Eye Contact

by Michael Craft

  Manning chortles. “Come on. You know she’s safe with me.”

  “Most likely,” Neil admits, “but I’m not at all convinced you’re safe with her.”

  “Oh …” says Manning. Neil has a point. It was Roxanne who first brought Manning and Neil together, a social courtesy never meant to lead to romance. To the contrary, she had for some time entertained the notion of her own carnal involvement with both men. Her fantasies had been doomed from the start, but the hopelessness of her plan was not fully evident till she witnessed firsthand a budding friendship, the seeds of which she herself had planted.

  She did not deal well with what she’d wrought, so she attempted, only two weeks after bringing them together, to drive them apart. The same morning that Neil returned home to Phoenix from Chicago (his visit cut short by a drunken fight that Roxanne picked with him), she seduced Manning. His sexual history to that point, though sporadic and unsatisfying, had been strictly straight. When Roxanne lured him to her bed that morning, she assumed she had triumphed. Manning willingly capitulated, but their sex was cold and loveless, motivated by frustration. As Manning fucked her, he fantasized about Neil, and he then knew that his life would change. It would be months before he would summon the courage to act upon his desires with Neil, but ironically, it was that last intimacy with Roxanne—plotted to confirm his heterosexuality—that sent him down a different path, one that would change the very core of his self-identity.

  It was a change that he had feared. He sensed that it might be coming, and he spoke of it openly with Neil one night when they first had the opportunity to stop flirting and get physical. Instead, they talked. Manning was faced with a “label crisis,” as he called it. He was terrified by the names that have been used to label people like Neil, and he couldn’t fathom taking actions that would attach those labels to himself. Ultimately, though, his own sense of honesty and self-worth won out, and he answered the calling that spoke from within him to love another man—a particular man—Neil. The labels didn’t kill him. In fact, he has been enriched beyond measure by the new identity he feared.

  Now, this evening, he wonders how Neil can possibly worry that Roxanne might come between them. He rises from the stool where he has been sitting and steps behind Neil, wrapping both arms around him. He says into Neil’s ear, “Do you seriously think that I could ever stop loving you?”

  “No.” Neil lolls his head back, tucking it next to Manning’s neck. “But I’ve known Rox a lot longer than you have. She likes to get what she wants. And she’s always wanted you.”

  “We can’t always have what we want,” Manning reminds him.

  Neil swivels the stool to face Manning, laughing. “She’s a strong-willed woman,” he says. Then he adds, “Look, it’s not that I think you would ever succumb to her charms, and I doubt if she’d even try it, but I know she’d be thinking it, so why create a situation that invites that kind of friction?”

  “Because,” says Manning, “it’s important that I go up there. I’ve asked you along—you’re welcome to chaperon—but you’re busy. What am I supposed to do?”

  Neil stands. “Take David.”

  “That’s not a good idea,” Manning responds flatly, without thinking twice.

  “Why not? He’s your ‘assistant.’ Cain’s told you to follow every lead. Take him along—he’d enjoy it.”

  “I’m sure,” says Manning, more to himself. Then, incredulous, he asks Neil, “You mean to tell me that you’re reluctant to have me spend a night in Door County with Roxanne, but you’re willing to send me up there with David?”

  Neil answers nonchalantly, “Rox’ll keep an eye on you. If anything happens, I’ll hear about it.” He laughs. “Seriously, though. We both find David attractive—who wouldn’t?—but we know he’s off-limits. It’s not as if you’re interested in him. Are you?”

  “Of course not,” Manning tries to answer honestly. “Well … in the abstract, I suppose.”

  “Then what’s the problem?”

  Manning turns and ambles toward the central space of the loft, straining to mask the wariness of his reply. “There’s no problem. No, I guess not.”

  Tuesday, June 29

  AT FIVE-THIRTY TUESDAY MORNING, the sun has risen, but the city sleeps. Manning’s brain is off somewhere on planet Zarnik, where he runs, spinning the orb beneath his feet in hopeless pursuit of the horizon, like a schizoid rodent on a treadmill. Overhead, pink clouds alternately glow and dim with the ceaseless rise and set of a faraway starlike sun. His mind is addled. He thinks of nothing. And then a bitsy beeping noise begins to penetrate his ears, needling his consciousness. What is that?

  The clock at his bedside, a travel alarm, was set the night before to rouse him at this early hour. He didn’t want to fuss with the clock radio, leaving it programmed to wake Neil later at their usual time, to the classical music of their usual station. Manning is not quite awake yet, but he knows he should silence the alarm before it gets louder and disturbs Neil. He reaches for the clock, but can’t remember how to turn it off. Fumbling with it, he knocks it off the table. It lands on the carpet with a thump, and the beeping stops. The bed shakes gently as Neil suppresses a laugh.

  “Sorry, kiddo,” Manning whispers to him.

  “That’s okay,” Neil whispers back. “I was awake. Lots on my mind.” He rolls over, resting the length of his body against Manning’s, then kisses him. He whispers, “Good morning.”

  “Good morning,” Manning replies, full-voice.

  “Shhh.” Neil’s fingers cover Manning’s mouth. “You’ll wake the baby.”

  They look at each other with a mischievous grin. Like kids on Christmas morning, they scramble out of bed and pad over to the edge of the balcony, peering down into the main space of the loft. There, sprawled atop a sofa, side-lit by the eastern windows, sleeps the buffed young body of David Bosch. He has kicked away makeshift bedding during the night and scrunches a pillow, rump in the air. He wears boxers, a tank top, and white socks.

  Hubba-hubba. Neil turns to Manning. “If we hadn’t cranked the air-conditioning, we’d be ogling more flesh and less fiber right now. If you manage to get a look at that body, I want every detail.”

  Manning gives him a thumbs-up.

  The cub reporter landed on their couch as the result of last night’s phone calls, planning the quick trip to Door County. Manning first phoned the resort to confirm his reservation and to secure lodging for two—no problem, their deluxe cabin would have two bedrooms. He also received the desk clerk’s message from Roxanne, suggesting he arrive before noon, stay Tuesday night, and leave early Wednesday. The drive takes about five hours, so he would need to get an early start.

  Then he phoned David. As Neil predicted, he was thrilled to be included, but lamented the need to rise so early. His apartment’s air-conditioning has been ineffective against the recent heat (“It needs a fresh shot of Freon or whatever”), so he hasn’t been sleeping well (“I’ll be a zombie in the morning”). Neil proposed the obvious solution. If David spent the night at the loft, he’d sleep more comfortably, and he and Manning could get an earlier start together.

  So later that evening, duffle in hand, David Bosch arrived. The three talked awhile, then Neil offered drinks. To Manning’s relief—he didn’t want a replay of David’s party behavior—their houseguest responded, “Maybe just a nightcap. I want to be fresh tomorrow.” And everyone was tucked in by eleven.

  Now Neil tells Manning, “I’ll get the coffee going.” He throws on a bathrobe and heads down the stairs, then turns back, adding, “You can get started in the bathroom. I’ll wake the child.”

  “Be nice.” Manning wags a finger. “I have to work with that ‘child.’” And he snatches his own robe, heading for the shower.

  Downstairs, Neil circles the sofa, drinking in different perspectives of David’s repose. Even flumped there in his underwear, face smooshed, limbs flailed, the kid personifies beauty. And he’s no kid—he’s twenty-four, he’s played the field.
Neil leans over the back of the sofa. “David?” he says gently.

  But David doesn’t stir.

  Neil moves to the front of the sofa and squats there, almost stepping on David’s glasses, which were set on the floor. Neil picks them up and examines them. Armani—nice, very nice. David’s face is inches from Neil’s. “David?” Still no response. So Neil shakes his shoulder. “David.”

  “Huh?” David wakes with a start, bleary-eyed. Disoriented by the surroundings, he struggles to focus on the man at his side who is backlit by the big windows.

  Neil slips the glasses onto David’s head, hooking them behind his ears. Neil’s fingers stall long enough to fluff the hair on David’s temples. “Good morning.”

  As the whole room snaps into focus, David rolls onto his back. There’s evidence of a morning erection in his boxers. “Oh. Hi there, Neil.”

  “Hi there yourself. Time to get moving. Mark’s in the shower already.” Neil stands. “Coffee?”

  “Sure.” David sits up. He flexes his shoulders.

  Neil steps toward the kitchen, turning back to ask, “Cereal?”

  “Sure.” David stands, stretching.

  God, what a sight. There’s a bounce to Neil’s step as he retreats to fix breakfast, a chore that he’s wont to perform groggily at best.

  By six-thirty, everyone is fed, dressed, and ready to go. Neil sits on a stool at the counter with a last cup of coffee, leafing through the Journal. It’s too early for him to leave for the office—he probably couldn’t get into the building yet. But Manning and David are set to hit the road, their overnight baggage readied near the door.

  Manning carefully uncaps his Montblanc and writes a note for Neil. “Here’s the phone number at the lodge,” he tells him. “Car phone, cell phone, and pager too, so you won’t need to look them up. Give me a call if there’s anything I need to know—you may hear from Victor Uttley. Anyway, I’ll check in with you later tonight.”

  Neil looks up from the paper with a get-serious smirk. “You think I’ll be here, holed up alone?” His tone is playful.

  With a menacing tone, Manning tells him, “You’d better be.” He smiles. “No, have some fun. It’s important to claim your own space now and then.”

  “You’re right. I’ll pee on all the furniture, like a dog marking its turf.”

  Manning musses Neil’s hair. “You know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean. You’re a wise man, Mr. Manning.” Neil rises, caps Manning’s pen for him, and slips it into his pocket. Then he wraps his arms around Manning’s waist, preparing for a proper good-bye. He tells David, who is standing by the door, “You can watch, but don’t blush.”

  David covers his eyes with one hand, feigning exaggerated discretion while sneaking an obvious peek from the crack between his fingers. He witnesses a kiss that is a routine, daily gesture, not passionate but clearly loving. He has seen men kiss before—he’s kissed a few himself—but never in a context of such domesticated happiness. This is a home, he tells himself. He has slept under their roof.

  For the very reasons that the kiss is unremarkable, it is remarkable to David. His self-outing (that is, his recognition and ultimate acceptance of his own gayness) has not yet progressed to the stage of openness with others (unless, of course, the vino has worked its veritas). His gayness, then, is still an exclusively sexual identity, and he can not yet imagine a life—a normal, nonsecretive, loving, workaday life—with another man. And in witnessing this kiss, which is evidence that such relationships can and do exist, he learns in a flash that men need not always love with their dicks. He is stunned by this revelation. But then, he’s only twenty-four.

  “So,” says Neil, returning to the newspaper, flipping a page, “you guys drive safely, comfort Roxanne—and stay out of trouble.” He notices a new ad, another full-pager placed by Victor Uttley, heralding Professor Zarnik’s momentous discovery.

  “Don’t worry,” David tells Neil, hefting both his own bag and Manning’s. “I’ll take good care of Mark.”

  Grinning out of control, Manning wags his fingers at Neil, a wordless parting gesture. Then he opens the door for David, following him into the hallway and down an elevator to the garage.

  Within minutes, the car with the two reporters swoops up the ramp to the expressway that will take them out of the city, heading north. Manning assumed they would have the road to themselves this early, so he’s surprised to discover that the traffic is heavy.

  It’s another muggy day, and even at this hour, heat rises in waves from the pavement. David has dressed for the weather, wearing baggy black pleated shorts and a blue polo shirt. Manning also wears a polo shirt (his is yellow) with a comfortable old pair of chinos. They look like they might be on their way to a golf game.

  With windows shut tight, the inside of the car is quiet and comfortable, easily cooled by the powerful engine, without the droning racket of gushing air that is typical of smaller cars. As the vehicle merges into the fast lane, quickly achieving highway speed, Manning and David sink deeper into their seats, responding to the force of acceleration. The unexpected journey, planned less than twelve hours ago, has truly begun. It feels good to get away. Manning’s grip on the wheel relaxes.

  David tells him, “It’s going to be a long drive, Mark. Any time you want me to take the controls, just say the word.”

  “I’ll let you know,” says Manning, though he has no intention of turning over the wheel.

  There’s a pause. “So,” David says, “what’s all this about Roxanne?”

  “All I know is what I told you on the phone last night. She’s up there on vacation with her boss, Carl Creighton, who happens to be her current love interest, and he’s been called away overnight. She’s got the idea that this has something to do with Zarnik. I assume she has no idea that I found a dossier on Carl among Cliff Nolan’s dirt files. In any event, she said she was scared, and she insisted on talking to me—up there—so off we go. You’re my chaperon, by the way.”

  David is skeptical. “I thought I was your assistant.”

  “Never mind.” Manning laughs. “It’s a long story, a family matter.” Which reminds Manning—“Is your uncle enjoying his visit?”

  “Hector mostly enjoys grousing, but I know he’s having a great time. I’m glad Claire is here with him. She’s the one person who refuses to take him seriously.”

  “Good for her. Has she found the city to her liking?”

  David turns in his seat to face Manning. “Where there’s theater, Claire is happy. She’s wasted no time checking out the local scene, dropping in on rehearsals as well as attending performances. She likes what she’s found here.”

  Manning looks over at David. “Miracles never cease—a New Yorker discovers the heartland.”

  They ride in silence for a while. David stifles a yawn.

  Manning asks him, “Didn’t sleep well last night?”

  “I did, actually—thanks for putting me up. I’m just off-schedule, not much of a morning person. Way too much clubbing lately.”

  “Feel free to snooze.”

  “Thanks.” David experiments with the controls on the side of his seat, adjusting it till he is almost fully reclined. He sighs contentedly, spreading his legs—an enticing sight that momentarily diverts Manning’s eyes from the road.

  Several minutes pass, and Manning realizes that he too feels drowsy. The car is too quiet. He asks David, “Mind if I play something?”

  “Sweet.”

  There are CDs loaded in the trunk, but Manning is tired of them—somehow they never get changed. So he switches on the radio. His favorite station is stored on button number one. The car fills with the sprightly strains of an early Beethoven piece. Name that tune, Manning tells himself—a challenge he’s imposed upon himself since high school. It’s the first piano concerto. Last movement. Piece of cake. He asks David, “Too loud?”

  The kid laughs. “That’ll put me to sleep.”

  A clock radio clicks on, blaring the
final cadence of the Beethoven. “Good morning, friends.” The radio’s volume has been set far too high. An announcer shouts from the bedside table, “It’s seven o’clock in Chicago. Sorry to report, we’re in for another hot day, but cooler weather is due before the opening of this weekend’s festivities. …”

  Beneath a heap of disheveled bedding, Victor Uttley groans. The sheets thrash. A leg appears. Then a lanky arm. Fingers grope for the radio. They find the dial.

  “… ALREADY EIGHTY-NINE DEGREES AT O’HARE …”

  Wrong way. The fingers race to counterspin the dial.

  “… humidity’s a sticky ninety-six percent …”

  Uttley’s head peers out from under a pillow, surveying the room, squinting at the window, confirming that Tuesday has dawned. He tosses back the covers, sits up in bed, swings his feet to the floor, plants his elbows on his knees, winces at the contact with his Rollerblading injury, and holds his head in his hands. His willowy naked body is hairless and smooth, devoid of muscle tone.

  In an ashtray on the nightstand rests his silver cigarette holder. He stands, picks up the holder, loads it with one of the long imported cigarettes he bought yesterday, lights it, and inhales his first drag of the morning. With his free hand splayed on his hip, the other poised before his mouth, he savors the tobacco that has kept him so lean—that, and the fact that his dead-end career as an actor has until recently necessitated the lifestyle of a starving artist. That’s all changed, though, since the mayoral appointment. He’s now a cultural liaison, whatever that is, and he’s begun to enjoy some of the rewards of patronage. His pale body has even begun to sprout the curve of a belly, as though he may one day, months later, give birth to a volleyball. Victor Uttley smiles. Blue smoke whorls from the cracks of his ecru teeth.

  He limps from the bedroom into the living room, headed for the kitchen. He’s lived in his new apartment for only a few weeks. Owing to his new position, it was time to move up, so he took the cue literally and signed a lease on these high-rise quarters. It’s a decent address, and he’s on the top floor, but the view isn’t much, dominated by another building across the street. The decorating is still sparse, and what old furniture he has is strictly thrift-shop. Leaning against a wall, not yet hung, are framed mementos—playbills, clippings, reviews—of his few acting triumphs. There’s a consensus that he’s able and talented enough onstage, but his height works against him. He was jilted a dozen years ago by a high-school sweetheart for the same reason; her head barely reached his shoulders.