by Steve Kluger
You’re sweet, you shouldn’t have, and if you ever do anything that extravagant again, I’ll crack your head open.
Love you,
A.J.
Dear A.J.,
I don’t know how to break this to you, but your mom just called to thank me for the tapes—and she thinks I am Mickey Rooney. “This is Joanne Larkin in Cleveland. What a thoughtful gift! How’s Judy?” It’s a good thing Travis made me watch all those shitty MGM musicals, or I’d have been stuck in left field without a jockstrap.
I can’t figure out why you’re so worried about her memory—she sure as hell had all of her marbles with me. For instance, I know what happened at the kindergarten May Day pageant (say it ain’t so, Joe), and I know who you kissed in fourth grade (does the name Atticus Gannaway pluck any heartstrings?). There’s more, but it hasn’t been released under the Freedom of Information Act yet, so you’ll just have to keep wondering how much ammo I have on you. Your mother wouldn’t have lasted five minutes with the OSS.
When T gets home, lock him in the hotel safe and do not let him anywhere near Clayton again. This is getting a little weird even for Travis.
Love you too,
Gordo
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
We closed T-Bird’s at 11:00 P.M. and we closed Starbucks at 1:00 and we didn’t get out of Denny’s until 4:15 this morning. He bought me steak and eggs, so I picked up the tab for his nut-crunch sundae. (Clayton has weird metabolism. Even cream cheese turns into muscle. While you watch.)
So far, I hadn’t had a chance to bring up Fanny and Nicky or Scarlett and Rhett or Tony and Maria or Arthur and Lancelot or any of the other mismatched misfits I’d concocted in order to make him see the wisdom in being single again. I knew I was supposed to be hinting at ways to insinuate Craig out of his life and back into mine, but somehow the itinerary changed when I wasn’t looking.
“Hold it,” he interrupted, dropping his spoon for the third time since I’d begun my Zack-the-Dentist confession. “You never played Hide-the-Wiener with this guy?”
“No.”
“You never went bare-butt together?”
“No.”
“Not even in underpants?”
“No.”
“And it’s a cinch you never grabbed his dick because he’s into girls—which dings any chance he’s gonna throw you a boner in the first place.”
“Right.”
“You never told him about it—”
“No.”
“But you killed a tooth?!”
“Several,” I admitted, turning my usual blend of crimson and ruby. Clayton finished his ice cream in contemplative silence, which was entirely out of step with his routine procedure. His opinions tend to be prompt, defiant, and wrong. “Hamilton was an ignorant shitkicker. Big deal—he invented the Treasury Department, which by the way gave us the IRS. Thanks for nothing.” In fact, he didn’t say another word until we were back in the Bronco. (Macho guys always think better when they’re doing something studly like flipping on the ignition.) Then suddenly he turned to me in the darkness and delivered his verdict.
“If you’d pulled something like that on me,” he blurted, “I’d have married you on the spot.”
No wonder Craig fell in love with him.
We sat by Saratoga Lake for another two hours, but we barely noticed the sunrise.
“Ever been in love, Trav?” he inquired idly, tossing a chunk of slate into the water. I was in the middle of retying my shoelaces when my fingers froze. Paralysis comes in many forms. I’d just discovered nine of them.
“Once,” I gulped, praying that my face didn’t betray the sudden disintegration of my entire nervous system. Change the subject! Change the subject! Change the subject! “Twelfth grade,” I continued evenly, ignoring the tsunami of sweat that had consumed my entire face. “I was seventeen.” Quick! Make up a boyfriend in case he asks more questions! Name him Scotty!
“Yeah? Who was he?”
“Crotty.” Travis, you asshole! But Clayton didn’t seem to notice the slip. Instead, he hesitated for a long moment and then began spilling the beans about a lot of things he’d never in a million years considered revealing to anyone before: The abusive father who, in random moments of paternal bonding, knocked out two of his teeth, pushed him through a storm door, broke his arm, “and played basketball with my head”; the gripping fear that began to stalk him in junior high when he first realized that locker rooms made him horny (“I’d take a shower with the other guys and try to picture things like dog shit or Hitler or vomit with corn in it—anything to keep from getting hard”); the football buddy he’d wanted to touch all the way through high school—who’d fallen into bed with him on a drunken Saturday night, only to change his mind on Sunday morning (“You’re a sick fuck—stay away from me”); and the boyfriend he’s guarded with his life for the past twelve years (“Sooner or later, everybody splits if you let them. Suppose he gets elected to office? You really think I’m gonna be enough for him any more?”). All of this was delivered in a tone of voice so indistinguishable from the one he used when we were discussing Ryne Sandberg’s ass or the benefits of gravel driveways over asphalt, I kind of got the feeling that there weren’t enough hugs in the world to make a difference. Why hasn’t he told Craig any of these things?! But he wasn’t quite finished yet.
“Say, Trav?” he mumbled, turning to me awkwardly. “I never had a best friend I could count on before. The job’s open if you want it.”
Benedict Arnold isn’t the only traitor with his boots in Saratoga Springs tonight.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
Clay—
I’ve been doing a lot of thinking since Denny’s and the lake, and these are some of the reasons you need to get your ass kicked.
When a father with a son like you doesn’t exercise his bragging rights 24/7, there’s something seriously wrong with him. Your dad’s the one who lost out—not you. And it wasn’t your fault! How could it have been? You were the blue ribbon of kids.
Football players who need to get drunk with their best buddies every Saturday night live in a place called “Denial Land.” You had the balls to be yourself and follow your heart. He didn’t.
Take another look at the photo you showed me—the one with Craig sitting on the front steps of the house in Cape Vincent. You see the grin with the dimple? The one that packs enough heat to melt a Nikon lens? Guess what, Clay? He wasn’t smiling at the camera, he was smiling at you. His boyfriend. His significant other. His lifetime partner. The one who needs him too much, knows him too well, pulls him up short, and puts him through hell. That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Clayton, any halfwit can see that he’s already yours—right down to his toes. So don’t fuck it up. Send him two dozen snapdragons, tell him you’re sorry, take him to France for a week, and don’t give him a hard time about running for office. Stop being such a schmuck.
You owe most of the Constitutional Convention an apology. Alexander Hamilton’s been called many things, but “ignorant shitkicker” is out of line. Travis
CLAYTON’S HARDWARE
serving Saratoga Springs since 1988
Trav—
I can’t say I’m sorry if I’m right and he’s wrong.
I never noticed his dimple before. Thanks for pointing it out.
Fuck France. Maybe if they learned how to drive.
The snapdragons I can do. (How did you know he likes them?)
Assuming I took your screwy game plan seriously (which I don’t), Hamilton’s the reason we have interleague play, linoleum infields, and lights at Wrigley Field. So don’t yank my chain. They’re your rules.
Since I’ve already figured out that you don’t know your ass from your belly button about construction, I’m building you an A-frame. Take it or leave it. We’ll go over the specs tomorrow night at bowling.
Who are you calling a schmuck?
Thanks for being there. I mean it.
Clay
P.S. I wasn’t really a blue-ribbon kid. I used to drop Fizzies into the goldfish bowl just to see what would happen.
Dear Gordo,
If you should happen to hear on CNN that A.J. Larkin is wanted in six states for the premeditated decapitation of a history teacher, I won’t be offended if you pretend we’ve never communicated before.
Do you know what he’s doing? He’s pacing the lobby with my cell phone glued to his ear, trying to talk Clayton into a He Loves Me trip to Paris. With Craig! As of fifteen minutes ago, he’d picked the hotel for them (The Crillon—at $650 a night), planned the dinner reservations (Maxim’s—why not?), and orchestrated the midnight handholding along the Left Bank (they didn’t even do that in Gigi!). But when he brought up the tiramisu-flavored condoms, I kicked him out of the room.
Hello? Am I missing a few pieces, or is the wrong groom going on the honeymoon? Meanwhile, I have a restaurant in St. Louis that’s presently under the supervision of an assistant manager whose probation officer doesn’t think he ought to be handling cash. What did I come here for?
With Clayton and Craig still not speaking to each another (Snap out of it, guys!), we had one window of opportunity that’s about to slam shut on Beaver’s fingers. And he’s the one who’s closing it! So after I bury him, I’ll mail his personal effects to you in a cardboard box. Fourth class. Book rate.
Love,
A.J.
P.S. He just materialized long enough to grab his jacket and tie his shoelaces again. Says he won’t be back until late because he needs to find a quiet place to sort out the flotsam the world’s dumped in his lap. (I was about to suggest Bellevue, but he’d already disappeared.) There was a weird faraway look on his face that he might want to reconsider. It worked for Jackie Kennedy. It doesn’t work for Beaver.
Dear A.J.,
I was afraid this would happen. When T falls in love, he does it with the whole world at once. Compared to him, Jane Austen was romantically challenged.
Get a rope, tie it to his feet, and drag him up to Craig’s office. Once they’re face-to-face again, he’ll turn back into Normal Travis (whatever that is). I hope.
Your mom is watching Babes on Broadway as we speak. She figured out that I’m not really Mickey Rooney after all, only Gordo—but it was a nice run while it lasted. In the meantime, she’s making me Karamel Krispies for Christmas but sending them out tomorrow. (When do you guys do Thanksgiving—Memorial Day?) Which reminds me—her heater’s on the blink again. She says she’s not going to worry about it until the fall, but you really ought to think about getting her out of Cleveland and moving her to a place that’s warmer. Like Santa Monica. (Hint. Hint. Hint.)
Love,
Gordo
P.S. I’d have to know more specifically which of T’s faraway looks he was wearing. There’s three of them.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
The whole idea was to get off the train at Poughkeepsie and take a cab to the estate in Hyde Park. After all, if FDR could figure out the Guadalcanal invasion reposing on the veranda with a cocktail, I could solve the Clayton-Craig conundrum doing the same thing with a Diet Coke. But it didn’t quite work out that way. There’s something almost hypnotic about a cobalt-blue Hudson River streaking past your right elbow at seventy-five miles an hour—it takes you places you don’t want to go. “I think I need somebody to talk to.” “If you’d pulled something like that on me, I’d have married you on the spot.” “I never had a best friend I could count on before. The job’s open if you want it.” “Thanks for being there. I mean it.” Years ago, I made a deal with my conscience: as long as I didn’t give it a reason to bite me in the ass, it would stay where it belonged. But now that I’d broken the rules, it was retaliating in overdrive.
I ring the bell of the house on Loughberry Lake. Kismet has brought my two feet this far. The rest is up to me. After an interminable wait of almost fourteen seconds, the front door is flung open. My Craig is wearing little jeans, a white T-shirt, no shoes or socks, and chestnut hair that’s falling into his face—just like it always did.
“Hi,” he grins, one-dimply. “Is there something I can do for—” The words die on his lips when he recognizes me.
“Travis!” he sobs, falling into my arms.
“Craigy!” I sob back, falling into his.
“Hey!” calls Clayton from the living room. “What about me?”
Craig pivots contemptuously, his upper lip curled in a rictus of disgust.
“Get out,” he hisses with awful finality. “You’ve served your purpose.” Clayton begins to weep silently as he trudges up the stairs to pack his few pitiful things into a tiny suitcase. When he returns ten minutes later, shoulders hunched and pain creasing his brow, he finds us naked in the
Jacuzzi, making love for the first time in twenty years.
“Do I at least get a goodbye?” he asks Craig haltingly, his voice fracturing into a dozen slivers. Craig continues licking my neck and doesn’t even bother to look up.
“No,” he snaps. “And leave the Bronco. I paid for it.”
Poughkeepsie came and went, along with every shred of self-respect I’d ever owned. When did I turn into such a callous shitball? So when the conductor bellowed “Tarrytown!” I bolted out of there like a Krupp 88 mortar aimed at Tunis. Anything to get off that train.
Beckley hadn’t changed much since Craig and I had last kissed there, except for the brand-new shower stalls that were now only big enough for one boy apiece (as though there were hormone-neutralizing properties in tile) and the chapel rectory, where we’d once stripped off our shirts and made out behind a life-size canvas of Jesus and the Madonna. (Within five minutes, we’d sent Leviticus the way of the Hindenburg.) Everything else was just where I’d expected it to be: our joined-at-the-hip leather chairs in the library, our belly button table in study hall, our naked swimming pool at the gym, and the bed in his room—where we were never afraid to spill our hearts to each other. There was also our oak tree ninety-three paces into the woods, which appeared to have been anticipating our return since 1978. So for close to an hour, I sat beneath its branches, hoping to recapture what had once been ours. But my scruples had other ideas.
Christmas Eve. Two years from now. The snow falls gently along Fifth Avenue and Vic Damone sings “Winter Wonderland” while Craig and I hold hands and scope out the window displays at Saks. We pass St. Patrick’s Cathedral just as midnight mass is ending—and amid the devout Christians descending the endless steps, we spot a familiar figure clad in black and sporting an inverted collar. It’s Clayton. Unable to overcome his grief, he’s converted to Catholicism, sworn an eternal vow of celibacy, and become a priest. Father Bergman.
My last stop was the gazebo. By then I was feeling so guilty, I couldn’t even bring myself to stick my head under the concrete bench, where my boyfriend had immortalized our synthesis years earlier: Craig Loves Travis, 6/9/78. Instead, I watched game three of a Little League championship and tried to shut off my brain. I didn’t have much luck.
Twenty years from now. Our anniversary. During a midnight stroll across Lincoln Center Plaza, we pass a grizzled old fart who’s leaning against the fountain, selling pencils. It’s Clayton. Though he pretends he hasn’t seen us, his bottom lip still quivers with yearning when he recognizes Craig. Moments later, he clutches his heart and keels over.
By the time I stood up to leave, two things had happened: (a) the Hastings Hornets had taken a three-run lead in the eighth when Dobbs Ferry lost its starting lefty to a bar mitzvah lesson; and (b) the tears were streaming down my face. Poor Clayton. Broken. Splintered. A shell of the man we all once loved.
Why do I do this to myself?!
G:
There’s a modem on the train, but it’s $7 a minute. No time for a spell-check. Sorry.
I just went back to Beckley. Remember the bag of oranges you left in our closet? There’s still a black spot where they grew into the floo
r.
G, I’m going to tell Clayton why I’m really here. Otherwise, he’ll end up selling matches in the snow without legs—and I can’t live with that. I’ll explain later.
T
ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT
Literary Representatives
LOS ANGELES
NEW YORK
TORONTO
LONDON
Gordon:
For God’s sake, don’t let him tell the truth! What if Clayton kills him? What if Craig finds out? This is no way to end a picture!
I want you to fly to Saratoga Springs yourself. Do whatever you have to. If you need cash, stop by my office on your way to the airport.
I’m serious, Gordon. With a finish like this, we won’t even get foreign.
Pop
FROM THE DESK OF
Gordon Duboise
Pop:
Don’t worry. I trust Travis. Even when he doesn’t know what he’s doing.
By the way—this is still a little premature, but would you be ready to handle a daughter-in-law if you should happen to get one?
Your Kid
ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT
Literary Representatives
LOS ANGELES
NEW YORK
TORONTO
LONDON
Gordon:
I’m 67 years old. A fax like that could have killed me.
I’m reserving a table at Le Dome for 7:30. Bring a designated driver. We’ll need one.
Pop
P.S. Yes. I’ve been ready to handle it for the past ten years.
FROM THE JOURNAL OF
Travis Puckett
Clay—
Meet me at T-Bird’s when you get off work. I need to talk to you before the tournament because I don’t think you should be holding a bowling ball when I say what I have to say.