Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  “Remember that night I first told you about Bill?” I asked. “Well, I started seeing a therapist in April.”

  The waitress returned with a pizza, piping hot and draped in mozzarella. I stared at Chad, trying to read his expression, but he was too busy assisting the waitress. Once she left, he said, “Why didn’t you tell me this sooner?”

  “Honestly, Chad, I felt like we were just starting to get serious. Then I laid my child molestation history on you at your apartment . . . I know I should have been more honest, but I didn’t want to freak you out. You told me you didn’t believe in therapy, and I just didn’t want you to think you were dating a freak.”

  “I never said I didn’t believe in therapy,” he countered. “I just said it wasn’t for me. Considering everything that’s going on in your life, maybe a therapist’s advice is exactly what you need.” Chad served me a slice of pizza and then one for himself.

  “That’s not all,” I added. “Before I left for Denver, I received word from the Pennsylvania State Police. They’re launching an investigation based on my allegations against Bill.”

  Chad’s face lit up. “That’s great, baby. Now, why wouldn’t you tell me that?”

  “I don’t know exactly. I received the call right before I left for the airport. I was about to call you but dialed Eric instead. We had a little fight. After that, I didn’t want to tell anyone else.”

  “What did you fight about?”

  “Stupid stuff,” I said. Then I remembered the last conversation I had with Eric, how he tried to warn me and the awful things I accused him of. The gnawing pain below my ribs began to throb suddenly as if someone somewhere was sticking a pin in a voodoo doll of me. I was so acutely dreading this conversation with Chad that I’d completely forgotten about Eric. “I’m afraid I owe him an apology,” I continued.

  “Have you spoken to him since then?”

  “No, not yet,” I said. “But that’s not all I have to tell you.”

  Chad brushed his hand through his hair. “Is this it?”

  “Promise,” I said, holding three fingers up to my head. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Ha-ha,” he said dryly. “Finish your story.”

  “Okay, part of the reason why I accepted the offer to go to Denver was so that I could visit with an old friend from grammar school named Jonathan. Bill also molested him. I had dinner with Jonathan and his partner, Mark.”

  “How’d it go?”

  “Not so good. He doesn’t remember much. Let’s just say Denver wasn’t a successful trip.”

  Chad sat up and held my hands. “I don’t want you to feel you can’t tell me stuff that’s going on in your life. I have big issues with secrecy. My ex kept secrets, and it drove me insane. Can you understand that?”

  I nodded, staring into his eyes. What I felt for Chad was clear to me. It was love, a warm and comforting closeness I’d only ever felt with friends like Eric, but now I was experiencing it with someone I felt sexually passionate about.

  “So, moving forward, can you try and trust me a little more?”

  Lifting three fingers to my head again, I said, “Promise.”

  LATER THAT NIGHT I CALLED ERIC to apologize. He asked about Denver. I told him the truth.

  “Well, I’m glad you made it home safe and sound,” said Eric. “I missed you, and Frank, I don’t ever want you to think I’m jealous of Chad. I’m truly happy for you. And if you want my advice, give Jonathan a little time. He just might surprise you and come around.”

  “I’d like to believe that, but I just don’t see that happening.”

  CHAPTER 28

  Live for Right Now

  SUMMER CAME ON FAST. By August, the mornings were so hot and oppressive I’d stand in my office with my arms stretched out in front of the air conditioner to dry the sweat off my body. Then I’d sit in my nook, reading over e-mails, and sipping hot coffee (yes, I have to drink it hot) until patients started to arrive.

  I quickly scanned over my e-mails, searching for one from Jonathan or the Pennsylvania State Police. Over the past two months, I’d tried contacting Jonathan by e-mail and leaving messages on his voice mail. He never responded. Scrolling through the endless junk mail, I found an e-mail from Chad.

  Hi, Baby,

  Pick you up tomorrow at 7 P.M. I have a surprise planned.

  Chad

  Looking at the calendar on the wall in front of me, I stared at the heart drawn around the next day’s date: our six-month anniversary. I remembered the day I drew that heart, thinking if we made it to six months then it would be a great achievement according to my gay rules of dating. It was a running joke among my friends that if two men could make it to their one-year anniversary, it was a huge accomplishment: twelve months was the equivalent of seven straight years.

  After reading Chad’s e-mail, I called Eric because I often gauged everything that went on in my life according to how he responded. When I told him Chad and I were celebrating our six-month anniversary, he said, “This is a huge step toward maturity.”

  Staring at the heart I drew on the calendar, I completely agreed.

  I CALLED CORPORAL LARAMIE ON SEVERAL OCCASIONS. Each time, I was told he wasn’t in. Jonathan continued to avoid me. I left several more messages on his voice mail and sent numerous e-mails. Not one reply. Finally, I tracked him down at work.

  “Are you mad at me?” I asked. “Because—”

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to talk to you,” he interrupted confidently. “Ever since you’ve come back into my life, I’ve been having a very difficult time.”

  “That’s because you’re beginning to remember. Isn’t it?”

  Jonathan remained silent, neither agreeing nor disagreeing. A dangerous dynamic was developing between us. If I pushed too hard, I might lose him for good. Yet it was a chance I was willing to take.

  “I know it’s hard to remember the past, but it’s important that you process these feelings, not suppress them.”

  “Please,” he whispered. “Don’t call me anymore.”

  “Jonathan, I need you. Together, we can catch Bill. The Pennsylvania Police will pursue this case if we both come forward. Remember, the boys Bill adopted are mentally challenged.”

  “I have to go now.”

  “I’m going to do this whether you help me or not. I won’t give up. Next, I’ll start looking up all the other assistant Scoutmasters. Then I’ll contact everyone involved who let Bill get away, including your father.”

  “Keep him out of this, and don’t ever call me again!”

  AFTER THIS SERIES OF SETBACKS, I decided to approach Dean for advice. He cautioned me that something like this couldn’t be rushed. Jonathan was doing what he felt he needed to do. It was more important for me to focus on the fact that Bill was being investigated. Now it was out of my hands, and, according to Dean, the justice system could take years. Making this case an obsession was absolutely the wrong thing to do. If I allowed that to happen, it would become an addiction. This case would never move at the pace I wanted, and, ultimately, it might never get resolved.

  Even though it was hard for me to accept Dean’s advice, I knew he was right. He said it was more important for me to focus on my patients, with their disgusting anal warts, their oozing fissures, and their receding hairlines, and every once in a while, I should look at myself in the mirror with my white lab coat, stethoscope around my neck, and think about how hard it was to become a doctor. He wanted me to think back to that time when I thought I’d never make it, and now, here I was.

  The tricky part was trusting that the police were doing everything they could, even though I was sure Bill was still molesting boys. Above all, Dean said I should focus on the good I’d done so far and avoid living in the future. It was better to live for right now, today, this instant.

  CORPORAL LARAMIE FINALLY TOOK MY CALL. I was in my office taking a lunch break and decided to try him again.

  “Dr. Spinelli,” he said in that familiar baritone. �
��I’ve completed my investigation, and I’m sorry to tell you that I did not find any criminal activity going on at this time. So I had to throw this case back to the director of Child Welfare Services. His name is Mr. Thomas Sorensen.”

  “But did you find out if Bill has children in his care?”

  “We were unable to verify that.”

  “Have there been any complaints made against Mr. Fox in the past?”

  “The best thing for you to do is to contact Mr. Sorensen,” he continued. “He is the one who has access to those records.” Corporal Laramie’s voice never fluctuated.

  “But I don’t understand. When I spoke to you in June, you said that the Pennsylvania State Police takes these complaints very seriously. Now you’re telling me that there is nothing criminal going on and you don’t have any access to records that would include complaints made against Mr. Fox in the past?”

  “Dr. Spinelli, you really should contact Mr. Sorensen.”

  Hanging up, I removed the file box labeled THE MOLESTER from the bookshelf over my desk. It contained notes, a diary, newspaper clippings, Bill’s book, and the list of men who played a crucial role during the years I was a Boy Scout. Scanning through names, my index finger stopped on Joseph Castro, the assistant Scoutmaster. I needed to speak with him. According to Mrs. Duran, he was the one who met with Bill and asked him to leave Troop 85. What did Mr. Castro say to Bill? What promises were made between those two old friends in deciding how this problem should get resolved? I had to know.

  I searched online for Joseph Castro on Staten Island. There were none. Then I remembered he had a younger brother named Anthony, who graduated the same year as me from St. Sylvester’s. Searching his name, I located a man, my age, living on Staten Island. The listing gave only an address, which was less than a mile from St. Sylvester’s and in the same neighborhood where Jonathan grew up. It had to be him.

  That Sunday I visited my parents for dinner. When my father picked me up at the ferry terminal, I asked him to drive me to the address I found online. He did so without question. I sat back, feeling the air-conditioning on my face, thinking about what I was going to do once we arrived. Looking over at my father squinting at the road ahead, it occurred to me, as we drove over Grymes Hill, that he had grown accustomed to simply carrying out requests without asking why.

  When I was growing up, my father happily played the role of chauffeur. It seemed that we were always in transit together, with my father picking me up and driving me back home. My fondest memories were of going to my grandfather’s house when I was very young. Driving home those Sunday nights, I’d often fall asleep in the backseat, and my father would carry me to my bed instead of waking me up. There was something magical about being transported over his shoulder, half-groggy from the long car ride. I always looked forward to the next week, when we’d visit my grandfather and I could relive that wonderful experience again. But this routine wasn’t something I could plan, and when I did, it never had the same element of surprise as waking up in his arms as he climbed up the stairs.

  I often wondered how my father felt once he’d learned Bill had touched me. Did he see me as someone else, not his son, or as damaged? As years passed, I watched as this feeling transitioned into guilt. That gave me license to order my father around when I got older, never fearing he would protest because he always felt guilty for not holding me in his arms after he discovered what Bill had done.

  That Sunday was the first time I’d visited my parents since I’d returned from Denver. I was sure my father still didn’t know what to make of Bill’s book. Driving through Jonathan’s old neighborhood, I suspected he knew this trip had something to do with it.

  “We’re here,” said my father as he pulled up across the street from Anthony Castro’s house.

  It was just as I expected—a gray-and-white-shingled split-level duplex with a long set of stairs leading up to the entrance. It looked like every other house on the block. I imagined it was the home Anthony grew up in as a child and was now the one he chose to raise his own family in. My father and I sat in the car for several minutes in silence. He never asked me what we were doing there. I stared at the house, confirming the address against the one I’d written on a scrap of paper. Looking for a sign that someone was home, I thought about ringing the doorbell. I didn’t know what I would say if Anthony answered. Suddenly, I had an idea.

  “Dad, where is the closest drugstore?”

  “Drugstore? There’s a pharmacy less than a mile from here.”

  “Take me there.”

  Minutes later, we parked outside the Dungan Hills Drug Store. “I’ll be right back,” I said, jumping out of the car.

  Inside, an older woman wearing cat’s-eye glasses with a silver chain smiled.

  “Where are your greeting cards?” I asked.

  She motioned to her left.

  Behind the cosmetic aisle, there was a small section of cards. Immediately, I chose a blank card with a photograph of daisies on the cover. At the cash register, I paid the woman and asked to borrow her pen. Then, back outside, my father waited in the car with the engine running. When I got in, he asked, “Where to now?”

  “Back to that house.”

  My father responded obediently. Soon, we were parked across the street from Anthony Castro’s house again. I removed the card from the brown paper bag and slipped it in my back pocket. Rushing across the street, I climbed the stairs two at a time. A pulse of anxiety flowed through my body as I reached the landing. I pulled the card out of my pocket and stuck it in the mailbox. Then I ran back to the car. In the heat of that August day, I was soaked through to my skin. “Okay, let’s go,” I said, strapping on my seat belt.

  “Where to now?”

  “Home, Jeeves.”

  My father smiled.

  We drove in silence except for my panting. I felt an undeniable thrill that day, as though taking matters into my own hands had now empowered me. If the Pennsylvania Police hadn’t uncovered enough evidence to pursue an investigation against Bill, then I was going to find it for them. Staring over at my father squinting at the road, I imagined he felt the same way, too.

  During dinner that evening, Josephine argued with her husband about getting up from the table to watch the football game in the den.

  “Leave him alone,” called out my mother. “Sit down and finish eating.”

  My father turned to my mother. “What’s the problem?”

  “Nothing!” she shouted.

  When my cell rang, I picked it up and looked at the unknown number. I left the table and walked to the back door. Instinctively, I didn’t answer and let it go to my voice mail. “Frank, this is Anthony Castro. I see you left a card in my mailbox with your number. Of course I remember you. You were friends with Jonathan Duran. You two were like Butch Cassidy and the Sundance Kid. Call me. I hope all is well.”

  I didn’t call him back that day. I don’t know why. Maybe it was fear of the unknown. When I returned to the dinner table and looked around at my family, I realized the truth was that I didn’t want to ruin Anthony Castro’s Sunday dinner.

  NEARLY ONE WEEK LATER, I was convalescing over the weekend in my apartment with a bad case of gastroenteritis.

  That afternoon, Chad called to see whether I needed anything. I thanked him for being thoughtful but discouraged any contact, for fear of infecting him. After I hung up, I relaxed on my couch, flipping through channels. Fifteen minutes later, the doorman rang my intercom. Chad. I hurried into the bathroom, combed my hair, and washed my face. I looked like a corpse. For a brief second, I even considered applying cover-up under my eyes. Then I heard a knock. When I opened the door, Chad was standing there, holding a shopping bag. I smiled.

  He took a step back. “Wow,” he said, jokingly. “You really are sick.”

  “What did you think? I was having a sex party?”

  “Not anymore,” he said, walking past me and into my kitchen. “Just lie down on the couch and let me do my thing.”

/>   “Thing?” I repeated. “Since when do you have a thing?”

  Chad snapped his fingers. “Go on now. Get on the couch. I’ve got this covered. I used to be a short-order cook.”

  “You?” I asked. “Wow, it’s amazing what you learn about a person. Okay, I won’t be a difficult patient. I’ll just lie here on the couch and let you take care of me.”

  From the living room, I could hear Chad opening my cabinets and talking to himself. Then I heard the stove and the clanging of pots and pans. After ten minutes, I began to smell the simmering chicken soup.

  “Okay, here you go. I hope you like it.” Chad was standing over the coffee table, holding a tray. I threw the books off to clear a space for him. He laid out a bowl of chicken soup, a thick slice of bread, a glass of water, and a handful of tablets.

  “You didn’t make this.”

  “Me?” he said, sitting next to me. “God, no. I hate to cook. I bought it down the street, but I did heat it up.”

  “Well, that was very considerate of you.”

  Chad took the napkin and tucked it over my collar. Then he handed me the water and some pills.

  “Finally, some drugs. What are these, roofies?”

  “Vitamin C and zinc. It’s very important you take all of them.”

  “If you say so, but I won’t like it.”

  I swallowed the vitamins and then started on the soup, which was warm and buttery with chunks of chicken. It was the first time I had eaten that day. “This is delicious.” Chad picked up the remote and began changing the channel. “I was watching something,” I said.

  “Hush up. Save your strength.” He found something on the Discovery Channel, settled back on the couch, and propped his feet up on the coffee table. Looking around, he said, “You know, you have a cute little apartment here.”