by John Inman
“You’re awfully close,” Wyeth said softly.
Deeze nodded. “You smell minty.”
“Toothpaste.”
“I know.”
At that moment, Wyeth stepped back. He was blushing again.
“I guess we’d better go to dinner before Chaucer pees on the door.”
They both looked at the dog. Sure enough, Chaucer was standing at the door with his leash in his mouth, looking eagerly expectant.
“I always have to pee after sex too,” Deeze stated.
“Way more than I needed to know,” Wyeth muttered, and sliding out from beneath Deeze’s hand, he headed for the door. “Coming?”
Smiling, Deeze followed along behind.
Outside in the hall, they passed a stairwell, and Deeze said, “Oh. We’re not walking down?”
“Why would we walk down when there’s a perfectly good elevator?”
“It’s healthier?”
“It’s insane.”
“But, but—”
“Hush,” Wyeth said.
“Wow. You hush people at the drop of a hat. You really are a librarian.”
They took the elevator down.
THEY STEPPED out onto the street from the lobby of Wyeth’s apartment building, and suddenly the unresolved logistics of the evening were back in play.
“Where are we eating?” Deeze asked.
Wyeth shook his head. “I don’t know, but if we take a car, we’ll take mine. You could be a serial killer for all I know.”
“Why should we take a car at all?” Deeze asked, ignoring the insult. “There must be 150 restaurants within a six-block radius. Let’s just walk the hump monster and see what catches our eye.”
“Fine,” Wyeth snapped. “And his name is Chaucer.” After a beat of consideration, he asked, “Why did you name your cat Napoleon?”
“Because he’s short and he thinks he owns the world. You know, you have beautiful eyes.”
Wyeth stood there. Blinking. Deeze grinned. Wyeth started getting mad, then Chaucer broke the tension by peeing on a parking meter while a lady was putting coins in it.
Her scream snapped Deeze and Wyeth out of their reverie. Two seconds later they were hurrying down the street, tugging a dribbling Chaucer along in their wake while the lady stared down at her urine-spattered pumps and fumed. Screamed epitaphs pummeled Deeze and Wyeth like pigeon droppings while they made their escape, giggling. Chaucer didn’t giggle, though. He strutted. It wasn’t often he got to nail a pair of satin heels. Usually he had to pee on bushes and trees and other inanimate objects, which of course limited the excitement factor considerably.
“I’m starting to like your dog,” Deeze said, grinning, when they finally stopped running.
“Yeah, he gets under your skin after a while.”
“You mean, like scabies?”
“Scabies, ringworm, venereal warts. You name it. He’s quite a dog.”
Deeze stared warily down at the mutt. “Yes, indeedy.” He bent and with a certain amount of trepidation, scratched the back of his leg where he’d been humped by said dog. Twice.
“I was kidding,” Wyeth drawled, shaking his head. “He doesn’t have venereal warts.”
“Oh. Thank God.”
Wyeth waited until they had strolled a couple of blocks farther from the screaming woman before asking, “Why did you want to become a preschool teacher?”
“Simple. I love kids. Why did you want to become a librarian?”
Wyeth hated himself for it, but he had to smile. “Simple. Because I love books.”
“Thought so. Life is pretty simple all around when you analyze motives. For instance, Wyeth, my man, let’s take you and me. I asked you out to dinner because I wanted to get to know you. You accepted my invitation to dinner because—”
Wyeth saw his cue and took it before Deeze could complete his sentence. “Because you’re clearly insane, and I knew you’d never leave me alone if I didn’t.”
“Precisely! Cause and effect! Although I like to think my sparkling conversation, my romantic overture with the flowers, and my fawning sycophancy in relation to your clearly deranged dog might have had something to do with it.”
“Yeah, keep thinking that.” Then Wyeth laughed. “Jesus, you really are nuts.”
Since it was summer, it was still broad daylight at six in the evening. They walked toward the bay, squinting against the sun hanging low in the sky. Occasionally, their shoulders brushed, and after about the fifth time, Wyeth stopped freaking out about it.
“Do you really love kids?” he asked.
They waited while Chaucer sniffed lackadaisically at a fire hydrant. “I do,” Deeze said. “At the preschool age, before life gets its claws into them and screws them up beyond redemption, they are sweet and good and innocent and kind. Well, most of them. There are a few clunkers, of course, even at that age, but on the whole, children under six are moldably pure.”
“Moldably pure?”
“Yeah. They’re teachable. They absorb knowledge like that book of yours sucked up water in the lagoon. It’s my job to make sure the knowledge they suck up is what they need for their particular stage of development.”
“Eating paste and coloring inside the lines?”
Deeze frowned. “There’s more to it than that. There’s teaching them to interact with others. There’s teaching them to respect opposing points of views. There’s teaching them to obey, to accept, to understand, to care. And there’s teaching them how to have fun.”
“Aren’t they already having fun?” Wyeth asked. “They’re kids, aren’t they? Kids have fun. That’s what they do.”
Deeze stared off into the distance while still waiting for Chaucer to get bored with the stupid fire hydrant. Wyeth studied his face, waiting for his response. Was he imagining it, or was Deeze enjoying knowing Wyeth was waiting for his response?
“No,” Deeze said quietly, turning to hit Wyeth with a gaze of his own. “Some kids need to be taught how to have fun, believe it or not. Some kids, in fact, never learn the secret to fun at all.”
“There’s a secret?” Wyeth asked, his own voice hushed now, so rapt was he in the conversation, so lost was he in Deeze’s warm brown eyes. “I thought fun was just fun.”
Deeze gave him a studied gaze. “The secret to having fun is to share it back. Fun doesn’t just flow in, it has to flow out too. If a child is selfish, or doesn’t connect well with others, or is afraid to laugh, he’ll never understand fun. He has to give of himself, give of his toys, give of his laughter, for fun to be real.”
Wyeth blinked. “Some kids are afraid to laugh?”
“Sadly, yes. Did you ever watch a string of preschoolers being led through your library on their way to Reading Time? Did you ever notice among all those smiling young faces, one child who isn’t smiling at all?”
“M-maybe.”
Deeze nodded. “See? That’s the child I concentrate on. That’s the child I teach to laugh.”
They were walking on now. Wyeth suddenly realized they were standing in front of the antique carousel at Seaport Village, not a hundred feet from where they had first met.
With a mischievous glint in his eyes, Deeze wrested the leash from Wyeth’s hand and tied it to a light pole. Digging in his pocket for money with one hand while tugging Wyeth along behind him with the other, he leaned into the ticket booth window and purchased two tickets for the ride.
Wyeth tried to pull away. “No, Deeze, this is embarrassing. Come on, let’s just go eat somewhere and—”
“Hush!” Deeze grinned. “See? You’re not the only one who knows how to shush.” He handed over a ticket stub and pulled Wyeth up onto the floor of the merry-go-round. Deeze continued to tug him along, slipping between carousel horses and emus and dragons and fairies while the calliope music blared in the background and a bunch of screaming kids scampered around claiming the mounts they preferred.
Just as the carousel jerked into motion and began to spin, Deeze pulled Wyeth betw
een the upsurged wings of a huge white swan and practically shoved him into the double seat there, claiming the space beside Wyeth at the same time.
As the carousel sped up, twirling faster and faster, and the music swelled even louder, Deeze slipped his fingers though Wyeth’s as the city glided past around them. Wyeth tried to gently pull his hand away, but Deeze’s grip tightened until Wyeth stopped struggling.
After that, the music of the spinning machine and the great cradling wings of the snow-white swan carried them away to unimagined heights. Wyeth stopped being embarrassed and found his lips turning up into a gentle grin. He glanced at Deeze in time to see Deeze’s own smile erupt full force. Deeze leaned in and whispered in Wyeth’s ear, just loud enough to be heard above the blaring pipe organ’s music. “Now you’re having fun,” he said around a laugh.
When Wyeth turned to look at him, Deeze carpe diemed the shit out of the moment and stole a kiss. Just a little one, but a kiss. Smack on the mouth.
Wyeth was so surprised, he didn’t even fight back, and Deeze stole another.
For one brief moment, just a mere flash of time, Wyeth’s eyes slipped closed when their lips met for the second time, and he tightened his fingers around Deeze’s.
Then both men pulled back, studying each other. While the carousel slowed and the music softened, their eyes unlocked and they saw Chaucer’s head slip by time and time again as he watched them slide past, slower and slower with every revolution as the carousel spun down to silent stillness.
After the merry-go-round bumped to a stop, Wyeth pulled his hand away and stood.
“Let’s have dinner now,” Deeze said, and Wyeth nodded, a little breathless. Wyeth licked the last kiss from his lips, and as he watched, Deeze did the same. Deeze wasn’t surprised at all to realize Wyeth’s kiss was delicious.
He was surprised when Wyeth said, “Thank you. That was fun.”
Deeze didn’t know if he meant the kissing or the carousel, and he didn’t much care. Just hearing the beautiful redhead say the words was reward enough for him.
Both men laughed when Chaucer greeted them as if they’d been gone for a month. They ordered takeout food from a seafood restaurant, plus a couple of fritters for Chaucer, and claimed a picnic table looking out over the bay. From there they stared out at the fishing boats bobbing on the water, their masts swaying this way and that while fat white sea gulls swooped overhead, screaming raucously like a bunch of angry old women.
Once, while they ate, Deeze’s hand brushed Wyeth’s as if by accident, and his heart quickened. He wondered if Wyeth’s had as well.
They spoke quietly of nothing really. Enjoying the food. Enjoying the company. Enjoying the view. At one point during their meal, Wyeth stuck his hand in his pocket, looked confused for a second, then pulled out the crayoned note and gazed at it oddly, as if he didn’t remember saving it. Deeze smiled but didn’t say anything. He smiled even wider when Wyeth slipped the note back in his pocket.
LATER, DEEZE walked Wyeth home in the rosy glow of a summer sunset and didn’t even try to kiss him at the door of his apartment building. Wyeth watched in surprise when the dark-haired man simply tipped him a salute and walked away without saying a word. At the last minute, before turning the corner, Deeze turned and waved, a wicked little grin on his face. Wyeth haltingly waved back. Both men returned to their separate apartments alone.
Later that night, Wyeth stood in his living room and stared out at the window directly across the street. Deeze’s apartment was dark, the red curtains drawn. A huge sheet of yellow construction paper was taped to the glass. On it, in orange crayon, were printed the words Thank You.
Wyeth stared at it for the longest time. Finally, he knelt at the base of the window and Chaucer walked into his arms. Wyeth buried his face in Chaucer’s wiry coat, and for the first time in months, he felt alone.
He lay in bed that night holding Deeze’s note in his hand. Somehow the waxy feel of the crayoned words against his fingertips gave him peace.
Hours later, while he slept, he dreamed of swans.
In the morning, the Thank You sign across the street was gone. Replacing it was a sign on red construction paper, printed out in green crayon this time, that read Let’s Do It Again.
Wyeth stood at the window for long minutes, lost in thought, unnerved by that casual—yet not so casual—note aimed at him from across the street. Be careful, a tiny voice warned inside his head. Be careful.
Finally, his mind made up, he yanked the curtains closed, taking a moment to arrange the fabric so that every sliver of light flowing in from outside was blocked. Once again sealed into his own little cocoon of safety, he stepped away from the window and, eyes downcast, made his way to the bathroom to shower for work.
Once he was dressed and ready to go, he felt a little better. The last thing he did before leaving the apartment was make his bed. He found Deeze’s crayoned note among the tangled sheets and slipped it into a desk drawer for safekeeping. If he had asked himself why he did such a thing, he wouldn’t have been able to come up with an answer. So he didn’t ask. There was a font of regret welling up inside him too, but he didn’t dare try to analyze that either.
On his way out the door, he kissed Chaucer between the eyes and ordered him not to eat the couch while he was gone. As usual, Chaucer didn’t make any promises.
Three floors down, Wyeth forced a smile to his face as he stepped out onto the street. There was no happiness in the smile. It was camouflage, nothing else.
For some reason, Wyeth needed camouflage this morning.
Chapter Three
WYETH’S NEIGHBORS were as nosy as the Sunday school God he remembered from childhood—always watching, always prying, always judging. Never looking away to give you a moment’s privacy, forever tsk tsking inside your head when you least expected it.
Agnes Mulroney, who lived next door in 3B, proved it the second Wyeth stepped outside his door. Since the deciphering of Agnes Mulroney’s true age might require carbon dating, Wyeth didn’t even try to figure it out. He just knew she was o-l-d and left it at that. She used a walker that squeaked, rarely wore matching shoes, and was known to steal newspapers from neighboring doormats. When caught red-handed, she placed the blame solely on her meager Social Security check and suggested if people wanted to keep their papers to themselves, they should contact the government and file a complaint with the SSA.
“Mr. Becker!” she cried out as he was locking his door. “I see you stopped taking the paper.”
Wyeth narrowed his eyes and snorted an ungenerous laugh. “Yes. They kept disappearing.”
“How odd,” Agnes said, moving closer. She was in her housecoat, her hair in rollers, and she had her teeth out. She was eating a peeled orange like an apple, without sectioning it first. Orange pulp was dribbling down her arm. Her toothless gums were smacking happily while she chewed and slurped and talked at the same time. Occasionally she would spit a seed into her housecoat pocket.
“I saw you with that nice young man who lives across the way. Striking up a new friendship, are we?”
Wyeth stood rooted, staring at her. “Where were you?” he asked. “Hiding in a tree?”
She guffawed and slapped his arm with a sticky hand, leaving a smear of orange juice on his nice clean shirtsleeve. “Oh, don’t be silly. I was at my window with binoculars. I saw the two of you and that strange dog of yours, walking along the street. I assume you saw the sign he left in his window for you this morning.”
“How do you know he didn’t leave it for you?” Wyeth asked, and before she could slap him again, he stepped back out of reach.
“Oh pooh,” Agnes cackled. “That note was for you and you know it.”
“I have to go to work now,” Wyeth droned. “Have a nice day.”
“Call him,” she said. “You need more friends.”
“And you need to stop snooping, Mrs. Mulroney.”
“Oh pooh,” she said again. “I don’t snoop. I observe.”
&nb
sp; Since Wyeth seemed incapable of just shutting up and diving for the elevator, he turned and said, “If you must know, I’m not calling the man again because he isn’t normal. He actually made me ride on a merry-go-round yesterday.”
“How lovely!”
Wyeth growled. “It wasn’t lovely at all. It was ridiculous. Two grown men spinning around on that ridiculous contraption with a bunch of screaming kids.”
“If I was eighty years younger and had the proper body parts to entice him, I’d go after that man myself.”
Wyeth didn’t want to ask. He had no intention of asking. Then he asked anyway because he couldn’t seem to stop himself. “What do you mean, proper body parts?”
Again, she guffawed. Toothlessly, with orange juice dribbling off her chin. “Oh, don’t be naïve. He’s gay. You’re gay. What’s the problem? I have a friend in Cincinnati who’s gay. He married a sweet man more than two years ago, and they are so happy. That could be you and him. He likes you, you know.”
Wyeth exhaled a tankful of air and resisted the urge to toss the old lady down the elevator shaft. “I think you should go take your Alzheimer meds. You’re hallucinating. And I may be gay, but the last thing I need is a boyfriend. They are too annoying, too time-consuming, and just plain too much trouble.”
The last of the orange disappeared down Mrs. Mulroney’s pie hole. She dragged a handkerchief out of her sleeve and wiped herself down, all the while shooting sad little darts of pity Wyeth’s way.
“You’ll never be truly happy alone,” she said quietly and began plucking rollers from her hair. Most of her gray locks, he noticed, stuck to her sticky fingers. One by one, she dropped the rollers in the pocket with the orange seeds.
“That’s what you think, ma’am. I’m perfectly happy the way I am.” Seeing the disbelief in her eyes, he reiterated, “I am, dammit!”
Mrs. Mulroney looked supremely unconvinced.