Floridian nights, p.9
Floridian Nights, page 9
“Okay, so you did wake me. You sort of flew awake at the start–”
“Oh God, I’m sorry, Laura.”
“It’s okay.”
“I just miss him so much.”
“I know.” Odd, but she was the one crying.
“If only he hadn’t died the way he did.”
“I know, I know.”
•
They didn’t discuss it in the morning; it was not, in fact, the first time Laura had been there when The Nightmare had struck. But he was grateful for what she’d done, and keenly aware that he hadn’t yet spoken with Gil as promised. When he volunteered to go out for the Sunday Times, bagels, and croissants (a relatively new option in his neighborhood), he asked his brother-in-law to accompany him. Gil raised his eyebrows, but silently assented.
“So how’s it been going, Gil?” Gary began as they strolled down Hudson Street.
“It’s going all right,” Gil said, lighting and puffing on his pipe.
Gary hated making small talk with straight men – the eternal search for safe subjects to discuss. But in this case, he’d been asked not to play it safe. “Everything seems fine with the kids,” he ventured.
“Basically.”
“Guess they’ll be starting school soon.”
“Of course,” Gil said, sounding more bored than annoyed.
Gary was obviously going to have to do all the work. “They must be taking more interesting subjects now that they’re older. Are they at an age where they’re taking foreign languages yet?”
Gil hesitated, then said, “Didn’t you hear last night? They want to take Japanese. Both of them.”
“Well, that’s terrific. Don’t you think so?”
“Why would I think so? And at any rate, what I think probably doesn’t matter. They’ll do what Laura wants in the end.”
He didn’t say anymore, and Gary figured he’d elicited a sort of grudging assent from his brother-in-law. Rather than push his luck, he walked in silence with him the rest of the way to their destination.
But on the way back to the apartment, Gil suddenly said, “You want to know why I’m against it, don’t you? Marta and Glen taking Japanese.”
“I guess I’d think you’d be all for it.”
“Why?” Gil asked sharply.
“Well, you know, the Pacific Rim is where everything’s gonna happen in the next 50 years. Japanese could be mighty useful to know.”
Gil almost smiled. “And that’s all?” When he got no response, he pressed: “You weren’t going to say I should be happy ’cause I’m Japanese?”
“You’re not Japanese. You’re American.”
“You are diplomatic, Gary. Maybe you should go into politics.”
“What do you want me to say, Gil? If your parents had come from Italy, and your kids wanted to take Italian–”
“My parents didn’t come from Italy. They were put in a camp because they weren’t American enough–”
“I know that.”
“All my life I’ve never been American enough. You don’t know how many times I’ve heard people call me ‘that Japanese guy.’ Or even worse, ‘the Chinese guy.’ They can’t even get the damned country right!” It was as much passion as Gary had ever heard from his brother-in-law. “I’ve spent my whole life trying to be American enough. Now my children want to study Japanese.”
They had stopped in front of Gary’s apartment building. “Maybe that means you’ve succeeded more than you know,” he offered. “If not for yourself, then for them. They’re confident enough about who they are that they want to study their roots.”
Gil grunted impatiently. “You don’t know what it’s like. What I just told you, those are the polite things I’ve heard.”
“Yeah, well, I’ve heard a few impolite things in my time, too.”
“You had a choice.”
“I most certainly did not.”
Gil made a scoffing sound, then said, “Enough. Let’s go up.”
•
The Sukigawas left in mid-afternoon with some hope of beating the Boston-bound traffic. Gary didn’t know how the Japanese question had played out; everyone had reverted back to form by the time they had all departed. He was barely back in the apartment, lying down to recover, when the phone rang.
“GG?”
“Hi, Julia.”
“Relatives gone?”
“Uh-huh. Nice to see, but they wore me out.”
“I guess. You sound a little down.”
He thought about relating the story of his flirtation with Rick to her, but that story was over, so what was the point? Instead he told her, “I had The Nightmare again.”
“I’m sorry to hear it. I thought you hadn’t had that for a while.”
“I didn’t.”
Her tone abruptly brightened. “You know what you need? A change of scene.”
“I think I’ve heard this one before.”
“Liz and Wallace have invited us out to their place for Labor Day.”
It was no surprise, but he commented, “Quel thrill.”
“Oh, c’mon, GG. They don’t live in the ’burbs. They live in the country. Upper Saddle River–”
“Great. They’re probably friends with Nixon.”
“Oh, they are not!”
“How do you know?”
“They’re very cosmopolitan–”
“Really. Do they know I’m gay?”
“Of course they do. Why do you even ask that?”
“I just wondered.”
“So you will come, won’t you?”
He sighed. Nothing else was scheduled, so why not? “How do we get out there?”
“We’ll rent a car. It’ll be more fun.”
“And money.”
“I’ll pay for it. They’ll provide all our meals, for God’s sake–”
“You really wanna do this, don’t you?”
“Yeah, GG, I do.”
Another sigh. “Then let’s do it.”
•
That night wasn’t so good, either. He had a truncated version of The Nightmare; he woke up before he really got deep into it, but then the fear that it would come again kept him awake most of the rest of the night. Consequently, when his alarm sounded and he turned it off, he fell right back to sleep. Given that it was the third time in three nights that he’d had an incomplete sleep, his body was apparently trying to tell him something.
As a result, when he finally did wake up, his short walk to work – the one aspect of his life that made him most inclined to gloat over his less fortunate fellow urbanites – was not enough to save him from being late. He was, in fact, well over an hour past due by the time he arrived at the office. Anita stared at him as he plodded in. “Mitchell’s been asking for you?” she said, wide-eyed. “I’ve been trying to cover but–”
“Shit! Thanks for trying, anyway.” Tardiness was a more serious matter these days; since last year’s crash, there had already been two rounds of layoffs. Gary felt fairly secure, if for no other reason than the fact that he seemed to be the only one in his office who could write decently, and everyone seemed to come to him for editorial help. Still, he oughtn’t to tempt fate.
To take his mind off his own problems, he asked his secretary how her weekend had gone. “It was fine,” Anita answered. She was devoted to him, but remained reserved in talking about her own life. “But it looks like yours was more interesting?”
“Huh?”
She inclined her head in the appropriate direction and said, “In your office?”
Now what? He walked over to the room and there, dominating his desk, was a bright bouquet of late summer flowers. “You sure these are for me?” he asked, still standing in the doorway.
“They came for Gary Gaines? Aren’t you going to open the card?”
“Umm – you’ll excuse me?” He closed the office door behind him, shutting out her curiosity, and God knows who else’s.
It was a nice bouquet, nothing too fancy. Probably a minimum order with the florist. He pulled out the little card and opened it. It read, “I’m sorry. R.F.”
At least he’d had the discretion not to sign his name. Not that people in the office didn’t know Gary was gay; but still, it was awkward. He ripped the card into tiny pieces and tossed them into the waste can. When he walked back out to Anita’s expectant stare, he told her, “From my parents.”
“But it’s not your birthday?”
“That’s right, it’s not. But it’s, um, it’s the anniversary of the first day I started school. So they sent me flowers. My mom did.”
“But – I’ve worked for you two years, and no one’s ever sent you flowers before, except Julia Stern, once–”
He was doing quick calculations in his head. “Yeah, but this is special. Y’see, I’m thirty-five, and I was five when I started kindergarten. The school year starts early in Ohio. It was thirty years ago today.” He turned on his heel, went back to his office, then returned with the flowers and put them on Anita’s desk. “Here. Instead of hiding them in my office, why don’t we put them out here for everyone to enjoy? If you don’t mind, that is.”
Anita said nothing, just gave him a funny look. He hoped to God his parents didn’t call him at the office anytime soon.
•
He had a bad day at work; his mood just wasn’t too conducive to writing a narrative to accompany financial reports. The draft he turned into Mitchell was definitely not his best stuff.
The bad day was succeeded by a dreary evening; the heat and humidity were back with a vengeance. Exhausted, Gary stripped off his clothes and fell on the bed sometime between eight and nine. It wasn’t his intention to turn in for the night, but he quickly drifted off.
Gary and Becker were whitewater rafting in Colorado. It must have been about six years into their relationship, and Becker was finally making good money of his own. They’d decided to take a real, two-week vacation together for the first time. Gary had wanted Europe, but Becker’d argued, no, they’d each been there once on their own – “Let’s discover someplace new, Buckeye. Together.” And so, since neither one had been to the American West, they’d flown to Denver and rented a car.
It was the tenth day of their vacation, and they’d already been on a group rafting expedition in really rough water. Becker had wanted them to take a two-man raft on a much less turbulent stretch, but still Gary was nervous about it as they paddled and swirled with the current. Just as he was getting into it, enjoying the bracing air, the cool spray, and being with his lover, they hit a powerful whirlpool, and Gary was thrown from the raft.
He wasn’t that good a swimmer, and for a few harrowing seconds all he could see was the deep blue sky spinning dizzily overhead, and all he could hear was the roar of the water. He felt himself being sucked under, almost in slow motion; and then a pair of strong arms pulled him out, pulled him wet and shaking onto the raft. He saw Becker’s glistening skin, his hair plastered down with water, a wild look of panic on his face. Over the roar of the water, Becker paddled them both to the shore – a wild, deserted place. Without a word, he put his arms around Gary and held him tight. Gary could feel the pounding of Becker’s heart, even stronger than his own.
At that crazy moment, out in the middle of nowhere, about a minute past a brush with death – Gary could see it again with crystal clarity – he was seized with overwhelming desire. He ripped his rescuer’s shirt open and clawed at Becker’s chest, then tore rapaciously at his shorts. Becker, coming from a need all his own, was utterly unresisting; he let Gary take him, right there in the raft on the shore. When it was over, as he pulled out and looked down at his lover, Gary thought he’d never felt so fully alive, ever. Now he looked down into Becker’s eyes, knowing he’d see an acknowledgment of the same…but instead, he was staring into the empty sockets of a grinning skull…
Gary awoke with a strangled scream in his throat, as he had two nights ago when Laura was there. He sat in bed for a minute with his heart pounding, just as it had in the dream. He knew now it was a dream, that he should turn on the light to calm himself down, but there was a leaden heaviness to his limbs and a lingering terror that paralyzed him for a while.
This was something new. This was not The Nightmare, the ritual repetition of his wait that dreadful Saturday night. This had been like the dream he’d had about their first night together – a lovely reproduction, stunningly accurate…until the B-horror-movie end. Now he couldn’t even revisit a happy memory without having it turn ghoulish.
Depressed, he finally focused on the clock: 1:12 a.m. So nice to live in the digital age, when everything could be so exact. He was amazed at the hour; he couldn’t believe he’d been asleep that long when he’d only intended to lie down for a bit.
He needed to talk to someone. He could call Martin, or Julia. They both understood, and he’d done the same for each of them in hours like this. He could call Laura, but he didn’t want to worry her, and his parents were still somewhere in the Southern Hemisphere. Besides, there was suddenly only one person he wanted to call. And that was ridiculous, but just right now he didn’t care that it was.
At least, if he’d worked at the restaurant, he might not be asleep.
He had torn up the scrap of paper with Rick’s number, and being a self-respecting Manhattanite, Gary did not have a Brooklyn phone book. He dialed information and a cheery male voice (something Gary could never quite get used to when he got an operator) answered, “Directory Assistance.”
“Yes, for Brooklyn?”
“Yes sir.”
“I’m looking for a Rick Fennell.”
“That’s spelled like the spice?”
God, this one was obviously a member of the club. Maybe Gary should just talk to him, instead of this other difficult child. But he said, “No, with two ‘L’s.”
There was a pause, then the operator said, “And you said the first name was–?”
“Rick. Maybe under Richard.”
“I don’t see any Richard or Rick. I do have three R. Fennells. One on Manhattan Avenue, one on St. Mark’s Place, and one on 45th Street.”
What the hell, it was almost one-thirty in the morning. Gary got cheeky and asked, “If you were trying to find a young man you’d met at Charlie’s, which one do you think it would be?”
There was a pause, but only a slight one. “Is he white?”
“Yes.”
“Native New Yorker?”
“No.”
Another brief pause. “Is he poor?”
“I guess you could say that.”
“Then my educated guess would be 45th Street. Sunset Park. Guys who can’t afford the brownstone belt, let alone Manhattan, have been moving out there.”
“You know, you’re really terrific. What time do you get off work?”
There was a warm laugh. “My lover doesn’t allow me to give out that information.”
For a mad moment the voice was chillingly familiar and Gary whispered, “Becker?”
“Huh?”
“Uh – nothing. I’ll take the number on 45th Street.”
That was followed by hearty laughter. “What’s so funny?” Gary asked.
“The number of the number on 45th Street is–” the operator intoned in an official-sounding voice, and he gave Gary the digits.
“I hope he’s more than a number,” Gary muttered.
“I hope so, too,” the operator said, all sympathy.
“Weren’t you supposed to connect me with a recording just then?”
“Yeah. I cheated.”
“Do you cheat on your lover, too?”
“No.”
“He’s a lucky guy.”
“So am I. So’s the guy you’re trying to reach. Take care.”
“Can I ask for you again?”
“No. This was pure chance.”
“Well then, have a nice life.” The same thing he’d said to Rick last night.
“You too.” And then the operator hung up. Again Gary had the weird, prickly sensation that he’d been talking to Becker. Foolishness, of course, but the ease with which they’d conversed, which helped generate that feeling, also made him wonder why he’d rushed to get the number of someone so difficult to get along with.
“You’ve come this far” being one of the governing principles of his life, Gary punched out the number the Becker-operator had given him. It rang four times, and again as a self-respecting New Yorker Gary was about to hang up; but on the fifth ring someone picked up the phone, and R. Fennell’s voice – the right R. Fennell’s voice – said, “ ’lo?”
“Rick? How’re you doing?”
“Gary?” he asked, apparently disbelieving, for he repeated, “Gary?”
“Yeah, it’s me. I’m sorry to call at this hour, but I thought you might be up, and–”
“Yeah, I was up.”
“So how are you?”
“I was depressed, until you called.” That disarming directness again. “Didn’t you get the flowers?”
Nothing like a little guilt. “Yes, I did. Thank you.”
“Did you try to call me before?”
Gary avoided the incriminating question and got directly to the point. “Like I said, I’m sorry to call at this hour, but I had this, this dream and–” He had no trouble manufacturing the catch in his throat; when he thought about what he’d dreamed, it became quite real.
“I’ll be right over,” Rick said authoritatively, and then the line went dead.
Wait a minute! That wasn’t exactly what Gary had had in mind. (Or was it? No.) He dialed back – and got Rick’s machine. Lord, the kid was already out the door. How far away was 45th Street in Brooklyn, anyway? Probably an hour or more, judging from the operator’s tone. Well, he couldn’t sleep now anyway. Even if Rick wasn’t coming, he was afraid to sleep again. So Gary turned on the radio, picked up this week’s Time, and waited.
•
When the doorbell rang inside of twenty minutes, Gary decided maybe 45th Street Brooklyn wasn’t that far. He buzzed Rick in without talking to him on the intercom, a decided urban no-no; after all, it could be a murderer or rapist. But he still hadn’t figured out what he wanted to say to the kid, so he postponed it for a few more seconds.
