by K. Z. Snow
“I can’t play a duet with the glock. I can’t. It reminds me of…. When I was a kid, there was a xylophone at this resale shop.” The ugly story came spilling out.
Again, Dare withheld the sordid details. But he made it fairly clear why the sounds produced by that family of instruments were anathema to him, why they made him quake with revulsion as cold sweat beaded on his skin.
Bob listened, stunned, arm upraised and hand curled over his mouth. “Oh my God,” he whispered.
“Don’t ask me any questions. I don’t want to get into it. Let’s just leave it at that.”
“Are you aware that JoJo…?”
“Yes. That’s kind of why we’ve been seeing each other. To talk about it. How do you know about Jonah?”
“Through GG, of course. She told Rosie what was up—just in general terms, though—when the kid came to live with her. I guess his worthless mother pretty much washed her hands of him.” Bob heaved a big sigh. “Jesus. First JoJo and then Max’s niece and now you.”
“Max’s niece?” The reference tugged Dare away from his personal swamp. He appreciated the distance.
“A neighbor she was babysitting for tried pulling something one night. But she’s a tough little cookie, so she ran from the house and told her parents. Chester the Molester was in jail by the next morning. Seems he’d been in trouble for that sort of crap before.” Bob took a swig of beer. “Bastard was lucky. If the cops hadn’t got him, Max and his brother sure as shit would have.”
“I’m glad Max didn’t have a chance to do anything stupid,” Dare said. “It would’ve sucked if he’d ruined his life over some scumbag.”
Bob nodded. He lapsed into troubled silence, his thick fingers sliding over the plastic cup. When he spoke again, he seemed to address his beer. “Y’know, when I was growing up I heard mutterings about monkeyshines like that. So-and-so’s old man is a little too friendly. Coach X ogles boys in the shower room. This or that family’s foster kid was yanked from their home on the QT.” Bob shuddered. “Gave me the creeps, even though I didn’t really understand what was going on.”
“Did you ever want to understand?”
“Kind of, but mostly not. I was a kid and kids are nosy, especially about grownups’ secrets. But I was scared, too. I remember asking my ma what happened to Margie, the foster child, ’cause we were friends. My ma about had a conniption.” Bob screwed up his face and chopped out a rather shrewish imitation of his mother’s voice. “‘That ain’t none of our business! She’s gone now, so you just forget about her and keep your trap shut!’”
A corner of Dare’s mouth lifted. “I take it nobody talked about those kinds of things back then.”
“Hell no. Private matters were private matters. And kids never tattled about what went on behind closed doors. First, ’cause they were a lot more naïve than they are today. Second, ’cause they were taught to be quiet and respect their elders. But society’s been busted wide open since then. Nowadays there’s T & A in every damn movie, and you can’t turn around without hearing about another Father Gropy or some celebrity scandal or men wanting to marry—” Bob’s throat seemed to snap shut as the sides of his face went magenta.
“Men,” Dare supplied. “I wish you wouldn’t worry about saying the wrong thing in front of me.”
“So, uh….”
“Yes,” Dare said. “I am.” He drank some beer to soothe his nerves. “Does it matter?”
Making a great show of pondering this, Bob pulled down the corners of his mouth, carving gullies into his jowls. “Not as long as you keep playing as good as you do. And don’t drop your pants on stage.”
“Bob, the only reason I’d drop my pants is because I hate the damned things, not because I want to flash a bunch of senior citizens.”
Although his face still bore clown colors, Bob came close to smiling. He pursed his lips and held it in. “Don’t wanna make us feel bad by comparison, huh?”
Dare laughed.
Finally, Bob gave in to his grin.
“Thanks,” Dare said. “You’re a good man.”
“Eh.” Bob dismissively waved a hand. “So, um… are you and JoJo Day, like…?” Once again at a loss for words, he made some indecipherable movements: rocked his head, waggled a hand from side to side.
“Are those secret signs?”
“Come on, you know what I mean. GG’s been a friend of ours for years. She’s always been sure JoJo is, you know….”
Dare made a rolling motion with his hand, trying to get Bob to say it.
“I don’t wanna offend you.”
“Just say ‘gay’. It won’t offend me. Just like ‘grumpy old fart’ doesn’t offend you.”
“Yeah, yeah, okay,” Bob said grumpily.
“You might want to stay away from the three Fs, though.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“The words fruit, fairy, and fag. Don’t use those and we’ll be fine.”
Bob huffed. “Well anyway, Mr. Gay Man, GG thinks her grandson kind of has a crush on you. Even with your horrrrrible”—rolling up his eyes, Bob warbled the word—“red pants in the ‘on’ position.”
“I’m aware of that,” Dare said softly, getting serious. The reminder, especially in this context, made his stomach wormy.
“Hm.” Bob’s whole face puckered with indecision. “So, d’ya like him?”
Dare could tell his Fearless Leader wasn’t too keen on pursuing this topic. So why was he doing it? “Yeah, I like him.” He narrowed his eyes. “What’re you getting at?”
“That maybe you should quit farting around.”
“What?”
Bob let out a dramatic, vocalized sigh. “It’d make GG happy if you felt the same way about JoJo.”
“Really? Why?”
“Damned if I know,” Bob snapped. Apparently he could only take so much homo talk and heartthrob talk before his crankiness kicked in. He battled the attitude with more beer. “Listen, Dare, I think you’re a decent kid. You’re dependable, you’re a fine musician, and the other guys like you. I can’t ask for more than that. JoJo’s a decent kid too. Not many twenty-somethings, knuckleheads that most of ’em are, would be taking their grandmas out dancing every week and keeping an even disposition.”
“And…?” The old man was obviously burbling his way toward some fountain of advice.
“I know you two got a lot in common. I know JoJo went through the same kind of shit you did. So what I’m saying is….” Groaning, Bob pulled a hand over the slicked-back, graying hair that barely covered the pink dome of his head. “Christ, I can’t believe I’m talking about this.” He dropped his shank of an arm back to the picnic table. “Maybe you should give him a chance. As more than a friend. Not that I know my ear from my elbow when it comes to your kind of thing, but I do have a wife, and I suppose romance is romance, regardless.” He finished his beer and got up. “You can’t ring the bell if you don’t swing the hammer.”
Dare had never been the recipient of folksy wisdom. In a screwy way, he was moved by it. He swiveled on the bench as Bob trundled away. “Thanks for the advice, Granddad.”
Bob kept walking. “Eat my socks.”
Chapter Eleven
WHY the hell can’t I leave well enough alone? Dare kept shooting the question at himself as he made the short drive northeast toward Wind Lake. Specifically, toward the address he’d found in the phone book.
He’d gone directly home from the Birches, where Junior and Ernie gladly finished the pitcher of beer he’d brought inside. He’d brushed his teeth and showered and thrown on some clean clothes.
I’m trying to ring the bell. That’s why I’m doing this.
Okay, so he’d been right. Jonah was queer. Which meant he’d always been queer. Which meant he hadn’t instantaneously developed a gay-on because he’d seen some dude slithering around with his ass in the air—although the hormonally-charged atmosphere of the Sugar Bowl might have contributed to Jonah’s surge of awakened hunger.
Dare figured that mostly, though, their acquaintance had stirred the psycho-emotional silt Clayton Wallace had deposited on Jonah’s libido. He’d finally begun to see more clearly what he wanted and realize it wasn’t the worst thing in the world.
Jonah was twenty-four. He was on the mend from a trauma. Sooner than later, his true nature was bound to emerge. Dare just happened to be the man he felt closest to when the emergence was underway. Therefore, Dare had become the target of Jonah’s wobbly, foal-legged lust.
Or maybe Jonah wasn’t really gay but was more confused than ever. What was that phenomenon called? Transference? So maybe Dare was like a mallard being followed around by a hatchling chicken that thinks the duck is its mother.
Or something like that.
Dare did a split-second eye roll at his theorizing.
“Admit it. You don’t know what the fuck to think,” he muttered as he glanced at the Garmin.
The immediate question remained: Why couldn’t he just let it go, let them both get on with their lives? They’d muddled through up to now. This indefinable relationship they’d gotten into was only complicating matters that sure as hell didn’t need further complications.
Nevertheless, Dare turned where the GPS instructed him to turn, the road where Jonah lived. He must’ve bought or rented one of the older cottages that lined the southern and western shores of the lake and, once upon a time, served as summer homes. Dare was willing to bet anything GG lived in one of those places too.
A song rolled through his mind, clear as the lines on the map. “And oh, the glorious feeling, just to know somehow you are near!”
The feeling wasn’t exactly glorious, but Dare had to admit it fell somewhere between a visit to the dentist and a date with a Calvin Klein underwear model.
Heart pattering, he eased into the driveway of a cozy-looking place, a faux-log-construction ranch, on a pretty, tree-shaded lot. It was across the road from the lake, not on the lake. Aside from that and the usual diminutive size of the properties around here, it looked inviting.
The front door opened. There stood Jonah, watching him. Dare didn’t have one of those won’t-wake-the-baby electric vehicles. He’d announced his arrival simply by pulling into the driveway.
“You need a new muffler,” Jonah said, raising his voice just enough to carry across the lawn.
“No kidding. That’s why I had to give up cat burgling.” Dare tried not to trip out of his six-year-old Chevy Malibu. “Nice place. How big is it?”
“About fifteen hundred square feet.”
“Can I get a tour?” Dare smelled the pine trees in the yard, the crisping leaves of the hardwoods, the recently mown grass. “Or are you busy?”
“Nope. Just got out of the tub.”
Now why did that revelation seem important to Dare’s dick, which pulsed at the sound of those words, and at the sight of Jonah’s messy damp hair and bright green eyes and faded-denim-clad legs?
“You really fuckin’ turn me on, Dare.”
Okay, there was one reason.
The response of Dare’s dick was a fleeting reaction. He felt too addled to dwell on it.
“So come on in if you want,” Jonah told him. He didn’t seem warm, didn’t seem cold. He seemed studiously neutral.
Dare crossed the lawn toward the stoop. “I need to talk,” he said, the words just erupting from him. He realized the statement wasn’t merely a ruse.
Since Bob had brought up that duet, he’d felt like fresh shit—a neurotic whiner who’d let his past impinge on his present to the point where he couldn’t meet his responsibilities. He’d let Bob down, one of the nicest people he knew, by essentially saying fuck that to the old guy’s simple dream.
The idea of that duet excited Bob. Like an optimistic kid, he’d seen something on the Internet that inspired him, made him want to reach beyond the norms of his life. And he’d put his faith in Dare to help him do it.
Faith. Dare didn’t take that word lightly. Bob had put his ebullient, unquestioning faith in his irrelevantly gay clarinetist, who’d then proceeded to chuck it right back at him.
“AND what made it worse,” Dare said as he sat on Jonah’s plump tan couch, “was that Bob never pressed the issue. He deferred to my stupid fucking hang-up about xylophones. And when I outed myself, he didn’t give me a single ounce of flak about that either.”
“You never mentioned the xylophone to me,” Jonah said.
“I guess not. We never got that far.”
They sat beside each other, not much space between them. Dare had slid down, his ass near the edge of the cushion, his legs stretched out beneath a large coffee table of sleek, dark wood. Jonah was angled to face him, left leg bent on the couch and left arm resting on its back.
“Do you feel like going there?” he asked.
Dare shrugged. He wasn’t sure where he felt like going. To bed with Jonah, maybe, who smelled so enticing, who smelled like an aromatherapy candle burning low within a pair of freshly laundered jeans. Just the nearness of him both relaxed and revitalized Dare.
A good dream. That’s what it was. Jonah smelled like a good dream. The issue of their mutual attraction had either become irrelevant in the course of the day or had become relevant in a whole new way.
“I didn’t know GG had a fiancé,” Dare said, buying time.
Jonah nodded. His eyes were beautiful in the fading light—the green deeper, richer; the lashes seemingly longer on his partially lowered lids. “Hal is a great guy. You’ll probably be playing at their wedding reception. With the band, I mean.”
“You think so?”
“I’m willing to bet on it.”
Dare faced forward. Longing twined through him, a cluster of fibers he had difficulty sorting out. They were different hues of the same primary color, tinctured by many people, countless images and events.
“I want to do right,” he murmured. “I want to be proud of myself. And happy with my life.”
The fingers of Jonah’s outstretched hand whispered over his hair.
Chapter Twelve
Dare
1999
HE WASN’T very tall, but I think it was his darkness—clothing, eyes, beard and mustache, hair pulled into a ponytail—that made him look imposing. The gold hoop he wore in one ear added a touch of mystery. I had no clue how old he was. Thirteen-year-old kids aren’t very good at pegging the ages of adults. And I couldn’t even judge if he was handsome or not, because he looked so different from the guys I was used to crushing on. Guys who were much younger.
It wasn’t until years later I figured out he was thirty-six when we met.
As he came forward, his eyes flashed over me. He spread his hands and smiled. “Well, look what we have here!” he exclaimed. “A musician!” As if he felt thrilled and honored that I’d set foot in his humble store. “Welcome! I play music too. My name is Howard. What’s yours?”
His voice was deep and resonant, a blast from a trombone.
All I said was hi and that my name was Dare. I felt kind of overwhelmed. Adults never greeted me like that, like I was on their level. As progressive as my parents were, they seemed to look right through me most of the time.
Howard offered to let me lay my clarinet on his desk while I browsed. I didn’t want to let it go, but the shop was so crammed with stuff, I realized I might knock something over if I carried the case with me. So I handed it to him. He took it from me with exaggerated care before he went to sit at his desk.
I don’t think I had more than a few dollars in my pocket, but I wasn’t there to buy anything so much as to satisfy my curiosity. His voice seemed to follow me up and down the crooked aisles. Rather than make me nervous, it put me at ease. He was surprisingly genial, even asked questions about me, like he was truly interested in my life. Most store owners would’ve been disapproving, suspicious.
Soon he got up and followed me around, although he didn’t make it seem like he was following me—just hanging close, so we could talk without raising our voic
es. His chattiness seemed friendly to me. Pretty soon I was relaxed enough to mention the sounds I’d heard when I walked in.
His face lit up. “Ah, you caught me slacking,” he said. “When there aren’t any customers in the store, I often entertain myself by playing the instruments I have for sale.”
“Where are they?” I asked, peering around. All I’d seen was the saxophone in the window.
“I keep them in the rear so little kids don’t fool with them.” He smiled as he curled a hand over my shoulder. It felt like a bear paw, rough and heavy and warm. “But you’re not a little kid, are you? You’re a young man. And a clarinetist.” His hand slid down my back, slowly, and the way his fingers moved felt odd to me. I thought of a blind person reading braille. But I wasn’t alarmed. I was too excited about gaining admission to that Top Secret Restricted Area. “Come on,” he said, “come see something wonderful.” He winked at me like a coconspirator and cupped my upper arm.
The wooden door at the rear of the shop still stood open. Beyond it was a smallish room with shelves along two walls and a single lower-wattage bulb screwed into a ceiling fixture. There were no windows, so the air was close and smelled of age. I saw electric and acoustic guitars on the shelves, a violin case and maybe a flute case, some percussion instruments. Other stuff, too. But I was mostly focused on what sat in the middle of the room.
“What is it?” I asked. I kind of knew but couldn’t remember the name.
His hand again came to rest on my back. “That, my friend, is a xylophone. It has musical cousins all over the world. I’m afraid I’m not terribly good at playing it, but I enjoy practicing.” He motioned with his free hand. “Go ahead, introduce yourself. I can tell you’re intrigued.”
I walked up to it and said, “Hello, xylophone. My name is Dare. May I play you?” And I glanced at Howard.
He laughed as if I’d just said the wittiest thing imaginable. Then the buzzer sounded—a customer had come into the store—and I knew my visit was over.