Boy Toy

by Michael Craft

  “I’m familiar with the term,” I assured her, “but there’s not a reason in the world to think that Frank and Cynthia’s marriage is anything less than genuine, loving, and committed.”

  Neil nodded once—so there.

  But Barb wouldn’t let up. She asked rotely, “Who’s older—Frank or Cindy?”

  Neil answered, “Cynthia is forty-three, three years older than Frank. So what?”

  “Who makes more money—Frank or Cindy?”

  Neil conceded, “Cynthia does very well, yes. Frank’s a teacher.”

  Barb had another question: “Who’s prettier—Frank or Cindy?”

  There was a pause as Neil and I looked at each other. I answered, “I don’t mean to sound cruel, but objectively speaking, Frank is far better-looking.”

  Barb nodded. “I’m stabbing at this one, but who’s the better cook?”

  My sense memory of Frank’s crown roast of lamb still made my mouth water. I told Barb, “Don’t be ridiculous.”

  She shrugged. “Can’t win ’em all. Still, I trust I’ve made my point.” She rose from the table, picked up everything but our coffee, and took the dishes to the sink.

  Neil lolled back in his chair, finishing his coffee, looking slightly perplexed. I reached across the table, refilled his cup from the pot, then sat back, mirroring his languid position. I mirrored his perplexed expression as well. We looked at each other, silently asking, Could Barb be right?

  Oddly, when I’d first met Frank, I’d hoped he was gay. Now, with someone telling me he was gay, I was reluctant to believe it. I didn’t even want to believe it. We’d visited the Geldens’ home and had already become a small part of their lives. This whiff of sexual intrigue became an oddball variable in the equation of our couple-to-couple friendship, an unsettling unknown, just at the time when I’d happily (and lustily) reaffirmed my “couplehood” with Neil. I’d finally learned to rein my roving eye. The last thing I needed to confront right now was temptation of the flesh—Frank’s flesh.

  Barb finished cleaning the coffeemaker and loading the dishwasher. Wiping her hands, she told us, “It’s all set to go. Just load your cups and push the button.”

  Neil asked her, “Headed out on errands already? It’s early.”

  “Nah. Thought I’d go upstairs and do some practicing—if it won’t disturb you.”

  “Not at all,” I told her as I rose from the table, crossing to the sink with my old Chicago Journal mug and the coffeemaker’s glass pot. “Have you started the clarinet lessons yet?”

  She grimaced. “Tonight. It’s all set up. Thanks for introducing me to Whitney Greer. Nice man, very engaging—he took a real interest in my background as a money manager. He was also very helpful—found me a teacher from the orchestra.”

  Neil said, “We heard you practicing yesterday. You’re good, Barb.”

  “I was good, years ago. It’s gonna be a long road back.”

  “That piece,” I said, “the piece you were playing yesterday—what was it? It was hauntingly beautiful, but I couldn’t quite place it. It sounded modern. And French, right?” I rinsed the coffeepot, swirling hot water in it.

  “Yup. Olivier Messiaen. It’s from the third movement of his Quartet for the End of Time.”

  “How cheery,” said Neil. He rose and joined us at the sink, rinsing his cup.

  She explained dryly, “The composer wrote it from a German prison camp in 1941—he was having a bad day.”

  Feeling chastised, Neil told her, “Sorry. Didn’t mean to be glib.” He put our cups in the dishwasher and turned it on.

  I said, “The melancholy running through the music was unmistakable. But I thought I heard bird sounds as well.”

  “Very good.” Barb pasted an imaginary gold star on my forehead. “The third movement—highly unusual, being a long clarinet solo—is titled ‘Abîme des Oiseaux,’ or ‘Abyss of the Birds.’ Later, Messiaen would frequently mimic birdsong in his music, but this was the first instance. I’ve got my work cut out for me; it’s a difficult piece.” She folded and hung the dish towel she’d been using.

  I nodded. “Keep pluggin’, Barb. I’m impressed that you can play it at all!”

  “Thanks.” Her smile verged on a grin. She wasn’t the type to take a compliment with grace, but when it came to her music, she clearly appreciated my praise, accepting it without a snappy comeback. She told us simply, “Time to practice,” and left the kitchen, heading toward the front stairs.

  Neil told me, “You’ve got to admire her—chucking a lucrative career at forty and pursuing another interest, just for the love of it.”

  I thought of Thad and his eagerness to pursue theater in college, “just for the love of it,” as Neil had said. I asked him, “Do you think that Barb actually intends to pursue music—I mean, as a career?”

  He shrugged. “With Barb, who knows?” He picked up a shopping list from the counter, moved to the table, and sat, adding a few items to the list, presumably for dinner the next night with Frank Gelden.

  Joining Neil at the table, I asked him, “What’d you think of Barb’s theory—that the Geldens have a marriage of convenience?”

  He paused, looking up from the list. “Barb made some interesting points. Certain aspects of Frank and Cynthia’s relationship do seem a bit offbeat, at least collectively. Still, there’s no reason to suspect that their marriage is anything other than ‘real.’ Even if kids in school did think that Frank was gay, that doesn’t mean anything—maybe he was just ‘different.’ In any event, he’s been committed to Cynthia for eight years, so even if he was gay, he’s made some difficult decisions, which we need to respect. Case closed.”

  I nodded. There was nothing else to be said on this topic; there was no point in weighing the what-ifs. As I mulled this, a clarinet interrupted my thoughts. Barb was practicing some warm-up scales, which bounced through the silence of the house like bubbles of sound.

  “Actually,” said Neil, “there’s another relationship that concerns me much more right now.”

  Uh-oh. Our relationship? Was something wrong?

  He answered my unspoken question: “Roxanne and Carl.”

  “Oh,” I said, sounding too relieved. “What about their relationship?”

  “Exactly—what’s going on? Rox left here in a dither on Monday morning, and we haven’t heard a peep since. I’m getting the uneasy feeling that she may be waffling about her move-in with Carl. I’m going to phone her today.”

  “Good idea. You ought to be able to catch her at the office.”

  Neil perused the amended shopping list, but the wrinkles of a frown confirmed that his thoughts were occupied by Roxanne, not groceries.

  “Hi, guys.”

  Neil and I looked up. Thad had just entered the kitchen from the hall. He was barefoot, wearing fleece workout shorts and a huge T-shirt. His hair was a tangle, as if he’d just rolled out of bed and grabbed anything handy to wear downstairs.

  “Morning, Thad.” My chipper tone masked suspicion that something was wrong.

  Neil laughed softly. “A bit early for you, isn’t it? Did Barb’s clarinet wake you?”

  Thad shook his head and answered quietly, “I was already awake. I had trouble sleeping, so I thought I might as well get up.” He crossed the room to the refrigerator, opened it, and took out a carton of milk.

  Neil and I glanced at each other, concerned. I told Thad, “Barb wrapped up some bagels for you; they’re in the cupboard. Or would you like some toast?”

  He shook his head, poured a glass of milk, and brought it to the table.

  Neil said, “You seemed sort of quiet at dinner last night. What’s wrong?”

  Barb finished her scales. There was a pause. Then she began playing the baleful opening measures of the Messiaen solo.

  Thad told us, “When Kwynn and I went over to the theater after lunch yesterday, Mr. Diggins was there, onstage with Tommy Morales. He was running Tommy through Ryan’s blocking.”

  I wasn’t quite s
ure what this meant, but it didn’t sound good for Thad. On the other hand, it sounded promising indeed for the ambitious little Tommy Morales.

  Neil asked Thad, mainly for my benefit, “You mean, Tommy was getting the stage directions for your role?”

  Thad nodded. “When Mr. Diggins saw me there with Kwynn, he got real nervous. He told me not to worry. He said that nothing was changed, that everything would be normal at tonight’s pickup rehearsal. Just to be on the safe side, though, he’d asked Tommy to start learning my part. He called it a… what?”

  “Contingency,” I reminded him.

  Barb’s clarinet stuttered on the pained song of a blackbird—a blackbird calling from an abyss.

  “Yeah,” said Thad. “Contingency.”

  I couldn’t help marveling at—and mourning—Thad’s transformation since Tuesday’s lunch, when he and Kwynn had nearly bounced out of their chairs anticipating the adventures of their theatrical pursuits in college. Minutes later, when they’d visited the Dumont Playhouse, Thad’s future hopes had been put on hold while Denny Diggins and Tommy Morales weighed their contingencies. Now, it seemed, just as I had dreaded, Thad felt the full impact of the situation that whorled around him, worsening day by day. I feared that he feared arrest, despite our shaky assurances that that could never happen. Worse, I feared that this whole experience would sour him on theater—that he would revert to the brooding indifference that had marred his earlier years of adolescence—that he would grow into adulthood without direction or passion.

  Denny Diggins, a man whom I had never liked, played a role in all this, but the extent of his role was unclear to me. So on Wednesday morning, waiting for Glee Savage to interview Denny for a trumped-up midrun feature on Teen Play, my emotions were thoroughly mixed. Was Denny friend or foe?

  Friend: he had written a play, had given my nephew an opportunity to gain valuable experience and exposure starring in it, had himself been victimized by the opening-night loss of a leading actor, and was now struggling to hold the show together while the police attempted to solve the crime.

  Or foe: he had been partner to a secret, soured tryst with Jason Thrush, had himself murdered the boy, had somehow colluded with another young actor, the scheming Tommy Morales, and they were both now attempting to scapegoat Thad.

  Mulling these polar possibilities, I looked up from my desk to see the subject of my thoughts, Denny Diggins himself, being escorted across the newsroom by the Register’s features editor, Glee Savage. Though the morning was warm, promising a return to oppressive August heat, Denny wore a navy, double-breasted blazer, charcoal wool slacks, and a white, button-down shirt, collar open—very correct, very theatrical—he lacked only a paisley silk ascot. Not to be outdone, Glee wore yet another of her fashion-forward ensembles, bright and summery, which included both a purse and a hat—a bloodred straw hat with a huge, flat, round brim. She looked for all the world like a cardinal (not a bird, but a prince of the church) in procession through the newsroom.

  According to plan, she breezed by my outer office, stopping in the doorway to announce, “Denny Diggins is here, Mark. He’s kindly consented to an interview for a follow-up feature I’m planning about his play.”

  “Hello, Denny.” I showed barely enough interest to look up from my desk.

  He nodded prissily. “Mahk.”

  I returned my attention to the pile of proofs on my desk.

  “Uh, Mark,” Glee continued, exactly as scripted, “I really hate to disturb you, but the regular conference room is booked, and my own office is cramped. Might I impose upon you to use your outer office?”

  With a why-not shrug and a be-my-guest gesture, I admitted them. Step into my parlor, I thought smugly.

  Glee took one of the stuffed chairs around the low table, positioning herself so that Denny would sit where I could see him squarely from my desk. She set down her purse (but left her hat on—it was a “statement,” after all) and arranged a folder of notes and clippings, along with her pen, pad, and tape recorder, on the table in front of her. Denny waited, crossing his legs, lolling, spindling a lock of his dyed-auburn hair around an index finger.

  “Shall we begin?” asked Glee with a pert smile, snapping on her tape recorder.

  “Of course. I was flattered to receive your call, Glee.”

  “In some ways, I imagine, Teen Play has been successful beyond your wildest dreams. With the opening weekend behind you, are there any thoughts you’d like to share regarding the intense public interest generated by this production?”

  He considered his words before answering. “I’d like to say that the acclaim for Teen Play is simply based on the show’s own merits.” He laughed quietly. “However, as we all know, other factors have lent an unexpected element of notoriety to the production.” As he said this, his glance moved from Glee to me, meeting my eyes as I watched.

  Glee said, “You’re referring, I presume, to the tragic death of Jason Thrush.”

  “Certainly.” Denny bowed his head, shaking it. “A dreadful, inexplicable loss.”

  Glee glanced at me before telling Denny, “It’s no longer inexplicable. The coroner says it was murder.”

  Denny looked up. “Really? Is it official?”

  “Yes, indeed. Dr. Formhals issued his report late yesterday, and there was a front-page piece in this morning’s Register.”

  “Oh.” He squirmed some. “I haven’t seen today’s paper.” Then he added, doubtless for my benefit, “I don’t subscribe.”

  Feeling I’d just been invited into the conversation, I said from my desk, “I should think you’d want to stay on top of this story, Denny. Here’s the scoop: Jason was murdered. He was poisoned. With mushrooms, if you can imagine.”

  “Mushrooms?” Denny twisted in his chair to face me directly. “You can’t be serious, Mahk.”

  I stood, asking flatly, “Do you think I’d joke about such a thing?”

  He raised his hands delicately in a mollifying gesture. “Of course not. But you must admit, it all sounds rather…unlikely. I mean, how does one poison one with mushrooms—bake nasty little toadstools in a crusty little ramekin and leave it at one’s doorstep?” He snorted at the intended absurdity of his question.

  “We don’t know how one does it,” I answered, aping his prim syntax. Stepping out of my office and into the conference area, I added, “There were no mushrooms in Jason’s stomach. We don’t know how the toxins were ingested.”

  Denny raised a hand to his mouth. “Ugh. Such a grisly business—dissection and such. Poor Jason. Such a beautiful, mahvelous young man. To think that he’s been…butchered in the search for mere ‘evidence.’ ”

  Glee jumped in, soothingly. “You were close, you and Jason?”

  Denny looked at her, astounded. “Well, yes. He was my star, my leading man.”

  Glee noted, “So is Thad Quatrain. Do you feel close to Thad?”

  Wary of the question, Denny watched Glee for a moment, then looked at me, explaining, “Yes, I do feel close to Thad. He’s a wonderful young man—intelligent, talented, dedicated to the show. I respect Thad a great deal. He’s been a pleasure to work with.”

  I had to ask, “Is that why you’ve been coaching Tommy Morales to take over Thad’s role?”

  Denny sighed. “Mahk, I feel terrible that Thad caught me ‘in the act’ yesterday afternoon. Please understand—I’m simply taking precautionary measures, looking out for the best interests of the show—that’s my job. The sad truth is, I’m not fully confident of Thad’s ability to carry the last three performances.”

  “Why? Because he might be arrested?”

  “Heavens no,” Denny replied without hesitation. “Thad was mahvelous Friday night, as he had been throughout rehearsals. But the whole business of Jason’s death has clearly gotten to him. You saw Saturday’s performance—he slipped terribly. And Sunday was worse. I’ll have to see how things go at tonight’s pickup rehearsal. I’m hoping that with a few days’ rest, Thad will bounce back tonight. If n
ot…well, I’ll face some very difficult decisions.”

  As much as I hated to admit it, Denny’s words made sense, and he seemed genuinely distraught at the prospect of replacing Thad in the cast. “Okay,” I said, “I appreciate your respect for Thad, and I believe your statement that you feel close to him. Is it the same sort of closeness that you felt for Jason Thrush?”

  Denny hesitated. “This is not intended to disparage Thad in the least, but I always felt there was something special about Jason. I can’t define it. I don’t understand it. He had a certain magnetism, a star quality.” Denny paused, indulging in his memory of the boy.

  Without implication, I asked quietly, directly, “Did you love him?”

  Denny nodded, exhaling a soft laugh. “Yes, I suppose I did. Jason… demanded love, didn’t he? Like a beautiful horse, or a dog, a pet. It seemed he existed to be loved; his role in the world was to be loved. He was golden. Did I love him? Of course I did…” His voice trailed off with emotion.

  I stepped around the furniture and closed the door to the newsroom; our space became suddenly hushed. Crossing to Glee’s chair, standing behind her, I asked Denny, “Were you and Jason lovers?”

  His head was bent, and it froze in that position for a moment, as if he hadn’t heard me, as if he had died. But then he slowly looked up, his eyes meeting mine. His features twisted with an emotion I couldn’t peg—fear, dismay, repugnance? His lips stretched and his mouth opened to voice a single syllable: “What?”

  Glee touched my leg, signaling that I shouldn’t speak. She told Denny, “You’ve told us that you loved Jason. Did you express that love through a physical relationship with him?”

  “Good God,” Denny muttered as his face fell to his hands. Then he simply, openly broke into tears. Through childish sobs, he told us, “You people are sick.”

  Glee and I looked at each other, uncertain what to make of the situation. She got up, moving to the chair next to Denny. I also sat down next to him, opposite Glee. She leaned to him, patting his knee. “What do you mean, Denny? Why are we ‘sick’?”