The Man I Love

by Suanne Laqueur

  David looked grim. Erik couldn’t think of anything to say.

  “It’s funny. Abandonment takes all forms, doesn’t it?” James said. “David’s father died. Fish, your old man took off. Mine was present, but made a campaign of not being there. Which is worse? Having no male influence in your life, or having the wrong male influence? I mean, who was your father figure, Fish? Your go-to guy?”

  Erik ran a hand through his hair. “My uncles, I guess. My mom’s brothers. No, actually, not really. They were there but I can’t say they were my substitute father figures. Maybe my basketball coach? He was definitely an influence but pretty much when I had a problem, I went to my mom.”

  “Do you still? Is she still your first phone call?”

  Erik smiled. “Daisy’s my first phone call.”

  David snorted. “Or you just roll over in bed.”

  “Well, who do you call, Dave?” James asked.

  “These days?” David scratched the back of his neck. “Leo. Or him.” He pointed at Erik.

  “Shut up,” Erik said, laughing.

  “Yeah, you laugh,” James said. “But I already know if I need a body buried or a secret kept, I’m calling you, Fish.”

  Will arrived home then, his hair damp with sweat and his face red with exercise. “What’s up, assholes,” he said. He tossed down his backpack and chugged the last of his pineapple juice. Then gave a hearty belch.

  “What’s with you and the pineapple juice?” James said. “You suck that shit down twenty-four-seven.”

  “Vitamin C,” Will said, walking into the kitchen. “Keeps you from breaking out.”

  Erik chuckled. “Among other things.”

  “Don’t give away trade secrets, Fish,” Will called.

  “What?” James said, looking from the kitchen to Erik and back again, eyebrows wrinkled.

  Secure in the privacy of a private joke, Erik shook his head with a smile and went back to tinkering.

  Difficult Time Signatures

  Will chose not to dance in the fall concert. Instead he put all his energy into his senior project. Challenged by Kees to step away from classical ballet and create a work for the contemporary dancers, Will was struggling to come up with an idea. All through September he spent long hours listening to a variety of music, either loaded into his Walkman while working out or running, or playing on the stereo at the apartment.

  He sat motionless or sprawled on his back in front of the speakers. He sighed and cursed a lot. Occasionally he jotted something in a notebook, only to tear out the page and throw it in a crumpled ball at the wall. Erik sensed the clouds of creative frustration releasing the first drops of creative terror and, he had to admit, he was more than a little fascinated. This was the eternally self-assured Will on the verge of panic. What would he do?

  Then one evening James burst into the house on Colby Street, breathless and panting, waving a tape. “I got it,” he said. “Listen.”

  He popped the tape into the stereo and tossed the empty case to Will, who looked and passed it to Erik. It was Philip Glass’s soundtrack for the movie Powaqqatsi. Out of the speakers blasted, of all things, a coach’s whistle. And then an explosion of joyful sound made Erik’s eyebrows first fly up, then wrinkle as he took in what sounded like an indigenous drum-and-bugle corps. First a hypnotic, repetitive foundation of acoustic percussion, followed by a cavalry charge of trumpets over fat tuba bass notes. Then a children’s choir layered a simple melody on top of the rhythmic cadence of constantly changing time signatures.

  Will unfolded his tall body and stood up.

  “How do you count this?” Erik asked, losing the beat and finding it again.

  Daisy got up and helped James push the coffee table aside. Will continued to stand still.

  “It’s straight eights,” Daisy said.

  “No,” James said. “This section is two sets of eight then a set of six. But then it changes.”

  “I count ten beats in every phrase,” Erik said.

  “You can’t count,” James said, his eyes shining. “You have to sing it.”

  “I like this,” Will said, both hands on his head. “Holy shit, I like this a lot.” He looked visionary. His chin nodded in time to the drums. His head tilted, his eyes closed. Fingers dug in his hair as his feet moved in a simple pattern. Three steps forward, one back. Three forward, one back. The back step became a hop. Then a hop with a half-turn to repeat the sequence facing the other way. Eight steps against ten beats in the music.

  “It doesn’t match up,” Erik said.

  “It’s not supposed to,” Will said.

  Rapt, Erik watched as Will kept building on the theme. It had started as not much more than walking—literally steps. But by changing levels and changing dynamics, it evolved into a phrase. Will turned Daisy in one direction while he and James faced the other. The phrase became three dimensional. Will added arm movements, picking up the sharp percussion. “Wait, what did you just do?” he asked Daisy. “Do it again. I like yours better.”

  “Are you writing this down, Erik?” Daisy said, smiling at him. Her cheeks were growing pink.

  “Write it? I can’t even count it.”

  “Don’t worry, I have it,” James said. “Wait until you hear the next section. It’s in five-four time. It’s sick.”

  “Look out, you almost hit the TV,” Erik said.

  “I can’t do this here,” Will said. “I need to get into a studio. Can I get into a studio? What time is it?” He popped the tape out of the stereo. “Who’s coming with me?”

  Daisy sat back down on the couch, but James couldn’t get out the door fast enough. He and Will were gone three hours. When they came back Will looked positively feverish. His notebook, so pathetically bare before, was three-quarters filled with scribblings, the whole ballet sketched out in its pages. Will took the idea to Kees who both blessed it and sunk his teeth into it.

  Will went into rehearsals with James as his assistant. James was perfect for the job. He possessed near total recall when it came to choreography. Not only every step committed to memory, but the spacing of every dancer at any given moment in the music. Even more valuable was his ability to catch Will’s improvisations on the fly and repeat them back, a human camcorder. He patiently coached the dancers who couldn’t grasp the difficult time signatures. He stepped in for anyone who was absent. If Will couldn’t run a rehearsal, James did, and was careful to be humble and self-effacing about it. Powaqqatsi was Will’s baby and James was smart enough to be unobtrusive even as he became more and more indispensable. Will needed him. Publicly depended on him. James had hitched a ride on a comet and was on a trajectory to the popularity he craved.

  He was ecstatic.

  The contemporary dancers went crazy over Powaqqatsi. Like a benignly infectious disease, the excitement spread through the conservatory. Ballet dancers showed up at rehearsals either to watch or to learn the choreography. Even the stagehands found time or excuses to wander by the third-floor studios.

  “I still can’t count this music,” Erik said, watching.

  “I’d kill to dance this,” Daisy said. “I’m serious. I’ll trip someone and not even feel bad about it.”

  “It’s brilliant,” James said. “I can’t stand it, it’s so brilliant. Fuck ballet, I’m going to the dark side.”

  Kees turned around, grinning. “Better not let Marie hear you.”

  “I meant it lovingly.”

  Daisy checked her watch and sighed. “We should go, James. Our rehearsal starts in ten minutes.”

  James didn’t answer, he was deep in concentration. Daisy tapped his arm. Then pulled it. Finally Kees helped her peel James’s fingers off the barre and she dragged him out.

  The classical section of the fall concert was no throwaway. A guest choreographer from Atlantic Dance Theater had come in to stage his ballet No Blue Thing to the music of Ray Lynch. Daisy had a gorgeous solo piece and a pas de deux with James. The program was shaping up to be one of the conservatory’s
best. As they moved through October, the creative energy in Mallory Hall shifted from carefree to industrious. The strong pulled ahead and the weak began to flail.

  No Lancaster conservatory student could shirk their academic studies. Those pursuing a Bachelor of Arts had to complete eighteen credits from the liberal arts program. A Bachelor of Fine Arts required twenty-four, plus another twelve in dance history and anatomy. Students had to maintain a 2.0 GPA or they couldn’t perform in main stage productions.

  Both Daisy and Will were getting their BFA. Over the years they arranged as many classes together as possible. Not surprisingly, their dance partnership applied itself well to academic study. Working together, they sailed through the coursework with little difficulty. Except for anatomy. Every dancer dreaded the notoriously grueling course. Only rote memorization, a hundred mnemonics and Lucky’s tutoring got Will and Daisy to a pair of C grades last year.

  This year their nemesis was dance history, with heavy reading and papers due every other week. James was in the course too, and struggling to keep up. Oddly, the photographic memory he possessed for movement didn’t translate to written material. He admitted he had never been a strong reader. Half the problem was sitting still. Will loved to read and regularly practiced meditation techniques through his martial arts training, but it was an effort for James to focus. Will didn’t mind chatty people, but people with the fidgets drove him batshit.

  “Hold still,” Will said one night at Colby Street. “Good Lord, man, you’re like a two-year-old.”

  “Put something heavy in your lap,” Erik said.

  “What, Fish?”

  “When I was a kid and couldn’t sit still at the dining room table, my mom would put the phone book in my lap. Something about the weight makes you settle. Try it. Do we have a phone book?”

  “No. Come over here, James.” Will was lying on the couch reading. He moved his feet so James could sit down, and then he put his legs across James’s lap. “There. Think heavy.”

  Will returned to reading, engrossed, the fingertips of one hand rubbing along his hairline. From the easy chair, Erik watched James become silent and still. His focus was on his book but his hand rested on Will’s shin in a manner both mindlessly casual and deliberately proprietary. Erik felt an involuntary squint of his eyes, along with a strong but confusing urge to defend his territory. He couldn’t take his eyes from James’s hand. Outlined white against Will’s jeans. The flat ridge of shin bone against his palm, fingertips curved around calf muscle. Slowly moving back and forth. Up toward Will’s knee. Down toward his ankle. Up toward his knee again, going further this time, fingers kneading.

  My mind is open, Erik thought, with some defiance. After three years in a conservatory program at a fine arts university, he was completely accustomed to gay men being part of his daily life. He had it worked out. They were them. He was him. He knew when to make jokes and when to be cool. He had nothing but the utmost respect for Kees, and considered him a close friend.

  True, there had been uncomfortable moments with a few of the more aggressive types. Boys with overt tactics, looking more to provoke and shock than to connect. It pissed him off, but he knew better than to make a scene. The conservatory thrived on gossip. One good altercation and he’d never hear the end of it. It was better to turn off and not engage. Harder. But better. He got used to it. And as long as homosexuality wasn’t blatantly and personally in his face, he rarely gave it more than five seconds thought.

  My mind is open, he thought again, watching James’s hand stroking Will’s leg.

  Just stay out of my face.

  Erik closed and stacked his books. Without a word he put on his jacket and shoes.

  “Going home?” James asked.

  “I live here, remember?” Erik said.

  Will looked up. “Goodnight, Fish.”

  “Night, ladies,” Erik said. And then wished he’d kept his mouth shut. He went out, walked through the hedge into Daisy’s backyard, up the steps into her kitchen, where the teakettle was whistling. Erik shut off the flame and moved the kettle to a back burner.

  “Oh, here you are,” Daisy said, coming in. Her hair was damp. She had on a pair of Erik’s flannel pajama bottoms and a tight white T-shirt. “Do you want tea?”

  “No,” Erik said, walking by her and taking her hand.

  “Where are we going?”

  “Up.”

  “You’re not even going to say hello?”

  He turned, took her face and kissed her. “Hello.” He walked through the living room, pulling her along.

  “Are we in a mood?”

  “We are.”

  “I only have one condom here. Just so you know.”

  “At the moment, one is all I need.”

  She laughed, following him up the stairs. “Since we’re on the subject. I mean, I was going to wait until your birthday to tell you.”

  “Tell me what?”

  “That I went on the pill.”

  Erik turned around and looked down at her.

  She smiled at him. “I just started. You’re supposed to keep up a second method for the first month. But then…”

  He kept staring at her. She stepped up, level with him, and touched his bottom lip. “I can’t wait,” she said. “Nothing between us.”

  Erik closed his eyes. “Get up there,” he whispered.

  Epiphany, Part Two

  “Qu’est-ce qui se passe?” Daisy whispered later. Her naked body curled up against his side, head on his chest. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Nothing.” His body was relaxed but his mind was tangled in knots. He turned the snarl over and over, unable to find an end to draw out.

  “You keep looking out the window to your place. Is his car still there?” Her tone was teasing and Erik put the pillow over his face. She peeked under it. “You think they’re hooking up?”

  “I don’t want to know.”

  “But you can’t stop thinking about it.”

  Erik took the pillow and bopped her lightly on the head. “Stop knowing me.”

  She laughed. “I’m sort of fascinated with it myself. Am I a voyeur?”

  “Go over and voyeur away. Feel free.”

  “I kind of want to,” she said absently.

  “It doesn’t bother you?”

  “Two men having sex?”

  “I mean, Lucky’s your best friend.”

  Daisy pushed up on her elbow, her fingers in Erik’s chest hair. “She is. And in a manner of speaking, so is Will.”

  “So what if Will is hooking up with James? Is it cheating?”

  Her chin rose and fell. “In the strictest sense, I guess it is, yes.”

  “Would you tell her?”

  “I don’t know. Right now I have nothing to tell. And you don’t either.” Her hand caressed his face, her thumb moving along his eyebrows and trying to smooth the wrinkle of worry between them. “But I can tell it’s bothering you.”

  “No, it’s not,” Erik said. And then, because he was bothered, and because ultimately he laid all his troubles at her feet, he sighed against her hand and said, “Yeah, it is.”

  “It’s not like there’s never been speculation about Will being bisexual. David would put money on it.”

  “But it’s old speculation. Since he’s been with Lucky, does anyone even say that anymore?”

  “Not really, no. It’s a dated joke.”

  “Well, it’s one thing to joke about it and another thing to see it happening.” He looked up at her. “And I don’t know why I care. I don’t know why it bothers me so much. Easy to say it’s because he’s cheating on Lucky. But that’s not it. Not entirely. I don’t know…”

  She was quiet a moment, stroking his head. “He’s your friend,” she said.

  “David’s my friend and I couldn’t care less who he sleeps with.”

  “No, I mean Will is your closest friend. You don’t have a lot of close male friends, Erik. You cultivate those relationships carefully. Even cauti
ously.”

  “Something, something. Psychology. Fathers?” he said, smiling.

  “Paging Dr. Freud. Whatever the reason, it’s still true. You’ve grown this friendship with Will over the years. You’ve put time into it. You’re emotionally invested in it. You’re close with him. It’s not sexual but you’re tight. And along comes James and he’s able to dial into Will not only artistically but perhaps physically.”

  “I can’t compete on that field.”

  “Please, Will would go to bed with you in a heartbeat.”

  “Stop,” he said, groaning. “I have enough bad visuals going on right now.”

  “You’re not threatened by it,” she said, toying with his necklace. “I know you’re not.”

  “No, just revolted.” He hated admitting it, but homosexuality still repelled him at some primal level. At the same time he was keenly aware of something which tasted a lot like…

  “But I feel jealous,” he said, with a weak laugh. “It’s fucked up.”

  “Come on,” Daisy said, “it sucks when you feel pushed out of a friendship. Sucks for anyone. But this won’t last long. Will’s having a fling. It’s nobody’s business but his and Lucky’s. And when she comes back—” Daisy raised up her hand and let it hang there. “I think a lot of things will go back to normal.”

  Erik took her hand between his. “I don’t dislike the guy. He’s all right when he stops trying so hard and just chills.”

  “He’s unpredictable,” she said. “And he’s making Will unpredictable. You don’t like that.”

  “I don’t like that I don’t like it,” he said.

  “Well, you only like when people act the way you expect them to.” She moved fully up and onto his body, her legs between his. With her forearms crossed on his chest and her chin on top, she was unbearably beautiful. Sometimes she looked at him a certain way and his heart reset itself, closed up coyly just for the pleasure of opening to her again.

  “Stop knowing me,” he said, running his hand along her cheek and into her hair.