and utter oblivion of my existence. It had always been Donovan who’d made sure Frank and I got invited to these soirees at his house.

  This time, however, Frank had indicated by a slow turn of his head that he wasn’t interested in attending; since our contretemps the other night, he was still sleeping in the casita, and most of our communication had become similarly nonverbal. So I was obliged to ask Randall to accompany me. When I apprised Donovan of this change to the guest list, he insisted that Randall bring along his “hunky new Arab boyfriend.” So it was three of us who gathered on Saturday night at
Hassan’s to put on our costumes.

  “I am less an authentic sheik,” Hassan said, slipping into an Arab headdress, “than I am Rudolph Valentino playing one in a silent movie.” He admired himself in the mirror. “Just so that it’s clear.”

  “Well,” said Randall, “I’m less an authentic drag queen than I am a Century City orthodontist playing one for a pretentious Palm Springs party.”

  I laughed. Randall had wanted to go as Cher, during her “If I Could Turn Back Time” period. Black fishnet stockings stretched across the round tree trunks he called thighs, while a wig of black ringlets cascaded from his head. But when the look failed to come together, he came up with the idea of going as Cher playing Baby Jane Hudson in a remake of What Ever Happened to Baby Jane? Rouging his lips, caking on face powder, Randall strode around the room, swinging his hips and waving a cigarette—Cher doing Bette Davis doing Baby Jane. “You are the gayest man ever to live,” I told him.

  As for me, I couldn’t decide what to wear. I wasn’t really in the mood for a party. But it was the prospect of seeing Donovan that had finally convinced me to accept the invitation. Now, even I had to admit that was a first. Donovan Hunt was usually the very last reason I ever went to one of his (or his wife’s) parties. But this time, I needed to talk with him. He was the only one I could talk to, in fact. Besides, another night of sitting alone in the house, with Frank watching television out in the casita, neither of us speaking, was just too depressing to consider.

  “Does this look okay?” I asked the boys.

  Randall made a face. “What are you supposed to be? A matador?”

  “No, silly,” Hassan interjected. “He’s a pirate.”

  I scoffed. “You’re both wrong. If I were a matador, I’d have a red cape. If I were a pirate, I’d have an eye patch.”

  “Then what are you?” Randall asked.

  “I’m a gypsy.” I turned and looked back in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty good. Okay, so the short little black vest I was wearing, picked up at a vintage costume shop, probably did come from a matador costume originally. And the single large gold loop hanging from my left ear might well have been more appropriate for a pirate than a gypsy. But only a gypsy wore this many rings. From every finger of both of my hands, including my thumbs, sparkled fake amethysts and rubies and diamonds. And only a gypsy would wear a pentagram around his neck, its sharp points occasionally stabbing his bare chest, in order to ward off werewolves. I thought it was obvious that I was a gypsy.