Best Gay Romance 2008, page 2
With a shaky sigh, he would admit, “Better.”
One evening I was in the kitchen, washing the dishes, when I heard him come in the front. “Jim?” I called out, raising my voice above the running tap. The slam of the bathroom door was his only reply. Shutting off the water, I dried my hands and glanced at the time—barely eight o’clock. My first thought was that he had managed to get off early somehow, but the slammed door made me worry. In the hallway, I knocked on the bathroom door. “Jim? You in there?”
“Be right out,” he promised.
Absently my hand strayed to the doorknob but when I tried to turn it, I found it locked. That bothered me more than I cared to admit—there were no locked doors between us. “Jim?” I asked again, twisting the knob in a futile gesture. I wanted to watch him get cleaned up, to see the man emerge from beneath the sooty worker, to watch his strong hands smooth over one another to wash dirty suds away. It had become a nightly tradition of sorts, and I saw so little of him as it was. With my ear pressed against the door, I could hear water and Jim’s low humming. “Open the door,” I told him and then, because that sounded too harsh, I added, “Are you all right?”
He hollered back, “Fine, Henry. I’ll be right there.”
I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off, so I stood outside the bathroom door and ran through a dozen scenarios in my mind, reasons why Jim would refuse to let me see him before he got cleaned up, but none of them made any sense. I couldn’t imagine what he might be hiding from me, why he needed to wash up alone; there was no reason for the impromptu shower I heard running on the other side of this locked door. Never one for waiting, I wedged myself against the doorjamb, knob gripped tight in my sweaty palm. As soon as the shower cut off, I started rattling the knob again. “Jim—” I started, but then the lock disengaged and the knob turned in my hand. “What’s all this about?”
He wasn’t standing on the other side of the door, so I eased it open and peered behind it. Jim leaned back against the counter by the sink, a bath towel around his shoulders that barely covered his crotch. His legs, damp and swirled with dark curlicues of wet hair, stretched out for miles beneath the towel. One corner of the towel was caught between his teeth, and he stared at me with wide eyes full of an anticipation that excited me. “Well?” I wanted to know. I tried hard to hang on to my sour mood but the sight of water beaded on so much bare skin made it hard to remember what it was I might be angry about. “What’s going on?”
Without replying, Jim scooted over. On the counter behind him sat a potted bush in full bloom. Salmon colored rosebuds peeked through thick green leaves, one or two in full bloom like bubblegum bubbles, their petals opening to a deep, gorgeous color that reminded me of hidden flesh. “Jim,” I started, but I couldn’t think of anything else to say. I had done enough window-shopping at the local nursery to know the plant must’ve cost a pretty penny. I wanted to ask how he could afford it, with tuition on the rise and the bills we had piling up, but I tamped that down and took a tentative step toward the counter. “It’s beautiful.”
“It’s for you,” Jim said. His eyes flashed above an eager grin he hid behind the towel. Before I could thank him, he added, “You know why?”
I brushed my fingers across one velvet petal and shook my head. “I can’t begin to imagine,” I murmured. My birthday was months away. Burying my nose into an open rose, I breathed deep the flower’s heady perfume and sighed. “Did you get a raise? Did you graduate?” With a sidelong glance, I teased, “We didn’t have a fight this morning, did we? Am I forgetting something?”
Jim laughed. “It’s sort of our anniversary,” he said, watching me, waiting for it to click.
It didn’t. “Which one?” I ticked them off on my hand, one finger for each occasion. “We got the apartment in August, bought the house in February, first had sex in June, first kissed in…” A slow smile spread across my face. “In May. This is the day we met, isn’t it? God, how long as it been?”
“Ten years today,” Jim admitted. To the roses, he said, “They say red means love but these were the prettiest ones they had. I thought you’d like them—”
“I love them,” I said simply, then gave him a smoldering look and added, “I love you. Come here.”
He stepped toward me, away from the counter, and my hand brushed his arm before slipping beneath the towel to smooth over warm, tight skin. The towel fell away; Jim fumbled with the zipper of my pants, his hands undressing me as my mouth closed over his. We held on to each other as we met in a heated clash of lust and desire—against the wall, on the counter, sprawled across the lid of the toilet seat before we fell to the floor, aching and hard and seeking release. “I love you,” I told him, again and again. I kissed the words into the hollow of his throat, the small of his back. I whispered them in his ear, then licked after them as he gave in to me.
Time has banked the fire that once burned so brightly between us. It still simmers just below the surface of our lives and occasionally flares at a word, a touch, a smile, but we are no longer the hot lovers we were before. When we make love now it’s a gentle affair, languid and slow, the movements careful like turning the crumbling pages of an ancient book. Most evenings we settle for lying close together, Jim’s arms around me, my body clutched tight against his. There will come a time when one or the other of us finally lies alone, maybe sooner than we care to think, and the thought of going on without him terrifies me. I’ve lived with him for so long now that I can’t imagine anything else. So I smooth over his forgetfulness, these little spells that seem to come more frequently now, and I tell myself I can take care of us both. If ever the day comes when he wakes beside me and my name doesn’t come to his lips, when that bewildered look in his eyes doesn’t fade away, I’ll remember for us both. I won’t let him forget the life we built together. I won’t let him go.
In the kitchen, I scrape the congealed eggs into a large bowl and stir them up to keep them fresh. If we were eating in the breakfast nook like I had planned, I wouldn’t have to make several trips to deposit everything onto the table, but Jim chose the dining room and I give him an encouraging smile when I set the bowl of eggs down in front of him. “Help yourself,” I say over my shoulder as I head back into the kitchen for coffee that’s just beginning to perk. I busy myself with buttering toast, then rescue two overcooked sausages from the stove where I left them. When I bring the bread and meat out, I notice that Jim hasn’t touched the eggs yet. “Everything okay?” I ask him.
He takes the plate of toast from me with one hand—the other is under the table, out of sight. I wonder if he’s burned himself on the stove earlier while I retrieved the paper or maybe on the bowl of eggs; that ceramic gets pretty hot. But he gives me a quick grin and a flash of the boy I fell for peeks out through the face of the old man I love. “Everything’s fine, Henry. You worry too much. You always have. Do I smell coffee?”
“Coming right up.” I hurry back to the kitchen to pour two steaming mugs, with a dash of milk and a spoonful of sugar in Jim’s because that’s the way he likes it. I take mine black. As I blow across his mug to cool it off, I wonder what the rest of the day will bring. Will it turn out all right in the end? Or will this be one of those bad days, with Jim locked in the past, unable to follow my conversations because he can’t remember one moment to the next? Some days he’s a different man, aged by forgetfulness that borders on something I’m afraid to admit, much older than me despite the fact that I’m five years his senior. Since the scare at the front door, I’m on guard, suspicious and cautious and hating myself for not being able to trust him.
Back in the dining room, Jim holds the newspaper open in front of him, hiding from me. I’m about to ask him to lower it when I see the single rose on my plate. The flower isn’t in full bloom yet, but all the thorns have been broken off and the long stem is ragged at the end, as if plucked in haste. Already the soft petals that peek through the green have that deep pink of young, forbidden skin. One of my roses…
My hands begin to tremble and I have to set the mugs down before I spill the coffee. It’s May already, I should have remembered—when I close my eyes, we’re both young again, awkward with sudden desire, each desperately waiting for the other to make the first move. In the darkness of my memory I recall that first fumbling kiss and the hot hands that held mine in his lap. The years between us peel away like the petals of a rose and the day we met is laid bare, the core around which we have built this life together. My vision blurs and I have to blink back an old man’s tears as I finger the barely budding rose. “Jim,” I sigh.
The paper rattles and I know he’s trying to hide that grin of his from me. When I push down the top of the newspaper, he smiles as he says, “Of all the anniversaries we celebrate, you always forget this one.”
“You always remind me,” I point out. I can tell by the laughter dancing in his pale blue eyes and the promise in his smile that today is going to turn out to be a good day after all.
THE EMPIRE ROOM
Dale Chase
I look past the buffet table, out onto Jack London Square where tourists and pigeons wander. The scene offers escape from the mourners behind me. They’re seated at large round tables and standing in little groups because Richie Knox, who was just thirty-six, killed himself a week ago and they’re here to share a collective guilt. Mine’s a tad worse because something untoward has begun.
I’m fixed on the Barnes & Noble across the square when he steps into view: Frank Bremer, Richie’s friend. I met him an hour ago at the memorial service when Lisa, Richie’s sister, introduced us. It began then, one of those moments that define life, make it worthwhile, or in this case, impossible.
He’s gone outside for a cigarette. I watch him light up, tell myself that’s reason enough to resist. I can’t stand smoking. He paces while he drags on the thing. Clad not in a suit like the rest of us, he’s chosen navy slacks, white shirt, and blue patterned vest. Too casual but on him it works. He’s imposing, good looking, intensely masculine. Everything will depend on what he does with the cigarette butt. If he tosses it with no concern about litter, it’s over. I wait while he paces and puffs, note his brown hair is a shade lighter in the sun. At last he turns, flicks the butt into a clump of shrubs where there are probably countless others, and I relax for a second because it’s done. But then he comes back into the Empire Room and I know that’s not the case.
We avoid each other. Like married people who know they’re going to have an affair, we maintain a distance. He’s gone over to Estelle, Richie’s mother, my aunt, and is kneeling before her. Lisa comes up with a guy she introduces as Phil, Richie’s business partner. I know from her call last week that Phil found Richie splayed in a living room chair, gun on the floor, brains all over. I shake Phil’s hand, we speak, and I try to give myself to the moment but it doesn’t work because I can look over Phil’s shoulder and see Frank. The vest accentuates his build. It’s tight, like maybe he’s gained a few pounds. I look at his butt, then back at Phil; try to concentrate, do penance for impure thoughts. I work at listening but when Phil pauses I’m lost because I’m not taking in what he’s saying. I’m in a kind of pleasure hell, like getting an erection in church. I excuse myself, hurry to the men’s room, find only on reaching it that I do have to pee.
Who is Frank really? I wonder as I go. We’d spoken briefly but you don’t get details with the casket ten feet away. Awful. Terrible. But in with such things the unmistakable energy. I remember my amazement that it was happening there, disgusting arousal. God help me.
I’m left to speculate, which is not good right now. There’s enough of that going on about the suicide, how we could have missed it coming. We. I live four hundred miles away in L.A. but still apparently bear a portion of responsibility, even though Richie and I seldom talked anymore. Close as kids, our connection failed with distance and other priorities. I saw him holidays when the family gathered at Estelle’s, if I chose to come north. I know he’d had a partner for several years, Tony, but they broke up. Tony’s here. The question is how did Frank know Richie? So many degrees of friendship. Friend. Fuckbuddy. Lover. Former lover. Is he the reason? Part of the reason? Suicide is often about an accumulation of causes with one trigger, literally in this case. Was it Frank? He looks like someone you could die over but how am I to know? Not here. Not here.
As I leave the bathroom I almost run into him. “Sorry,” I say automatically, then feel the rush he brings on. I let it run through me, familiar ache in with the unfamiliar. The worst kind of mix.
“Listen,” he says but there is nothing more. Prelude going nowhere.
“Yeah, it’s okay,” I tell him. I look down as if even that much is wrong, shake my head because we’re already into familiarity even when we’re trying not to go there. Nature doesn’t listen, does she?
We stand there because proximity feels good and we are both in need of feeling good but we catch it before it gets a grip. He sighs, moves past. I stand in the hallway, stunned all over again.
Leaving would solve it but it’s too early. Nobody is leaving yet. I have to talk and eat and commiserate. Back in the Empire Room I listen to the hum of conversation, amazed at the quiet voices when we’re all so pissed at Richie for doing what he did. Didn’t he know the hole he’d leave? I watch Lisa coax her mother to eat. Estelle shakes her head. She lost her husband a year ago, now her son. Thank god for Lisa.
Frank gets a drink, goes out into the restaurant where a patio leads to the waterfront. I get as far as the door before stopping myself. I’m watching him when Ray, another friend of Richie’s, comes up alongside, suggests we go out there. “Fresh air,” he says, but I can’t go because if I do I’ll want to be alone with Frank so we can say what we know, act on it or make plans to act.
“No thanks,” I tell Ray and he moves past. I see him talking to Frank, wonder if they have a history. I don’t know enough about Richie anymore. It makes things worse, not having kept up. Funny because he pegged me early on when we were kids in Berkeley. Even at fourteen he was sharp, managed to start a conversation about girls, turn it to boys, and out first me, then himself. I’d told nobody but I told him everything and from then on, for two years at least, we were incredibly close. But then college and L.A. and life got between us and even the emails eventually thinned. Caught up in ourselves, we let the bond fray. Cousins was all that was left.
I cannot imagine him doing what he has done. They say he poured a drink and sat in his favorite chair, then put a bullet into his temple. Only Lisa knew he was depressed. He made her promise to tell no one and she kept that promise. He didn’t want us to worry. He was seeing a shrink, was on meds, had a raft of people who loved him, none of it enough. I can’t imagine letting go like that after all the fight we had in us.
Back inside I see Ted Quinn, the family dentist who came onto the scene two years ago when old Doc Felcher retired and sold him the practice. I saw him professionally last Thanksgiving thanks to a walnut shell in Aunt Estelle’s special apple-walnut stuffing. He’d fixed me up with a temporary crown and we’d had sex that night. I’d lied to the family, said I had to get back to L.A. when all I did was spend the long weekend at Ted’s house high in the Berkeley hills. I hadn’t seen him since.
As he makes his way toward me everything falls into place. He got involved with Richie, threw him over and caused the suicide. Ted’s a powerhouse but it’s all on his terms. Richie wouldn’t have had a chance.
“Carl, good to see you,” he says, extending a hand. “Awful about Richie. I’m so sorry.”
I know it’s the usual line but I take it otherwise. He’s sorry he killed him. Fury rises but gets sidetracked when he asks me how long I’ll be in town. I consider making the date because fucking sounds good right now and having a history makes it not so wrong. “I’m flying out tomorrow morning,” I tell him.
“Any plans for later?”
I smile, shake my head, look away.
“Okay,” he says, “so maybe this isn’t the appropriate time to ask, but I’d really like to see you. We had a great time last year.”
Do it, I tell myself. Go fuck ’til you drop. It’ll make you forget Richie. I’m ready to concede but when I look up I see Frank coming back in and everything else disappears. Even Richie. Ted for sure. “I don’t think so,” I say, looking past him.
“Your loss,” he snaps before moving on.
Frank has caught me looking and comes over. I allow it because Ted got something started.
“This is so awkward,” Frank says. I’m near the buffet. He picks up a cracker, turns it over, examines the back, picks at it with his thumbnail. His discomfort mirrors mine and I almost laugh when that hits me. We are not going to win. When I look into his eyes I see the invitation and in my hesitation he has to see acceptance. Let’s go get a room. But we stand paralyzed.
“Shit,” he says, tossing the cracker onto the table before walking away. I think I’ve lost him then, endure an anguish until Marie, Lisa’s best friend, catches him by the arm and starts to talk. She’s single and hasn’t a clue about Frank. She slips her arm through his, guides him to the bar where I watch the buy-me-a-drink routine.
I haven’t cried for Richie, and wonder if I ever will. I spoke at the service, told how we were as kids, but unlike Tony and Lisa and Phil, never shed a tear. Suddenly I feel it come up, a rift tearing through me like some rupturing fault line. Jagged edges, plates misaligned; I see us as kids with our dicks out. We sucked each other, a first for both. I can’t believe he’s dead. I look for a place to look, find a basket on the buffet table, silverware inside a cloth-lined dark brown weave. I concentrate on the folds in the fabric, the way it lies askew, and I decide that’s how everything is now, off kilter. Tears are on my cheeks, my throat tightening. God, Richie, how could you do such a thing? How could life be that bad?
