Survivor's Guilt and Other Stories

by Greg Herren

  Europeans didn’t have the hang-ups about exposing bare skin Americans did.

  And Billy had lived here a long time.

  He’s not gay, Jase, drop it and don’t stare. Be a professional, for fuck’s sake. And don’t look down.

  Jase had smirked a little when he’d read that final interview with Billy in an old issue of Street Talk he’d found in the archives as part of his background research. “The Last Interview” splayed across the cover, Billy with his trademark backward ball cap, scowling at the camera, the muscles of his bare upper torso flexed, the oversized jeans hanging loose, exposing the deep lines from his hip bones leading to the waistband of his boxers. Sick of being called a has-been and only getting gigs in gay bars, he’d decided to retire in his early twenties. Sullen and surly with the macho toxic masculinity of the poor-kid-made-good, his response to the question about homophobia didn’t go over well: “I don’t get why any dude would want to suck a dick, you know what I’m saying? And I don’t want any dude sucking mine, but as long as they leave my dick alone I guess I’m good.”

  There had been backlash, of course, but in those days before social media it kind of came and went without making much of a splash, other than some opinion pieces in the queer press. But Billy didn’t respond, he just disappeared from public view.

  And was forgotten, like his brief moment of stardom had never happened.

  “If you need to stay longer, you’re certainly welcome to stay here,” Billy was saying. “There’s an entire bedroom suite on the lower level. Down there you’d have your own bathroom, shower, bidet, you name it. Privacy.” He smiled, and there was something boyish about it, the years seeming to shed away from his face when he grinned. The dimples, the mischievous sparkle in his brown eyes—the charisma that made him a star was still there. It was more than just the handsome face and muscular body; something about him glowed, was impossible to look away from.

  Charisma, publicists called it. Star quality. Billy had always had that, and he hadn’t lost it despite the time away.

  “I have a reservation in Florence for Monday and have to return the car,” Jase said, but Billy didn’t seem to be listening.

  “You don’t have to decide now,” Billy smiled. “Just know it’s an option. Shall we go out back and watch the sunset?”

  Ethics—he couldn’t ethically interview Billy and stay in his home.

  But he didn’t say anything.

  They took the wine back out into the yard. The sun was starting to set in the distance behind the hills, the sky a brilliant flash of colors, oranges and yellows and pinks, the shadows cast by the trees somehow more vibrant than anywhere else, the smell from the vineyards on the other side of the driveway carried on the warm, soft breeze up to where they were sitting at a wooden picnic table grayed with age and exposure to the sun.

  Billy was nothing like he’d feared. He was open and easy, quick with a joke or a laugh, casual, interested. They drank more wine and talked about Italy, Jase’s trip to the cathedral and up the slippery wet marble steps of the Leaning Tower, his work as a freelancer, his plans for the rest of his stay in Italy. The wine was amazing—“and it’s so cheap,” Billy confided with a wink as he opened a second bottle as the sun disappeared over the Tuscan mountains, after they moved back inside and were seated on the couches.

  By the time jet lag caught up to him and he found himself yawning it was just eight.

  “Go get some sleep.” Billy smiled at him, taking his glass. “We can talk about my movie and the so-called comeback tomorrow. You’re sure you’re okay to drive?”

  As Jase headed for the back door another scream split through the night. He looked back at Billy nervously, standing at the top of the stairs to the kitchen, an odd look on his face. “Just the mental hospital.” Billy didn’t smile this time, wouldn’t meet his eyes. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  As he walked across the lawn and past the pool to where he’d left his car, he felt like he wasn’t alone, like he wasn’t the only person out there on the lawn. When he reached the opening in the fence he looked back, but Billy had gone inside and shut the door behind him.

  As he turned back, he saw something move out of the corner of his eye. It looked like—“Philip?” he asked, then shook his head. You’re tired and you’ve had a lot of wine. And that woman upset you. It was nothing.

  Maybe you’re too drunk to drive?

  But he felt more tired than drunk, despite all the wine.

  And he didn’t have too far to drive.

  He drove through the village back to the main road, pulling into the big parking lot he’d seen on his way into town on the downward slope behind the café, and walked up the sidewalk back to the hotel. There were voices coming from the restaurant across the square, laughter and loud talk and music. As he reached for the doorknob he again thought he saw something—Philip—out of the corner of his eye.

  But when he turned to look, there was nothing there.

  Tired. He was just tired.

  He undressed and climbed into the big bed. It was comfortable, the blankets soft, and he was exhausted. He turned off the light, and settling his head down on the pillow, he thought about the shadows.

  You’re tired. And that old woman—she spooked you this afternoon, is all.

  Philip’s dead.

  There’s no such thing as ghosts. And even if there were, how could he have followed you to Italy?

  As he dropped off to sleep, he could hear Billy saying oh, there’s a mental hospital up the mountain from Panzano.

  I could never get used to the screaming, Jase thought, closing his eyes.

  He woke up the next morning feeling deeply rested. As he showered, he shook his head at his own foolishness from the day before, in his jet-lagged state.

  There’s no such thing as ghosts. And Billy wasn’t flirting with you, that was the jet lag talking.

  He put on a light T-shirt and a pair of shorts. He texted Billy as he walked to the café for a cappuccino and another one of those wonderful whipped-cream-and-strawberry pastries. Fortunately, Signora Agretti wasn’t there.

  Italy, I’m in Italy, he reminded himself as he ate his breakfast, trying not to let his excitement show on his face as customers came in and out of the café. When he was finished, he walked out to the pond in the town center and sat down on a bench to wait for Billy.

  He didn’t have to wait long. Billy had his long hair pulled back into a ponytail and was wearing a very tight white muscle shirt over khaki shorts. He looked just as good as yesterday. “You want to take a walk around the village?” Billy asked, flashing his brilliant, borderline seductive smile.

  Jase nodded, trying not to stare at the muscled arms, the thick legs, the handsome face.

  “The market will be set up soon,” Billy observed, leading him away from the center. “Local farmers and merchants, every Sunday, set up here to sell their wares. It’s great to get fresh fruit and vegetables, and there’s a truck that sells roast meats.” Billy took him by the arm and led him away from the square, up the steeply inclining main road, showing him the gelateria, the local grocery market, and the stunning views. In some places there were no sidewalks, the houses right up against the side of the one-way road, the air fresh and everything green. Sometimes there would be a place alongside a house on the left side of the road where a car could be parked, and just beyond the parking space the mountainside dropped away, the tops of trees barely visible in the distance.

  And when they got back to the square, every conceivable kind of fruit and vegetable was arranged on wooden boxes and trays. Another truck had rotisserie chickens spinning on skewers, long pans of hot foods like fried cheese and potatoes and vegetables, the smells of food wafting across as the villagers did their marketing. Billy picked out fruits and vegetables, ordering and paying in what sounded like flawless Italian. But as they moved around, placing orders and gathering bags, Jase noticed that the villagers didn’t seem to like Billy very much, sc
owling and turning their backs to him.

  Jase asked him about it when they stepped back into the café and ordered cups of fruit gelato.

  “It’s the Isabella Agretti thing—her family and friends.” Billy stirred his cappuccino. “She was young, I’d hired her to clean for me—you know, basic housekeeping—laundry and dishes and dusting, that sort of thing. She was engaged to a young man in Greve, the next town over—you drove through it on the way here—but she imagined she fell in love with me.” He shook his head, a scowl crossing his handsome face. “She claimed I loved her, that I’d seduced her and then wouldn’t marry her.” He shook his head again, the bluish-black ponytail swinging. “She killed herself. It was all ridiculous, of course, but she has lots of relatives here in the town.” He shrugged his shoulders, bare and tanned. “Some of them know she wasn’t right in the head, others have long memories.” He laughed. “In the old days I would have gotten a knife between the shoulder blades, but these aren’t the old days, thank God.” A cloud crossed his face. “Obviously, I’d rather that story not be in your piece, but I’m going to trust you. I feel like I can trust you. Can I trust you, Jase?”

  “Yes,” he replied, briefly imagining Valerie’s response if knew he was agreeing to not write something potentially embarrassing for Billy. She’d fire him without a second thought.

  “Thanks.” Billy briefly touched his arm.

  Jase tried to not react to Billy’s touch. “It must be hard living here with…knowing that people blame you for her suicide.” He managed to keep his voice steady, even though his mind was racing. He touched me!

  Another old woman, wearing an apron over her black dress, crossed herself as she walked past the open door of the café and saw them before turning her back and muttering to herself.

  “It’s a small town,” Billy replied. “And small towns are small towns. It’s so beautiful here, and the people are so lovely”—he held up his hands—“for the most part, what can I do? I love the villa, I love the peace and quiet of Italy. Sometimes I wonder, do I really want to give all this up and get back into the crazy world of American show business?”

  Jase picked up his cappuccino. The gelato was the most delicious ice cream he’d ever had. Everything in Italy tasted fantastic—fresh and alive with flavor. He’d never realized how homogenized and boring American food had become.

  “But the part—it was too good to pass up,” Billy was saying. “When the director sent it to me—I still am not sure how that all happened, to tell you the truth. I’d done such a great job of disappearing, of walking away from everything, and I was pretty certain everyone in America had forgotten me, you know? But Joe—the director, Joe Campeggio—when he read the script and signed on, he said he only pictured me in the role. And once I read the part, I had to play it. It was one of those opportunities that come along once in a lifetime, you know?”

  “There’s been some pretty amazing buzz.” Jase took another drink from his cappuccino, deciding he was going to have a second. “There’s even talk of an Oscar nomination. Excuse me for a moment.” He pushed back his wire chair, ordered another cappuccino at the counter. When he sat back down, Billy was grinning, his eyes sparkling.

  “I never saw myself as an actor,” Billy said. “I mean, I never really thought ahead about anything, to be honest. When I was a kid, I mean, that’s why I made those bad decisions that came back to haunt me, you know what I’m saying? We were poor, and then when my brother hit big in that boy band…” He got a faraway look in his eyes. “I was all, look at all the money he’s making, maybe I can make it, too, and then we did the MTV thing and I took off my shirt and his manager signed me and the rest is history.” His face clouded. “And then…I didn’t have any real musical talent, I know that and my manager knew that, but I had muscles and a cute face and the girls liked me.”

  “And the gay men.”

  “And the gay men.” He finished his cappuccino. “So stupid, I handled that whole thing all wrong, I never had nothing against gay men, you know, but the managers were trying to keep the money going and I knew my music career was already over but they were trying to beat that dead horse, you know what I’m saying? And I wasn’t feeling it anymore, I knew I had to find something else, and I acted out like a little punk—like a little bitch—and I killed the career and they dropped me. But I could have handled it all better, you know what I’m saying? I could’ve handled it better.”

  His bare leg brushed against Jase’s under the table, and Jase was glad his second cappuccino was ready, so he had to get away from the table for a minute. He couldn’t put a finger on what the deal with Billy was. Was it just his natural charisma, or was he actually interested in Jase? Was flirting, or seeming to flirt, so much a part of his personality he wasn’t even aware of it?

  Or was it just his own wishful thinking?

  “Do you want to do more movies?” Jase asked, trying to keep his hand from trembling as he added brown sugar to his cup.

  “If the part’s right.” Billy’s leg brushed against his again under the table. “I mean, I got a pretty great life here in Panzano, you know what I’m saying? Florence—Firenze—is only an hour from here by bus. And the bus goes right to the train station, and I can be anywhere in Italy, anywhere in Europe, in no time. Nobody recognizes me, and that’s nice. And show business?” The muscle fibers in his shoulder moved as the shoulders went up and down again. “It’s such a fucking rat race, man. Everyone wants a piece of ya. I got out alive when I was a kid, so I think I can handle it now, but you never know.” He grinned. “Why don’t you run up and get your swimsuit? We can hang out by the pool and get some sun while we talk.”

  Billy kept talking as they walked down the sloping road back to the villa, out of the village. Jase couldn’t help but notice more people looking at them, and their facial expressions weren’t kind, or friendly, or interested. I don’t think Billy realizes just how disliked he is in this village, he thought as they walked, the warm breeze caressing his skin.

  As they reached the steps to the front of the villa, another scream pierced the air.

  “Do you really get used to that?” Jase asked.

  Billy scowled. “I guess I’ll have to lock the doors tonight,” he said as they went down the wide stone steps. This side of the villa was even more beautiful than the back. The vineyard stretched away beyond to another stone house, far in the distance, where the land started sloping back upward. So much greenery. “Someone escaped from the sanitarium last night. They’ll catch her, of course—the local police are quite good about that—but until they do—”

  “Does that happen often?” Jase asked as they went down the steps to the kitchen, putting the bags of produce up on the stone counter. “That would make me nervous. If the screaming—”

  “I don’t even notice the screams anymore, to tell you the truth.” Billy smiled. “You look a little tired. Why don’t you take a nap in the spare room? We can talk some more out by the pool—the jet lag will really sneak up on you. You think you’re over it and then…go take a nap and I’ll wake you in an hour, and we can get some sun?”

  Jase nodded, going into the spare room and lying down. Despite all the sleep, despite the cappuccino, he was still feeling tired and fell asleep, yet the nap was not restful. He tossed and turned in the throes of a strange, almost fevered dream. Billy was onstage, singing his biggest hit, dancing in his underwear, sweat glistening on his defined muscles, but Jase couldn’t get near the stage—no matter how hard he tried to move, he couldn’t. Every so often the song was interrupted by a scream that echoed throughout the foggy gay bar, and Billy and everything would stop until the scream stopped echoing through the corners of the bar, until the cobwebs hanging from the ceiling stopped vibrating and then he would start singing and dancing again, only the lyrics weren’t the same; lyrics Jase didn’t recognize:

  She loved me but I didn’t love her,

  She wouldn’t leave me alone

  And she died, no matter how I
tried

  She died no matter how hard I tried

  And so many times I’ve lied

  Lied lied lied lied about how she died

  He sat up in his bed, drenched in sweat.

  He got up and changed into his swimsuit, grabbing his phone and a towel as he went out the back door. Billy was already out there by the pool, in a bright yellow bikini, barely more than a couple of strings and a pouch over his genitals. His tanned skin glistened with sweat and oil in the afternoon sun. There was a bottle of white wine in an ice bucket on the metal table next to his lounge chair. “There you are,” Billy said as Jase sat down on the chair on the other side of the metal table. “I was wondering if you were going to sleep all day. Have some wine. There’s some sunscreen, too, if you need some.”

  Jase poured the wine, switched on the record app on his phone. He slathered the tanning oil on himself and asked, “Where do you see your career going from here?”

  The lazy afternoon passed, with Jase asking questions and Billy answering, as they drank the wine and shifted from front to back to front on the lounge chairs. No, Billy had no desire to get back into music—his musical career had been a novelty act, after all, and the novelty had worn off. Yes, he’d like to do more films, obviously, he seemed to be a natural actor but wanted to study it more, take it more seriously, unlike the music, so he could actually possibly sustain a career in acting, maybe even do a show on Broadway—no musicals, of course, that would just be ridiculous, his musical talents were limited. Yes, he could take voice classes, get training, but he didn’t see any point in that, music was just something he’d lucked into and made enough money to retire from it, walk away from it all. Yes, he’d been a bit of a thug when he was a kid, before his brother’s boy band took off, before his own one-hit-wonder career, but he’d atoned for that. He read a lot of books, history and philosophy and art, and living in Italy was the best education in both Western history and art appreciation anyone could get.