I smile with some amusement. “I think actually the next one we talked about was the Winter Party,” I tell him.
“But of course the Winter Party. You can’t skip Miami.”
I laugh. “That’s where I wanted to be last night. All our other friends were there. But Jeff and Lloyd had other ideas.”
“Jeff and Lloyd,” Shane repeats, as if trying out their names. Then suddenly, he breaks his grip with me. We’ve stopped in front of another dour Salvation Army bell-ringer. Shane’s fishing into his jeans for a handful of coins. I watch him as he tosses them into the pail. They make a clanging sound, and the volunteer gives him a small, tired smile.
Quickly I try to hide my hand so Shane can’t reclaim it. But he finds it without much effort and sticks it along with his into the deep pocket of his down parka.
“Anyway,” he says, “as you were saying …?”
I sigh. “I really wasn’t saying much of anything.”
“Yes, you were. About Jeff and Lloyd. So which one are you in love with?”
I balk, trying to stop our stride, but Shane won’t let me. “I’m not in love with either of them,” I insist. “They’re my sisters. Especially Jeff.”
“So it’s him,” Shane says, all superior-sounding.
I make a dismissive sound but am careful not to “doth protest too much” yet again. “Think whatever you choose to. But I’d never want to date Jeff.”
“Not wanting to date him is different from not being in love with him.”
I say nothing. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t.
“Don’t get pissy now, sweetheart.” Shane lets out a hoot. “It was just obvious last night. The way you looked at him. The way you seemed to know exactly what was going on for him.”
“We’re sisters,” I repeat.
“Have it your way, honey. Believe whatever you need to believe.”
This guy is really pushing it now. I am not going to admit to a near-stranger, even one with whom I’ve just had the best sex of my life, that sure, once, a long time ago, before I’d met him, I’d had a “star-crush” on Jeff. I would see him at Buzz or Avalon or After Tea in Provincetown, and yeah, I thought he was cute, charismatic. But look. I see the way Jeff is with tricks. In and out by the next morning, if that long. If I’d tricked with him way back when, we wouldn’t be friends today. I’m sure by now Jeff has already managed to untangle himself from Anthony, his phone number already conveniently “lost” on some sidewalk in Chelsea. The only man in the world for Jeff is Lloyd, no matter who else comes along.
“You’re thinking about him right now,” Shane says.
I huff, “I am not.”
“Look, I understand,” Shane says. “He’s a hottie. Some would say very hot. But you know what? I think you’re much hotter. Much.”
I laugh. “Okay, Shane, you don’t have to still make with the flattery. You already got me into bed.”
He looks down at me, knitting his brows. “I’m serious, Henry. You’ve got a much sexier look. Jeff looks like any tired old circuit boy. But there’s an edge to you, Henry. One minute you look like an angel, the next a devil. It’s very appealing.”
I can feel myself blushing. “Whatever.”
“And Jeff probably subtly encourages you to keep thinking of yourself as inferior to him. Guys like him need guys like you. They need acolytes. Disciples. But baby, you could outshine him if you just stepped out from his shadow.”
I pull my hand free from Shane’s pocket. “Look, Shane. Jeff’s my best friend. You’ve got it wrong. He’s always encouraging me. If not for Jeff, I’d still be like …” I struggle with the words.
“Me? Go ahead, Henry. Say it. You’d still be like me.”
“I didn’t mean that.”
We walk the last block in silence, our hands scrunched down into our own pockets. Shane’s wrong about Jeff. Okay, sometimes Jeff can be a little selfish, like when he’ll leave me only moments after we’ve arrived at some club, to dance with some new hot guy, and then never showing up again all night. But he’s always encouraging me to meet somebody, too, telling me I look good, building my ego.
Isn’t he?
Yes, he is—at least, he used to be. I try to remember the last compliment Jeff paid me. I can’t. Instead, all I can remember is his comment last night: “You? He wants to pay you?”
I don’t like it when I start feeling this way. Brent says the only reason I haven’t found a boyfriend yet is because of Jeff. I’ve dated a few guys, but nothing has lasted longer than a couple of months. Sometimes it seems pretty bizarre. I mean, here I am, constantly surrounded by hot guys and finally having achieved a hot body myself, and still I end up going home alone. There are times I wonder about the whole scene. Why do I traipse along with Jeff to the White Party and Hotlanta and the Russian River, only to never find a guy? Everybody assumes circuit parties are these hothouses of wild nonstop sex, but actually hooking up with somebody, I’ve discovered, is rare. If not for the groping on the dance floor, there wouldn’t be very much physical contact at all. Everyone’s either too tired, too wasted, or too scared of rejection to pair off.
Except Jeff, of course. Jeff always seems to bring some hottie back to the hotel room, leaving me to sit reading Tales of the City in the lobby until they’re through—which sometimes means the next morning. But one makes sacrifices for sisters.
Even if—okay, I admit it—one sister usually does most of the sacrificing.
We’ve reached Grand Central. My heart suddenly softens toward Shane. “Let’s go in and wait for them,” I say. “I’ll buy you a cup of coffee.”
“Okeydokey,” Shane agrees. We push through the doors, letting the warmth envelop us. We head toward one of the kiosks, where I buy two coffees. Shane thanks me. Suddenly, I feel it’s the least I can do.
We drink our coffees sitting on the floor, our backs against the wall facing the central clock, where Jeff and I have plans to rendezvous. We watch silently as humanity crisscrosses in front of us, a thousand voices transformed into a buzzy chorus that echoes up into the vast dome of the station. Faces indistinguishable from each other, yet endlessly fascinating to watch. Why is that? Why do we never tire of watching people we don’t know? I become transfixed by the crowds that rush back and forth.
Finally, I turn my face slightly toward my new friend. “Shane, I need to be honest with you,” I say quietly.
“Why?” Shane replies, equally as soft. “You’ve only just met me. Can’t we keep the fantasy going for just a little bit longer?”
“I don’t want to hurt you,” I tell him.
Shane smiles, leaning his head back against the wall and closing his eyes. “You’ve let my adoration go to your head, Henry. You presume way too much power.” He lets out a long sigh.
“I just thought I should—”
“Let me down easy?” Shane keeps his eyes closed. “Look, Henry. I’m not in love with you. I’m not hoping for a romance when we get back to Boston. You filled a fantasy for me. That’s it.”
He opens his eyes but keeps them looking up at the dome. “I had another fantasy once. It was to have sex thirty thousand feet in the air in the lavatory of a jumbo jet. I fulfilled that one last year courtesy of American Airlines on the way back from the White Party in Palm Springs. I didn’t fall in love with the flight attendant who sucked me off. I didn’t ask him to move in with me. It was a fantasy fulfilled. That’s all.”
I’m quiet. “I see,” I say at last. “Well, if that’s all it was …”
“That’s all it was.”
I shrug. I feel a little hurt, strangely enough. I thought it had actually meant more to him. Whatever. “I guess it was a fantasy for me, too,” I say. “Funny thing is, I never realized I had that particular fantasy. I never realized what a fucking narcissist I am.”
Shane turns to look over at me. “Come on, Henry. To get that body in that shape you spend many hours a week in the gym. Hours you could spend reading, or delivering hot meals to shut-ins, or visit
ing your mother, or watching reruns of Growing Pains, eating whole cans of Pringles. Not that you should be doing any of those things, but one can’t deny one’s narcissism when one spends six, seven, eight hours a week pumping heavy weights for no other reason than to enlarge one’s deltoids and pectorals—and watching oneself in a mirror as one does it.”
I look at him defensively. “I’m not denying it, Shane. You’ve made me acknowledge my narcissism. I’m not sure it’s something I like very much about myself, but you made me see it. So bully for you.”
“Don’t get touchy, Sallie Mae.” Shane laughs out loud suddenly. “You think you’re the only narcissist sitting here? I might not have your pecs or your biceps, but I have my own arsenal.” He pats his backpack. “The Windex bottle. That got me quite a bit of attention, didn’t it? In Palm Springs it was glow sticks. And I’ve just discovered Flame Wands that take the whole glow stick experience to a brand new level. I’m planning to debut them in Miami. They’re like fucking spotlights. Wait till you see. I’ll be able to turn the attention of the whole fucking dance floor on me. Don’t you see, Henry? In a sea of gym clones, I stand out. I make myself stand out.”
I look over at him. I’d never really thought of it that way before.
“I made you notice me,” Shane says simply.
“That you did,” I admit.
Shane sighs. “So don’t worry about letting me down gently. I understood right from the start what this was all about. I’ll be fine. I’ve got a whole bag of tricks I’m waiting to use.”
I smile. I reach over and take Shane’s hand back in mine. “You’re okay, you know that, Shane?”
“Usually,” he says. “Sometimes I forget. Remind me once in a while, okay?”
“Deal.”
We sit that way for about twenty minutes, reverting back to silence, watching the crowds scamper and scuttle around us. The clock in the center keeps track of the seconds that pass.
At a quarter to six, promptly as we’d planned, I recognize Jeff among the throng. Funny how it happens: how suddenly, out of the indistinguishable blur, a familiar face can pop right out at you. I’m quickly on my feet, waving him down.
But Jeff isn’t alone. Is it … Lloyd?
No. It’s the guy he went home with. The one who couldn’t dance—
“You remember Anthony?” Jeff’s asking.
“Yeah,” I say, giving him a look. “You remember Shane?”
I don’t need ESP to hear the question both of us are asking: What the fuck is going on here?
“Shane was hoping for a ride up to Boston,” I quickly explain.
Jeff looks from me over at Shane. “Henry did explain to you that we’re crashing at my sister’s in Connecticut tonight? And that tomorrow we’re taking her five-year-old son to the movies?”
“I adore children,” Shane insists grandly, looking up at us, still sitting on the floor.
“Well, okay, then,” Jeff says, making a wry face. “Show him your Windex bottle. He’ll love that.”
Shane shrugs. “They all do.”
It’s my turn for questioning. “And Anthony?” I ask, turning to the fourth member of our little group. “You like kids, too?”
“Don’t really know any,” Anthony admits. “But Jeff says I’ll like Boston.” For the first time I notice a large backpack slung over Anthony’s shoulder.
“Oh, did he, now?” I ask. “And I thought you had just moved to New York, Anthony.”
Jeff blushes a little. “He did. But I told him it was easier to find a job in Boston.”
“But wherever will you stay?” I ask Anthony, heavy with sarcasm.
He smiles. “Jeff said I could crash with him.”
“Jeff’s got a good heart,” I purr, putting my arm around my sister’s shoulders. I whisper fiercely in his ear: “What the fuck are you doing?”
“We’re gonna miss our train,” Shane announces.
“Yeah, wouldn’t want that,” Jeff says, shrugging me off and hurrying toward the track. Anthony follows. Shane takes his time standing, unfolding his long form gradually, dusting off his jeans. I watch him.
“We came down as two and we’re going back as four,” I murmur, more to myself than anybody else.
Shane turns, winks, and blows a kiss. “We’re off to see the Wizard, stud boy.”
“Oy vey,” I say, sounding like my mother. But that’s how I feel, and “Oy vey” is all I can think to say. I just shake my head and follow the troops to the train.
A Week Later, Provincetown
Lloyd
“Really, Eva, I can’t eat any more,” I tell her, patting my gut, but she brings over another plate of waffles anyway.
She makes a face. “You haven’t tried any with blueberries.”
“The strawberries and bananas were plenty,” I insist.
My little apartment is filled with the aromas of coffee and cinnamon, vanilla and maple syrup. Eva drove up from New York, rising at three A.M. to make the six-hour trip. When she got here, I was still asleep, not expecting her until noon. But she came early, she explained, because suddenly she’d been filled with the desire to cook me breakfast. And cook she had: eggs and waffles and fresh fruit and freshly whipped cream.
It’s delicious, but it’s thrown me seriously off schedule. “I’m going to be late meeting Jeff,” I tell her. “I still have to shower and pick up the key from the realtor.”
“Just one more waffle, please? I made so much batter. They’ll go to waste.”
I smile. “You eat it. All you’ve had is a banana.”
She shakes her head. “I couldn’t possibly. I’m too excited. To actually be here, in Provincetown, planning for our home …” She shivers.
She slips the waffle onto my plate. I sigh. “Okay, just half,” I say. She beams, pouring a gob of syrup over the waffle and sprinkling a handful of blueberries on top.
I really am full but don’t want to hurt her feelings. She’s gone to so much effort, buying the fruit in New York last night because she knew nothing would be open here in town when she got here. She was so excited to do this, so filled with passion about our guest house. The energy is good.
And I’m hopeful that Jeff will come around, too. He agreed to come down today, and I arranged to show him the house even though we haven’t yet closed. Our realtor was a friend of Javitz’s, an artist who’d gotten sick about the same time Javitz had and who most of us thought would follow him to the great beyond. But Ernie’s one of those Lazaruses you hear about, one of the lucky ones: near death one day, he suddenly rose and walked, courtesy of the new drug cocktails. Now the struggling painter is a highly successful Provincetown real estate agent, making a killing off the inflated property values in town.
I manage to eat about a quarter of the waffle before my stomach feels as if it will burst. I push my plate away and wipe my mouth with my napkin. “Really, Eva, that’s the best I can do. It was fabulous, though. Beyond fabulous.”
She smiles, looking as if she might cry for happiness. “I’m so glad you liked it.”
I stand up. I have to get in the shower. It’s ten-thirty, and Jeff’s meeting me at the guest house by eleven. I don’t want to be late. After that fiasco on New Year’s Eve, I want this encounter to go smoothly.
Under the spray of the shower, I think about Jeff. There’s something going on with him that concerns me. I called him New Year’s Day on his cell phone, catching him at his sister’s. I could hear little Jeffy playing in the background. I told Jeff that I wished we’d spent the night together, and he seemed to melt, admitting that he wished the same. I asked him to come to Provincetown; he agreed he would, even going so far as to say he’d consider spending the night.
That’s when I asked to say hello to little Jeffy. “Tell him Unca Lloyd wants to say hi to him.” Last Christmas, Jeff and I had loaded up a sackful of toys and dressed as identical Santas, driving down to Connecticut and surprising the boy. He’d been ecstatic.
But Jeff hesitated. “He’s
playing with somebody right now,” he said. “I don’t know if he’ll come to the phone.”
I assumed it was a little friend. But when I heard Jeffy say no, that he was too busy playing his computer game to talk to me, I heard another voice—an adult male voice—offer to wait until he got back. Still Jeffy refused to come to the phone. I asked Jeff who was playing with the boy.
“Um … his name in Anthony,” Jeff said.
“Who’s Anthony?”
He hesitated. “Some guy I met in New York.”
I was stunned. “Why’s he with you in Connecticut?”
“He … um … he’s coming back to Boston with me. He wants to look for a job.”
I didn’t have to ask where he’d be staying. Remember what I said about Jeff and me? How we just seem to know things about each other? I knew in that moment that this Anthony person was going to be staying with Jeff, and it troubled me. It’s not like Jeff to just invite a stranger to stay with him. Jeff was, in fact, notorious for preferring that tricks not spend the night. He didn’t even care for friends crashing for more that a day or two on his couch. And here was this Anthony moving in.
I knew right away it was a reaction against me. Against the guest house. I had made a move that had appeared to exclude Jeff, and so he was taking similar action against me.
I was angry when I hung up the phone, pissed off by his childish game-playing. My anger, however, has evolved into concern over whether this Anthony is trustworthy, and concern over Jeff’s state of mind. Had my news really been so devastating to him?
I determine that I’ll get to the bottom of it today. I’ll let him know how much I want his involvement. I’ll introduce him to Eva. I’m sure he’ll love her. Especially once he learns about Steven. I can still smell the cinnamon in the air, even through the closed bathroom door. How could Jeff not love her? How could anyone?
That’s when I hear her sobbing.
Jeff
As Lloyd predicted, it’s a house I’ve passed many times, a sturdy but undistinguished Cape on a side street a few blocks past the Ice House, overgrown with ivy, with a shingle out front that reads SEABREEZE INN.
Where the Boys Are Page 8