by Michael Nava
24
Josh’s vw was parked in front of Larry’s house. I found them at the kitchen table, talking quietly over the remains of lunch, and sat down.
“I guess you’ve met,” I said.
Josh said, “I hope you don’t mind that I came here.”
“Not me. Larry?”
Larry smiled. “I’m glad I finally met you, Josh.” He looked at me. “What happened this morning?”
I summarized what I had seen at Tony Good’s apartment and gave them an edited version of my conversation with the Zanes. I concluded, saying, “Blenheim could be anywhere. They may never catch him.”
“Well, I guess I was wrong,” Larry said.
Josh looked puzzled.
“Larry didn’t think it was Blenheim,” I said.
“Who did you think it was?” Josh asked.
“Jim,” Larry said.
“But you’ve been helping him,” Josh said.
Larry smiled at him. “Have Henry explain it to you sometime, Josh.” He looked at me and said, “I’m closing up the house tomorrow. Of course you can stay as long as you want, Henry, but I imagine you’ll be wanting to stay with Josh, anyway.”
“You’re really going through with it, then?” I asked.
“Yes,” Larry said.
Josh looked back and forth between us. “What’s going on?”
“I’m going on a trip,” Larry said brightly, “to Paris.”
“Great,” Josh said enthusiastically.
Larry looked at me, then stood up. “Excuse me.” He picked up their plates and carried them to the sink.
“Is something wrong?” Josh asked.
Larry rinsed the plates, set them in the dishwasher and said, “I’m going to Paris for treatment, Josh. I have AIDS.”
Then he left the room.
Josh stared at me. “Is that true?”
“Yes.”
“You can’t let him go.” His voice was spooked.
“I can’t stop him,” I replied.
He started to speak but said nothing. I could tell he was thinking about himself, about us. Finally he asked, “Would you let me go?”
“It won’t come to that,” I said firmly.
“But if it did?” There was fear in his face.
“No.” I put my arm around him.
“I’m sorry about Larry,” he said.
“I know,” I replied. We sat in silence for a minute. “Josh, after Larry leaves, I’m going home.”
He nodded. “I’m going with you,” he said.
The next morning we drove Larry to the airport. He gave me the number of the clinic in Paris where he would be staying and a list of errands he had been unable to finish. We walked him to the gate. I remembered that all this had begun at another airport, in San Francisco. As the crowd swirled around us, we stood and looked at each other, not knowing what there was left to say.
He turned to Josh and said, “Take care of him.”
“I will,” Josh replied. “Goodbye, Larry.”
They embraced like old friends.
Then he looked at me and said, “And you take care of Josh.”
I knew I would never see him again. “Goodbye. I love you.”
We embraced. “I love you, too,” he said, and his lips brushed against my cheek. “Goodbye.”
When we got back to Josh’s apartment, I called Freeman Vidor and told him that I would be leaving for San Francisco in a couple of days.
“I have one last job for you, though,” I added.
“What’s that, Henry?”
“I want you to keep your eye on Tom Zane for a few days, make sure nothing happens to him.”
“You think Blenheim will be looking for him?” Freeman asked.
“If he’s anywhere close.”
“He could be in Tahiti by now,” Freeman replied. “That’s what the cops think.”
“But just in case he’s not.”
“Sure, Henry,” he replied. “Give me a number where I can reach you up there.”
I gave him both my office and home numbers. “Listen, Freeman,” I said, “it’s been good working with you.”
I could almost see him smile. “I travel, too,” he said. “Anywhere, anytime. You just call.”
“I’ll do that.”
We left Los Angeles one week before Christmas, choosing to drive up, the coast in Josh’s vw. We had made no plans about how long he would stay with me, — he simply arranged to be away from the restaurant for a couple of weeks. Although things were vague, I wasn’t worried because it seemed to me that the decision to be together had already been made and the mechanics would work themselves out.
As we drove out of L.A., my sense of belonging with Josh grew keener. It was partly the departure itself because, unlike other cities, one leaves Los Angeles by increments, from the crowded central city, over the canyons, through thickets of suburbs, until the tracts of houses thin into the remotest outskirts and then there are hills and sky and the freeway narrows to a two-lane road lined by eucalyptus, and the L.A. radio stations fade in and out, and it becomes possible to hear birds and smell the sea.
We stopped at a roadside produce stand and bought apples and oranges. Back in the car we drank coffee from a thermos and were silent, my hand in his when I wasn’t shifting gears. The sky was clear and cold and the sun cast a rich winter light. Josh whistled under his breath, fidgeted in his seat, read to me from the L.A. Times, yawned, peeled an orange, carefully dividing the sections between us, closed his eyes, napped. I glanced up in the rear-view mirror and saw that I was smiling. I felt his eyes on me, looked at him. His lips parted slightly, and his forehead was creased by shallow lines. I tightened my hand around his and returned my attention to the road.
“I used to play a driving game with Larry,” I said, “back when we were traveling around the state speaking against the sodomy law.”
“What’s the game called?” he asked.
I rolled my head back and forth to relieve the tension. “We called it ‘Classic or Kitsch.’ You know what kitsch is?”
“Sure,” Josh answered. “My aunt’s rhinestone glasses.”
“Perfect example,” I said. We were coming into San Luis Obispo. The traffic was heavier and the sky was clouding over. “The way it’s played is, one of us chooses a category, like movies, and gives the name of the movie and the other one says if it’s classic or kitsch.”
Josh stretched and yawned. “What if you don’t agree?”
“Then you have to say why.” I glanced at him. “That’s really the point of the game, the disagreements. You can learn a lot about someone that way. For instance, Larry and I argued all the way from Sacramento to Turlock about whether All About Eve was a classic or kitsch.”
Josh looked at me. “What’s All About Eve?”
“Are you serious?” I asked, turning my head to him.
He nodded. “Is it a movie?”
“Twenty-two,” I muttered under my breath, grinning. “I can see your gay education has been sadly neglected.”
“You mean there’s more to it than — “
“Don’t, Josh, I’m driving.”
He moved his hand. “No, really, the game sounds like fun.”
“Why don’t you find a radio station,” I suggested as it began to drizzle.
He fiddled with the radio until he found one that was audible above the static. He had tuned in the tail-end of a news broadcast and moved to find another channel. Then the announcer said, “… in other news, accused killer James Pears died today in an L.A. area hospital.”
“Turn it up,” I said.
The announcer’s unctuous voice filled the little car as he continued. “Pears, a nineteen-year-old, was accused of killing another teenager, Brian Fox, almost a year ago today. Fox reputedly threatened to expose Pears as a homosexual. Last October, Pears attempted suicide before he could be brought to trial and he had been in a coma since that time. He died today of natural causes. Closer to home…”
Josh clicked off the radio. I turned on the windshield wipers and tried to focus on the road, but all I saw was Jim’s face and all I heard was his voice, telling me he was innocent.
Josh said, “I can’t believe it.”
“This will make his parents’ lawsuit more valuable,” I replied, bitterly.
“What lawsuit?”
I shook my head. “Nothing.”
“It’s my fault,” Josh said, miserably.
I glanced over at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Josh.” It came out harder than I’d intended. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”
“That’s not true.”
“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”
We drove on in an unhappy silence. Finally Josh asked, “Why are you mad at me, Henry?”
Without taking my eyes off the road I said, “I’m not mad at you.”
“Don’t bullshit me,” he said tensely.
I looked at him. He was staring straight ahead.
“I’m not mad,” I repeated, more gently. “It’s just not always easy for me to talk about what I feel.”
“Is that why you’ve never said you love me?” he asked, abruptly. His eyes left the road and he looked at me. His mouth was grim. “You never have, you know.”
“Joshua…”
He cut me off. “Don’t call me that,” he said irritably. “That’s what my dad calls me when I’m about to get a lecture.”
The rain had stopped. In the dying light of late afternoon I could see a smear of rainbow above billboards advertising motels and restaurants.
“We’re both feeling bad about Jim,’ I said. ‘‘Let’s not take it out on each other.”
There was a long silence from his side of the car. Finally, he said, “Okay.”
A few minutes later I looked over at him again. He was asleep.
“Will you be patient with me?”
He didn’t say anything for a long time but finally put his hand on mine.
The day before Christmas I was leaning against a post at Macy’s in Union Square watching Josh try on leather jackets. He had already gone through half a rack of them and had long ago stopped asking my opinion since I thought he looked good in all of them. This one though — dark brown in buttery leather — nearly inspired me to unsolicited advice but then I heard my name. I looked around. The man approaching me was smiling in the faintly supercilious way he used to disguise his shyness.
“Grant,” I said, embracing him.
Grant Hancock pulled me close, crushing his costly overcoat, smelling, as he always did, of bay rum.
We released each other. His yellow hair had darkened and there were folds beneath his eyes and deepening lines on either side of his mouth but, generally, time made him more elegant rather than simply older. It had been a long time since I had seen him last.
“This is the last place on earth I would look for Henry Rios,” he said, “so, of course, I find you here.”
“And, when did you start buying off the rack?”
A salesman rushed by and jostled me. Over the din, I heard the slow movements of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, a piece of music I had first heard in Grant’s apartment when we had been law students together.
“We just ducked in for the ladies’ room, actually,” he said, apparently not hearing the music. I caught the “we.” Grant had married two years earlier and was, I had heard, the father of a baby son.
“How is Marcia?” I asked.
“She’s fine. We’re parents now,’ he added, with a smile that ended at his eyes.
“Yes, I heard. Congratulations. What’s your son’s name?”
“William,” he replied.
“After your father?” I asked.
“Yes. I’m surprised you remembered his name.”
“I remember.”
We stood looking into each other’s eyes. The occasion — former lovers meeting after a long time — seemed to demand that something significant be said. But there wasn’t anything to say, really, except that I was glad to see him and hoped he was happy. So I said it.
Before he could answer I noticed that Josh was standing before the mirror watching us. He slipped off the jacket he was wearing, tossed it over the rack, and walked over to us.
“Hi,” he said, to me, and then to Grant.
“Josh, this is an old friend of mine, Grant. Grant, Josh.”
They shook hands, murmuring pleasantries.
Grant said, “Those are very nice jackets you were looking at.”
“Yeah,” Josh said, “but a little out of my price range.” Wordlessly, he shifted his weight so that our bodies touched and slipped his arm around my waist. “So,” he said with unmistakable hostility, “how do you know Henry?”
“We went to law school together,” Grant said, barely able to keep the amusement out of his voice. “And how do you know Henry?”
Josh said, “He’s my lover.”
“Well, you’re very lucky, Josh,” he said smiling. “Excuse me, I’d better go collect my wife. Give me a call sometime, Henry. Nice meeting you, Josh.”
After he’d gone, Josh said, “Was I a schmuck?”
“If that word means what I think it does, the answer’s yes.”
“I’m sorry,’ he said. “I was jealous.”
I put my arm around his shoulders. “Come on, I’ll buy you dinner.”
Outside the store I told Josh that I had to make a phone call and went back in. When I returned ten minutes later I was jamming a sales receipt into my pocket but Josh, who was talking to the Goodwill Santa Claus, didn’t notice.
Over coffee, Josh said, “I guess we should be getting back home.”
The waiter returned with m› change. I tucked it into my pocket and said, ‘‘We’re not going home.”
“What do you mean?”
“Trust me,” I replied.
The immense wreath on the door of the inn on South Van Ness was composed of aromatic pine branches twisted and laced into a shaggy circle and bound by a red velvet ribbon. From outside we could see the big Christmas tree that dominated the drawing room. A bearded man on a ladder was hanging gold ornaments on the topmost branches while a woman strung ropes of popcorn and cranberries around the bottom of the tree. Another woman, gray-haired and aproned, opened the door to let us in.
“Merry Christmas,” she said, smelling of cookies and lavender. “Are you Mr. Rios and Mr. Mandel?”
“Yes,” I said, as we stepped inside to the companionable heat. “Is the room ready?”
“Just come in and sign the register,” she replied.
“Come on, Josh,” I said, taking his hand. We followed her to a little counter where I signed us in. She handed me a heavy brass key.
“Second floor,” she said. “Room 209. Come down later for carols and eggnog.”
“Thank you,” I said.
On the stairs Josh stopped me and said, “What is this, Henry?”
“A Hanukkah gift,” I replied.
“This is great,” he murmured as I led him up the stairs.
Our room had a fireplace. I knelt down in front of it and started a fire. The only other light was cast from the Tiffany lamps and the discreet overhead light above the mammoth four- poster bed. Wings of eucalyptus branches fanned out beneath the mantle of the fireplace, dispersing their rainy fragrance into the room.
This was one Victorian whose rooms fulfilled the promise of its beautifully restored facade. Our walls were papered in deep green with marbled swirls of pink and blue, as if abstracted from a peacock’s feathers. The period furniture was comfortably arranged around the oval of the room. High above us in the dusky region of the ceiling, embossed brass caught the glint of the fire and lamplight. Our window looked out upon downtown’s brilliant spires and a distant prospect of the Golden Gate.
From the bathroom Josh said, “Henry, look at this bathtub.”
I went in. The big porcelain tub was supported by clawed feet. The faucet, set into the wall, was a golden lion’s head.
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“Let’s try it out,” I said, putting my hands on his shoulders as he knelt inspecting the lion.
He looked up, smiling a little lewdly, and nodded.
We lit the bathroom with candles ordered up from downstairs and stuck them in the sink, on the toilet, at the edges of the tub. Josh lay with his back against me, dividing the water with his fingers. I kissed his bare shoulder, lay my hands lightly on his groin and felt the jerky movements of his penis. From downstairs we heard singing.
“I guess we missed the carols,” I said later.
“And the eggnog.” He pressed more deeply against me. “Thank you, Henry.”
“The water’s getting cold,” I observed.
“Do we have to get out?” he asked.
“There’s still the bed,” I said.
“You’re right,” he replied, and pulled the plug to let the water drain.
While he was still in the bathroom, I pulled the package from beneath the bed and put it on the comforter. He emerged from the bathroom, drying himself, pushed his glasses up his nose and, with a half-smile, inspected the brightly wrapped box.
“More?” he asked.
“One more,” I replied, sitting in a wing chair, drawing my robe around me. “Open it.”
He tore into the package. “That’s why you went back into the store,” he said, holding up the leather jacket that I had most admired him in. “It’s beautiful, but Henry, it cost so much.”
“Indulge me.”
He slipped the jacket on. The deep brown caught the fading firelight and shone against his skin. But I wasn’t really looking at the coat.
“It looks great on you.” I said. My voice sounded unfamiliar to me.
He took the jacket off and carefully laid it across a chair. “I have a present for you, too,” he said.
“What?”
He got his wallet out of his pants pocket and extracted a package from it. “Merry Christmas,” he said.
I took the package and laughed. It was a pack of condoms decorated with a picture of Santa Claus.
I was awakened by the phone. I groped for it, picked up the receiver and mumbled a groggy hello.
It was Freeman Vidor. I listened to him for a few minutes, and then sat up in bed. “Are you sure?”