Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  That was when I decided I had to go back to Dr. McGovern.

  CHAPTER 25

  Choo-Choo Charlie

  THE NEXT MORNING, I contacted Child Protective Services (CPS) in Pennsylvania. The operator connected me to the Childhood Sexual Abuse Registry. I left a detailed message, but didn’t expect to hear from anyone. Twenty-four hours later, a woman from CPS named Yvonne Barlow called me.

  After she introduced herself, she told me that it was difficult to open an investigation of child sexual abuse when there have been no complaints coming from within the household.

  “So, you need a child to come forward before you can act?” I said sarcastically.

  “I understand that’s how it might sound, but that’s not always the case. We investigate all charges. However, it’s complicated because you don’t live here, and this happened to you when you were a little boy living in New York. I am going to open an investigation. It just makes my life a bit more difficult when we don’t have any accusations coming from a member of his household or a neighbor who suspects something is going on.”

  “Please, I have reason to believe the boys are mentally challenged. That would explain why none of them have come forward. Wouldn’t that have any bearing on helping you with your investigation?”

  “Yes, everything gets taken into account. I just want you to know that it’s a slow process. Thank you again for contacting me. I’ll be in touch.”

  When the mail arrived that very afternoon, I received an invitation to attend an HIV advisory board meeting in Denver at the end of the month. I considered this a good omen and immediately accepted, thinking it was time to visit Jonathan.

  A STORM SETTLED OVER NEW YORK CITY. The sky was gray. Each time a patient entered the vestibule to my office, the wind swirled into the waiting area and magazines flapped open. I was scheduled to leave for Denver that afternoon. My only concern was that the flight might get cancelled due to the weather, and then I wouldn’t get to see Jonathan. Once I accepted the invitation, I e-mailed him and suggested we have dinner. He was very excited at the prospect of reuniting and volunteered to make plans. “I can’t wait to show you around,” he wrote.

  I hoped that once I had him alone and in person, I could get him to remember more about the past. I needed him to remember. If Jonathan came forward, then Ms. Barlow from CPS would have more to go on than just my statement.

  I looked at my watch. A car was scheduled to pick me up in fifteen minutes. Quickly, I signed off my computer, checked over the remaining labs, and forwarded the phones to my service. Just then, Gloria walked into my office holding a fax. The letterhead read:

  PENNSYLVANIA STATE POLICE

  I ripped it out of her hand. It was from a Corporal Dennis Laramie. At the bottom of the fax, it read: “Dr. Spinelli, I recently received information that you may be able to assist me in an investigation in Tioga County, PA. I would appreciate it if you could contact me at your earliest convenience. Thank you.”

  I dialed the number.

  “Thank you for getting back to me so soon,” said Corporal Laramie, clearing his throat several times. “First, I want to offer my sincerest apologies for what happened to you.” He had a deep, rich, commanding voice. I imagined he was a tall man with a full head of gray hair and a thick mustache. “In Pennsylvania, we take allegations of child sexual abuse very seriously. I don’t know about New York, but here in P-A, a victim has up until their fiftieth birthday to press charges against their molester.”

  “That is very progressive,” I said. “As it was explained to me by my legal counsel, the statute of limitations in my case has expired. My concern, however, is not exclusively personal. I’m worried about the children Mr. Fox allegedly still has in his care.”

  “Doc,” interrupted Gloria. “Your car is waiting outside to take you to the airport.”

  I waved her away dismissively. Just then, that familiar annoying tingling started up inside my urethra and my knees began to tremble.

  “I understand, but what I wanted to tell you is that we are going to launch an investigation based on your claims. We’re going to look into this. Now, I can’t promise you anything, but I wanted to call and assure you that we take these allegations very, very seriously.”

  “Well, thank you for contacting me, Corporal Laramie.”

  “I’ll be in touch.”

  I hung up and bolted past Gloria. Inside the bathroom, I started chanting immediately. “Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin. This is a good omen,” I whispered to myself. “A very good omen. Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin.” Within seconds, the urine came, and I stood there proudly, knowing I had convinced the police to launch an investigation. Now I needed to get Jonathan on board, as well.

  THE RIDE TO THE AIRPORT WAS AS MUCH A BLUR TO ME as the view out the backseat window. Rain pelted the car, sending quivering veins of water down the glass. I needed to speak to someone. I dialed Eric.

  “Oh my God,” he said once I explained. “I can’t believe the Pennsylvania Police called you the same day you’re going to Denver. What are the chances of that?”

  “It’s fate,” I said. “They’re going to launch an investigation, and Bill will go to jail, where he belongs. I can’t wait to tell Jonathan.”

  “Wait just a second, Choo-Choo Charlie,” warned Eric. “You haven’t seen this person in what . . . thirty years? Frank, he might not be as receptive to this information as you are. You’re like a steam engine right now, and I don’t want you to go barreling into Denver and scaring the living shit out of this guy. You have to calm down.”

  “Why is it you can’t be excited for me?”

  “I am excited. I just don’t want you to walk into a situation with high expectations because, when that happens, you’re setting yourself up to get hurt. And I don’t want you to get hurt. I’m just looking out for my best friend.”

  The car pulled up to the airport drop-off. “Listen, I have to go.”

  “I don’t give a shit,” he said. “We’re not done yet.”

  “So now you’re calling the shots?”

  Eric’s voice climbed several octaves. “What are you talking about?”

  “I don’t know anymore. I feel like everyone around me is constantly warning me to be careful, and now I call to tell you that the police are launching an investigation based on my persistence, and still, you’re telling me to calm down. I don’t want to calm down! You used to be the most encouraging person in my life. Back in San Francisco you said, ‘I promise I will see this through with you until the very end.’ Now, I don’t believe you meant that.”

  “Yes, and I also said don’t jump feet first into something you don’t fully understand.”

  “Listen, I have to go,” I said, grabbing my carry-on. Then I heard a click as Eric disconnected.

  Marching through the airport, I was enraged thinking about my trip to San Francisco when I first read Bill’s book. I had come so far since that weekend. Now, I was on the verge of bringing Bill to justice. As I made my way through security, I vowed that no one was going to get in my way—not Eric, not my family, and not even Chad. I was going to see this through to the end, even if it meant losing everyone.

  CHAPTER 26

  Altitude Sickness

  DENVER APPEARED AS A WIDE EXPANSE OF OPEN SPACE that was as beautiful as it was daunting. Standing in my hotel room, I stared out the window, marveling at the mountains that outlined the perimeter of the city. The endless sky above enveloped my view like the dome of an enormous snow globe.

  It was late by the time I arrived, so I tried to sleep. But I couldn’t stop thinking about Corporal Laramie and the police investigation. I took a sleeping pill and woke early the next morning with a throbbing headache, feeling exhausted. On the desk next to my laptop, there was a brochure listing Things to Do in Denver. On the back there was a list of symptoms for High Altitude Syndrome. I’d been in Denver less than twenty-four hours, and I already had two out of six. Inside the bathroom, I popped some aspirin and got read
y for the advisory meeting.

  Downstairs, I made my way to the main lecture hall, along with the other attendees. As always, I took a seat in the back and on the aisle so that I had easy access to the restrooms. Once the lights went down and the first speaker took the stage, I tried my best to pay attention. The aspirin I’d taken earlier was wearing off and left a pulsating pain over my right temple. Closing my eyes, I was transported back to 1981. Jonathan and I were in my den listening to the Xanadu soundtrack, singing “Suddenly” into my sisters’ hairbrushes. I was amazed at how high his voice could go. Then I saw Chris Spivey’s face, those cold blue eyes, and I woke up. Everywhere I looked, doctors were listening attentively. All the while, I was staring at my watch, counting down the minutes until I could go back up to my room.

  JONATHAN AND I AGREED TO MEET IN THE HOTEL LOUNGE. I arrived five minutes early wearing a black fitted shirt, blue jeans, and suede boots with two-inch heels. When I turned the corner off the elevator banks, I heard a band playing “Islands in the Stream.” As I entered the lounge, the music grew louder. Across the room, I saw Jonathan sitting on a couch, looking exactly as he did when we graduated from St. Sylvester’s. Jarred by this memory, I felt a sudden pressure in my bladder although I knew I didn’t have to pee. Throughout the day, I’d carefully rationed my fluid intake to just one cup of coffee earlier that morning and two small bottles of water over the course of the afternoon. I’d peed ten minutes before I left my hotel room. This was a phantom urge.

  Weaving my way across the lounge, through dancing couples, I saw the real Jonathan emerge, looking bewildered and doddering behind oversized glasses. When he noticed me, he tapped his boyfriend’s leg, and they stood up. With each step, I became more and more self-conscious, concerned that I’d worn the wrong outfit or my hair was too puffy. The entire room felt enormous, and the distance between us now seemed as long as a football field. When I finally reached them, I was surprised that Jonathan was short, shorter than me, which was comforting. We embraced, and I chuckled nervously. His body felt frail in my arms. “It’s been a long time,” I said as we hugged.

  “Yes, it has, a very long time,” he said. “Frank, this is my partner, Mark.”

  Mark extended his hand, but I hugged him instead. Then I stared at them for a long time.

  “Would you like a drink?” asked Mark. I noticed they already had cocktails. I was relieved that we would be drinking.

  Mark left for the bar to get me a margarita. Alone, Jonathan and I smiled nervously at each other. “I have to sit down,” said Jonathan. “My knees suddenly feel weak.”

  “I’m so nervous I thought I was going to piss my pants walking across this lounge. Is everything in Denver this big?”

  “Frank, you’re in Rocky Mountain country.”

  I sat next to Jonathan, soaking in his face, each line and every gray hair. I imagined he was doing the same to me. He was all grown-up, yet his adulthood was so uncompromising that it took with it all the youthful beauty I remembered of the boy who had everything to gain in becoming a man. It was startling to think that we once looked alike, although I was always the chubby one and he was the one who needed more meat on his bones. I wondered what part Bill played in robbing him of his manhood and what Jonathan would look like if he hadn’t been abused.

  “This is weird,” he said. “You look great. I almost didn’t recognize you with the gray hair and beard, but now that I’m sitting next to you, I can see that chunky kid from St. Sylvester’s.”

  Mark returned with drinks.

  “Thank you,” I said as he set them down. Immediately, I lifted my glass. “Cheers! To old friends and new ones.”

  I drank quickly, and, thankfully, they didn’t fall far behind. After our second round of margaritas, Jonathan suggested we leave. Outside the air was chilly. We walked through Denver, past the train station. The cobblestone avenues were wide, and tall, bronze sculpted street lamps with globe fixtures illuminated the sidewalk with yellow light. The entire scene looked like a set from a Vincente Minnelli musical with quaint shops and Victorian architecture. At any moment, I expected Judy Garland to come riding past us on a trolley.

  Jonathan led us into a packed Mexican cantina. The hostess seated us at a table near the front. Our waitress approached—a college girl wearing a vintage granny dress and an apron. “Can I start you fellas off with drinks?” When Jonathan ordered another round of margaritas, Mark quickly asked for three glasses of water.

  “Do you speak to anyone from St. Sylvester’s?” I asked.

  Jonathan never looked up from his menu. “Are you kidding? I was done with that class after graduation.”

  “What about from Boy Scouts?”

  He winced. “No,” he said decisively.

  “But you made it all the way to Eagle Scout, didn’t you?”

  “Only because Bill left,” he offered. “Mr. Castro started his own troop at St. Theresa’s. I became an Eagle Scout under him.”

  “Then who took over Troop 85?” I asked.

  “Mr. Noto.”

  “Mr. Noto!” I yelled. “Remember?”

  Then in unison, we shouted, “Got no fingers, and I got no toes, and Noto!”

  I turned to Mark. “Sorry. This evening is going to be one long trip down memory lane. I apologize in advance for all the cryptic references.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Mark. “I’m happy to meet friends from Jonathan’s past. He doesn’t have many.”

  “Many? I don’t have any,” interjected Jonathan. “I was so excited when my father called and told me you were looking for me. Then, when we spoke on the phone, you brought back so many memories. But more than anything, I was really happy that you remembered my mom.”

  “Oh my God! How could anyone forget Sharon Duran?”

  Jonathan looked wistfully over at Mark. “I’m disappointed Mark never got to meet her. She died of lung cancer right after my parents got divorced. With each passing year, I forget more and more about her. But you seem to remember her so vividly. That’s why it was so refreshing for me to hear you reminisce about her in such a lovely way. I want Mark to hear you talk about my mom.”

  “Well, you came to the right place,” I said proudly. After another good sip of my margarita, I set the glass down and regaled Mark with stories of Sharon Duran. “She was, without a doubt, one of the most amazing women I have ever met. She was a dynamo: petite, thin, and sexy with her feathered, long brown hair, and these small, round glasses, like Velma from Scooby-Doo , but not in a nerdy kind of way. No, your mother was sharp and very witty. Oh, and she always had a cigarette in her hand.” I trailed off, remembering how she died. I turned to Jonathan. “I’m so sorry. I can’t believe she’s gone. May I ask what happened?”

  “As I mentioned briefly on the phone, when I was in high school I got involved with drugs. Eventually, I ran away and was homeless for a while. I met this guy, and we became boyfriends. He was older, homeless, and also a drug addict. We lived in a train station on Long Island. Can you believe that?”

  “That is unbelievable,” I said. “Jonathan, the boy voted Most Shy: a homeless drug addict.” Just then I noticed Jonathan staring off into the distance. I couldn’t tell whether my comment had insulted him or he was just inebriated. For several more seconds we remained quiet, soaking in the reality of my remark.

  After we ordered, Eric’s words of warning echoed in my head. This seemed as good a time as any to take a break. “Would you guys excuse me? I have to use the facilities.”

  The waitress directed me to the rear of the restaurant. Fortunately, the cantina had two individual private restrooms. I entered the one marked HOMBRES and locked the door behind me. Just like everything else in Denver, the men’s room was huge, roughly the size of my bedroom back in New York. Posters of Mexican wrestlers in gold frames hung on the walls. Resting on the toilet bowl tank were cylindrical glass candleholders decorated with pictures of the Virgin Mary.

  I positioned myself over the toilet with my hands presse
d up against the wall. Dizzy from all the tequila, I swayed from side to side. Eric’s words repeated over and over in my head. I tried to shut him out by chanting.

  Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin.

  I refocused my attention on Jonathan, reminding myself why I came to Denver. I had to figure out a way to bring up Bill. He needed to remember.

  Olga Koniahin, Olga Koniahin.

  I urinated easily in the privacy of that restroom, drunk on tequila and staring at the Virgin Mary as I chanted Olga’s name instead of saying the rosary. By the time I returned to the table, our food had arrived, along with another round of drinks. “That was quick,” said Jonathan, holding his glass in his hands. He was slurring his words. His eyelids were heavy. Mark stared at him, a guarded expression on his face. I sensed they’d had an argument while I was in the restroom. I took my seat and stared down at the mishmash of refried beans, rice, and what appeared to be a burrito. I took another long sip from my drink. Despite Jonathan’s obvious drunkenness, I asked, “So tell me about the intervention?”—thinking he’d answer more freely now.

  Jonathan sat back in his chair, the margarita glued to his hand. “You see, I was living on the street with my boyfriend, and I knew that I had some money in an old bank account. The only problem was that I needed the passbook. So my plan was to sneak into my house during the day when everyone was at work. The only problem was that my mother was waiting for me.”

  “How did she know you were coming?”

  “I have no idea, but the next thing I knew, my father showed up and then my uncle Vito. Thank God for Uncle Vito.” Jonathan closed his eyes and sighed heavily. When he opened his eyes again, he stared directly at me. “You know, he was the only one who talked to me about being gay and drugs. If it wasn’t for him, I would have run away again. He was the reason I agreed to go to rehab.”