Object of Desire

by William J. Mann

  “I’m going to miss you, Nana,” I told her, putting down The Glass Menagerie. She looked at me with her round, peaceful blue eyes. “Now, don’t go thinking that I’m forgetting about you just because I’m moving to California.” I knew my words were nothing more than white noise to her, but still, I felt the need to say them. “When I make it big, I’ll send for you. I’ll get you round-the-clock care in a gorgeous house with a beautiful garden, like the kind of garden you used to have. I’ll read to you every day. Or if I can’t read myself, I’ll hire someone to do it. So don’t worry that I’ll forget you.”

  She continued looking at me with those round eyes.

  I reached over and unzipped my suitcase, rummaging inside among my clothes. “This morning, when I was packing, I took only the most necessary things, like underwear and socks and jeans,” I told her. “But I did take this.”

  I produced the four-generation family photo.

  “See, Nana? You gave this to me on my fourteenth birthday. I’ll always keep it. And maybe someday I can come back here, and we can take a photo of you and Dad and me and my son.” Just because I was gay—I had stopped saying “bisexual”—didn’t mean I’d never have a son.

  I placed the photo in Nana’s hands. She looked down at it, saying nothing.

  “You see, Nana? There’s your grandparents, who came from County Cork. And your parents. I was named after your father. Daniel Horgan. And there’s you and Grandpa and then my dad, in the christening robe.”

  She just kept looking silently at the photo.

  I hated leaving behind so much of my stuff. But there was no way I could take all my comics or all my records, or more than a few books. I spent the morning going through my room. Mom was with Father McKenna at a prayer service; various ladies from the parish gathered regularly to sit, holding hands, in a circle and pray together for Becky’s safe return. I had no idea where Dad was. But having the apartment to myself to pack was important; I didn’t want to answer any questions until I was ready to leave. I took one good shirt and one nice pair of pants; the rest of my wardrobe would have to consist of jeans and T-shirts.

  Digging through the back of my dresser drawer, I came upon a crumpled wad of worn cotton. Chipper’s underwear. Without much regret, I tossed them into the trash.

  But something else in my drawer gave me greater pause, compelling me to sit on the edge of my bed for a moment. In my hands I held my Beautiful Men scrapbook. It had been a couple of years since I’d pasted anything in there: the last photo, clipped from People magazine, was of Tom Selleck in a flowered Hawaiian shirt. I leafed through the pages one last time, vaguely worried that if I left the scrapbook behind, Mom might find it. But I no longer cared. I replaced it in my drawer, imagining that someday some little gay boy might clip my photograph out of a magazine, once I, too, was a big star.

  I was heading outside when I saw Father McKenna drive up and Mom get out of his car. I frowned. So I hadn’t made it scot-free, after all.

  Mom saw my suitcase as she came through the door.

  “Where are you going?” she asked sharply.

  “I’m leaving,” I said.

  “What do you mean, leaving? Are you going down to New York again?”

  “No,” I told her, struggling to keep my voice level. “I’m leaving for good. I’m moving to Los Angeles.”

  “Los Angeles?” She didn’t blow her top, as I’d expected. Instead, her voice echoed the evenness of my own. “What’s in Los Angeles?”

  “The film and television industry.”

  “Danny.” She took a step toward me. I tightened my grip on my suitcase. “You just can’t go waltzing off to Los Angeles like that. You know no one there.”

  “I’m aware of that. But I’m still going.”

  She took another step. I kept my eyes on her, waiting for her to lash out and try to hold me down. But I was bigger than she was now. If she tried to slap me again, I could block her. I could hold her off.

  “Danny, you’re talking nonsense,” she said, her voice still calm and steady. There was even a flicker of a smile on her lips, as if she was mocking me. “How would you get there? It’s a long, long way.”

  “I’m taking the bus. I already have my ticket.”

  That seemed to shake her. I was serious.

  “Danny, you just can’t get on a bus to Los Angeles!” Her voice was rising just a bit now. I noticed her big hands were shaking as she made the sign of the cross.

  “Why not?”

  “Because I need you!” Now her eyes were wide and terrified. Her voice trembled. “You can’t just walk out on me! I need you, Danny!”

  Part of me was breaking. Part of me, even still, never wanted to leave her. But another part, a stronger part, the part that lived in the front of my brain and had nothing to do with my heart, could have cared less what she needed. It was that part of myself that took a step toward the door.

  “You can’t just leave!” Mom shouted.

  “Yes, I can.”

  Now she was apoplectic. “If you walk through that door, don’t think you can just come wandering back whenever you feel like it!”

  “I won’t.”

  “Danny!!”

  I headed outside, the screen door slamming shut behind me.

  “Danny!” she shouted from inside the apartment. “Don’t leave me!”

  I refused to cry as I headed out onto the street.

  Heading to the convalescent home, I kept my mind focused on my dream. On those few trips I’d taken into New York on my own, I’d met other actors. People like me, who were daring to take leaps into the unknown. “The artist never truly knows,” one director had said at one audition, quoting Agnes de Mille. “He guesses and takes leap after leap into the dark.”

  One time, I’d run into Troy Kitchens in Greenwich Village. I hadn’t seen Troy since that day in the men’s room. Like me, Troy had been expelled over the incident, even if the good brothers had surely rued the loss of Mr. Kitchens’s financial endowments. Yet, no doubt, they’d considered the possibility of an uppity, unapologetic homosexual continuing under their roof a far worse outcome. For Troy, of course, there would be no East Hartford High: he was trundled off to some prep school in upstate New York. Now, he told me with tremendous satisfaction, he was living with his older brother and taking courses at NYU.

  “And I’m a musician,” he added over coffee and cigarettes in a joint frequented by bohemian types wearing long sideburns and leather pants. “I learned how to play guitar my senior year in high school. And six months ago, I formed a punk-rock band with some other guys.” He beamed. “We’re Troy Kitchens and the Utensils.” He laughed, and I laughed with him. It was good to see Troy laugh. “We’ve already headlined a couple gigs in the city,” he told me. “You watch, Danny. We’re gonna be big.”

  We didn’t talk about that day in the men’s room. All I said was, “I’m sorry, Troy,” and he said, “No, man, I’m sorry,” and we let it drop there. I didn’t blame Troy for what happened. In some ways, it had been more my fault than his. I’d treated him pretty badly at times, and I supposed I deserved what I got. I told Troy I was glad for his success and that I, too, would make it big. We shook hands, then gave each other a quick kiss on the lips. I was heading west soon, I told him. If he ever made it there, he should look me up.

  “Where west?” he asked.

  “Hollywood,” I told him.

  I was heading to Hollywood.

  “I’ve got to get going, Nana,” I said suddenly. “My bus leaves in ninety minutes, and I have to walk downtown.”

  “Can you help me?”

  I stood, replacing the photograph in my suitcase.

  “Can you help me?”

  I put my arms around her. “I love you, Nana,” I said, kissing her cheek. “Danny off the pickle boat will always love you.”

  “Can you help me?”

  I picked up my suitcase and headed out into the hall. And as I turned, I saw my father walking briskly toward me.<
br />
  “Your mother told me you were taking a bus,” he said, out of breath.

  I nodded.

  “But I knew you’d come here first to say good-bye to Nana.”

  I nodded again.

  “Danny,” Dad said, and his words were accompanied, as always, by whiffs of whiskey, “you can’t just go get on a bus and move to Los Angeles.”

  “Why not?”

  It was the same question I’d asked Mom, and Dad had no better answer. He just put his hand on my shoulder. He gestured that I should follow him into an empty reception room across the hall. We entered and sat in chairs opposite each other. I placed my suitcase between my knees. On the wall a television aired The Price is Right.

  “You don’t have any connections in Los Angeles, Danny,” Dad tried arguing. “To be an actor, you need an agent or something like that.”

  “I’ll get one.”

  He sighed. “There are a lot of people out there who will take advantage of an inexperienced kid from Connecticut just off the bus.”

  “I can take care of myself.”

  “Danny, I…” His voice quavered, and I saw tears form in the corners of his eyes. “I know I haven’t been very good to you these last few years. I know—”

  “Dad, it’s okay. Look, I’m going to be late. I need to head downtown to get my bus.”

  “Danny, this lifestyle of yours…”

  I stiffened. “What lifestyle?”

  “You know what I mean.”

  I laughed. “My lifestyle is working at Big Boy and hauling Mom all over hell and creation. That’s the only lifestyle I have. I can’t go on that way anymore, Dad. And you know I can’t.”

  His eyes, previously elusive, met mine. He seemed to understand.

  “I just want you to be safe,” he said to me. “You know, after losing Becky, I just can’t…I mean, I think about you in some back room somewhere….”

  “Dad, I’m not going to be in any back room,” I replied. “I’m going to find an apartment and go to the television studios and audition for parts.”

  “You have no money.”

  “Yes, I do. I’ve saved quite a bit. And I took it all out and turned it into traveler’s checks. You see? I’m responsible. I knew I shouldn’t travel with cash.”

  “Oh, Danny.”

  That was it. The end of his argument. He knew it; I knew it. I stood to leave.

  “Danny, wait.”

  “I can’t,” I told him. “I’ve got to make my bus.”

  He stood now, too. “You may need some cash.” He reached around to his back pocket and produced his wallet. With trembling hands, he pulled out five twenties—probably all that was in there—and handed them over to me. “Don’t tell your mother I gave it to you.”

  “I can’t take it,” I said.

  His face twisted into a mix of outrage and grief. “You’ve got to take it, Danny! It’s all I have to give you, and I’ve got to give you something. After all this time, I’ve got to give you something.”

  I put out my hand and accepted the money, folding it into my pocket. “Thank you,” I said quietly.

  Dad and I faced each other for several moments, not saying anything.

  “I have to go,” I said finally.

  “Call us, will you?” he asked. “When you get settled?”

  I nodded. Then I turned and walked quickly out through the front lobby of the Swan Convalescent Home. From their wheelchairs, old women stretched out their withered arms, beckoning to me. My vision began to blur.

  Outside, in the bright sunlight, I finally allowed myself to cry. I cried for several blocks, not caring who saw me. But by the time I reached the bus station, my tears had dried. I boarded the bus, taking a seat far in back. First stop, Middletown, then New Haven, Bridgeport, Stamford, and New York. I’d transfer there for a Chicago-bound bus, where I’d sleep straight through the Midwest. From there it would be on to Omaha, Wichita, Amarillo, Albuquerque, and Phoenix. And finally, after a journey of nearly a week, Los Angeles. The City of Angels. The Land of Dreams.

  Pressing my forehead against the window, I watched East Hartford fall behind me, along with everything I had ever been and everything I had hoped to be. Eventually, all that was familiar was far out of sight.

  PALM SPRINGS

  My plane landed a few minutes early into the delightful Palm Springs airport, with its open-air terminals and tentlike roofs. The smell of dry sage and dusty earth struck me, and I knew that I was home. The wonderful thing about flying east to west was, if you left early enough, you could arrive before noon and have the whole day ahead of you. Heading out of the airport, I felt good, filled with the possibilities of the day.

  My phone chirped with a message when I turned it back on. I assumed it would be from Frank, since he’d never responded to the message I’d left the night before, and I’d called him again during my layover in Dallas. But it was a text, and it was from Kelly. LEAVING TODAY. MOVING TO PUERTO VALLARTA. WANTED TO SAY GOODBYE AND THANKS 4 EVERYTHING.

  I called him immediately, and he answered. I told him not to go anywhere, that I’d be right over. I drove directly to his apartment from the airport. The slanting rays of the morning sun had turned the mountains violet and sapphire. Along the way, the clusters of annuals planted along the sides of the road made me smile. Yellow snapdragons, red and white petunias, pink and purple poppies. And the pear trees, once again in bloom, suffused the air with a tart fragrance that smelled unmistakably like semen. Only in Palm Springs, I thought, would the air smell like cum.

  I found Kelly packing his old Mercedes with his few possessions: his clothes, his sketch pads, his milk crates, his cinder blocks. His print of Jackie O had been laid carefully on the ledge beneath the back window. He looked up a little warily when I arrived.

  “Puerto Vallarta?” I asked, getting out of the Jeep and approaching him. “How’d this come about?”

  “Damian got a job down there at a resort, and he suggested I go along.” He shrugged. “Vallarta is a big gay tourist destination, you know. I figure there are lots of places where I can get a job bartending.”

  I decided not to ask if he and Damian were dating each other again. “You have a work visa?”

  “Damian’s taking care of all that.”

  “I see. How long will you stay?”

  He was shoving a backpack behind the front seat. With the cinder blocks and milk crates taking up most of the back, there wasn’t much room left in the car.

  “I don’t know,” Kelly replied, not looking at me. “Maybe just for the season. Maybe longer. Anyway, there’s nothing here for me.”

  “There’s the course at CalArts.”

  He rolled his eyes, not unlike Penelope Sue. “Danny, I’m not an artist.”

  “I think you are.”

  “Well, you can think what you want.” He succeeded in stuffing the backpack into the car and slammed the door. Finally, he looked over at me. “Will you help me carry down my mattress?”

  “Sure.”

  We headed up the stairs. I wasn’t sure how I was feeling. Kelly was moving to Mexico; I had no idea when I might see him again. A couple of weeks ago, I would have felt desperate to stop such a plan. I’d have been cajoling and arguing, trying to find a way to get him to stay. But I had no energy for such an effort today. I just followed him back into his apartment.

  It was empty, save for the bare mattress sitting in the middle of the floor. “Do you have a place to live yet?” I asked.

  “Damian knows a guy there. He’s another massage therapist. He has a place not far from the gay beach, and he said we could stay in his guest room.”

  I nodded. So they’d be staying in the same room. Again, I felt nothing.

  Kelly bent down and lifted an end of the mattress. “Will you get the other side?” he asked.

  I hesitated. “Listen, Kelly, I want to apologize for the other night, for acting so weird.”

  He set the mattress back down and put his hands on his hips. “Weird
doesn’t even begin to describe it.”

  “I know,” I said. “It was just some stuff that was going on for me. My mind was all over the place.”

  He grimaced. “But why did you ask those questions about my birth mother?”

  I sighed, running a hand through my hair. “I was being crazy. I’d been thinking about my family. About my sister.”

  “What about your sister?”

  “You see, my sister disappeared when she was sixteen. She just vanished without a trace. We never found out what happened to her. I just got back from a trip to my hometown in Connecticut, in fact. The first time in more than twenty years.”

  “Why did you go?”

  I sighed. “I thought I had found out what happened to her.”

  “And did you?”

  I looked into his eyes. They did indeed resemble the eyes of the man I had confronted in his driveway the day before. Was that the reason they had beguiled me from the start?

  It was possible, Chipper had said. It was possible Becky had been pregnant.

  “No,” I said. “I didn’t find out.”

  “But what did my mother have to do with it?”

  “Probably nothing,” I told him.

  His head tilted in sudden understanding. “You thought…oh my God! You thought maybe she and your sister…”

  “It was craziness. Just grasping at straws.”

  I didn’t mention the birthmark.

  “Well, that would have been really weird, huh?” he asked, dropping the idea as quickly as he had thought of it and picking up the end of the mattress again.

  “Oh yeah,” I agreed. “Really weird.”

  I lifted my end of the mattress, and we hauled it down the stairs, carefully taking one step at a time, our floppy load balanced over our heads. Onto the top of the Mercedes, we slid the mattress, and Kelly began securing it with rope.

  “So what do you think happened to her?” he asked. “Your sister?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve come to the conclusion that I’ll never know.”

  “But what do you think?”