Pee-Shy

by Frank Spinelli

  “Thank you,” I said, slurping up the remaining soup. I wiped my lips with the napkin and began chewing on the bread, which was hard, with tiny bits of walnuts.

  Chad stood up and began walking around. “I always liked your apartment, especially the terrace. You know, you really don’t see terraces like this very often.”

  “I know. That’s why I bought this place. Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

  “I mean, you could probably rent it out pretty quickly.”

  “Rent? Why would I do that?”

  Chad turned to face me. His eyes rolled up to one side, and he pouted his lips like a little boy. “I’m just saying, it’s something to consider.”

  “If what you’re asking me to consider is moving in with you, then that’s a lot to consider.”

  “I know it may seem soon, but you’re not getting any younger. We have to think ahead.”

  “We just celebrated our six-month anniversary. You’re screwing up my dating landmarks.”

  “Your what?”

  “Moving in together happens after the first year.”

  “Who said that?”

  “It’s a well-known fact. Three months, six months, one year, and then three years. Those are the pivotal relationship landmarks. We can’t change things around. It will only screw up the relationship. We’re supposed to be building a solid foundation. You don’t want a weak foundation, now, do you?”

  Chad appeared thoroughly confused. “So, what you’re saying is that we shouldn’t move in together until we’ve dated for a year?”

  “According to the landmark definitions, yes.”

  “Well, if you think about it, we met in August. Last week was actually our one-year anniversary, hence the reason why I chose to celebrate at Klee, the restaurant where we had our very first date.”

  “Yes, I know, and that was a wonderfully romantic surprise. Apparently, you’re full of surprises: short-order cook, soup, and now moving in.” I stood up and put my arms around his neck.

  Chad held his hand over his mouth.

  “Don’t worry. It’s not my mouth you need to worry about.”

  “Gross,” he said, pulling away.

  “Now, where are you going?” I asked, pulling him in closer. “Seriously, this is a big step, and it’s a lot to consider, but I will totally consider it.”

  Chad’s eyes lit up.

  “But I want you to consider something, as well?”

  “What’s that? Not another secret, I hope?”

  “No,” I said. “Now put your arms around me and listen.” Up close, Chad smelled like the citrus-scented sunblock he applied religiously before he left the house. “On that table behind you is a file on Bill Fox. Right now I’m going through something that’s making me feel a little crazy. Is this the kind of thing you’d want in your house? I mean, I’ve been working on this on my own. If we move in together, then it would be something you’d have to deal with daily. I don’t think this is something you want in your life.”

  Chad held me tightly around the waist. “I thought we had a deal. You were going to trust me more. Remember, you made a promise?” Then he held up three fingers to his face. “Scout’s honor.”

  “Yes, I remember,” I said. “Okay, you’re on.” I walked over to the table and picked up Anthony Castro’s contact information from the molester file. “This person went to school with me at St. Sylvester’s. His brother was the assistant Scoutmaster who met with Bill after I told my parents about the molestation. Here is his phone number. I haven’t called him yet.”

  Chad picked up my phone off the desk and handed it to me. “If I know anything about you, it’s that you’re determined. So why postpone the inevitable?”

  I took the phone from Chad. Looking into his blue eyes, I wanted to believe he was the one, not just another in a long line of unlucky relationships. Had Chad really found a loophole in my dating landmarks, or were we tempting the gods of relationships?

  I dialed Anthony Castro’s number. Placing the phone up to my ear, I whispered, “I love you.”

  An old woman with a high-pitched voice answered, “Hello?”

  I was caught off guard. “Hi, is this the Castro residence?”

  “Yes, who is this?”

  “Is this Mrs. Castro?”

  “Yes,” she responded. “Who is this?”

  “Mrs. Castro, this is Dr. Spinelli. I’m looking for Anthony Castro.”

  “Well, this is Anthony’s mother.”

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Castro. I went to school with your son at St. Sylvester’s. Is he home?”

  “St. Sylvester’s! Oh, how nice. No, Anthony isn’t home. He’s at the christening for the new baby. They had a baby girl. I’m home with their two-year-old son, John.”

  “You have a new baby granddaughter!” Chad read my frantic expression and held on to my shoulders. “I’m actually looking for your other son, Joseph,” I continued. “Does he still live on Staten Island?”

  “No, Joseph moved to Florida.” Then I heard a voice calling out to her. “Wait a minute,” she said. “They just got home. Would you like to speak to my son?”

  “Yes, but just for a moment. I don’t want to bother Anthony on the day of his daughter’s christening.”

  “No, I meant Joseph,” she said.

  “He’s there?”

  “Yes,” she said. “He came up for the christening.”

  I looked at Chad, my eyes wide with terror. Before I even had a chance to respond, I heard her shouting out his name. This was followed by a muffled conversation. Then a man took the phone. “Hello, this is Joseph Castro. Can I help you?”

  “I’M CONCERNED THAT YOU’RE CONSUMED with the journalistic aspect of this story, which is your way of avoiding the deeper feelings this is bringing up for you,” stated Dr. McGovern. “I don’t want you to stop your investigation, but I would like our sessions to focus more on the emotional impact all of this is having on you instead of your quest to catch Bill.”

  “I don’t feel like I’m consumed,” I countered. “I’m being diligent.”

  Dr. McGovern scrunched her nose like a squirrel. I wanted to tell her it irritated me when she made that face. Instead, I sat there and pouted. “Why did Joseph Castro lie to me? I just don’t understand how he, of all people, could lie.”

  Her face relaxed. The squirrel was gone. “Regardless of whether or not this assistant Scoutmaster confirmed or denied what happened, it doesn’t change anything. Even if he’d admitted that there had been some wrongdoing and Bill was allowed to get away, you would still feel the same unresolved emotions that you struggle with now. Having him validate what happened wouldn’t make it any less painful.”

  “He said he didn’t know why Bill left. When I told him I was molested and that Jonathan became a homeless drug addict, he asked if I wanted to speak at his church about sexual abuse. Was this his way of throwing me a bone? Have me come down to some backward town in south Florida and speak to a bunch of Christians about molestation? Why would I do that?”

  Dr. McGovern paused for a moment and said, “I think it would be beneficial for you to begin coming in twice a week. Usually, it’s better if we meet more than once a week because then we can really begin to dig deeper. Weekly meetings only allow us to scratch the surface. It is important, now more than ever, for us to concentrate on the emotions that begin to emerge as this investigation proceeds. I don’t think the recent events are a setback necessarily. You should continue your pursuit and call Child Welfare, but in here, I would like you to concentrate on the emotions.”

  Grabbing a tissue from the table next to me, I blew my nose. “I don’t want to come here twice a week. Only crazy people need that much therapy.”

  Dr. McGovern pursed her lips. “Parenting children during the early years of their development has a lasting effect, more than all the years of education combined. The trust that child develops with his parents sets a precedent that a growing child will gauge all his other relationships by
. When a child feels he cannot trust his parents, he begins to doubt all his adult interactions. Now you said you and Chad are planning to move in together. I think that is a major breakthrough. You’re beginning to trust Chad. Now you need to start trusting me.”

  I looked at the clock. Thankfully, time was up.

  THAT AFTERNOON I RECEIVED A CALL from Mr. Thomas Sorensen of Child Welfare in Pennsylvania.

  “Before I begin, I have to preface this conversation by saying that I am not able to discuss or divulge any specifics regarding the case in question.” Mr. Sorensen’s voice quivered slightly. He sounded nothing like Corporal Laramie. “The reason why the Tioga County Police Department was unable to proceed with their investigation is because there have been no complaints from anyone in the Fox household.”

  “So, from that statement, is it safe to assume that Bill has children in his care?”

  “You would be safe in your assumption,” he confirmed. “You understand that if you had been molested in Pennsylvania, then we could proceed with the investigation.”

  “What if the boy he adopted in 1982 came forward? Would the police open an investigation against Bill Fox then?”

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you very much, Mr. Sorensen. You have been very helpful.”

  “May I make a suggestion?”

  “Of course.”

  “Go to your local police station and lodge a formal complaint against Mr. Fox.”

  “I appreciate your advice.”

  Now it seemed clear what I had to do. I had to find Nicholas. I wasn’t sure how I was going to locate him. Moreover, I didn’t even consider the damage I might cause in dredging up this part of his past, knowing how poorly Jonathan had reacted. What mattered most to me at that moment was that Bill be stopped.

  CHAPTER 29

  Autumn Perspective

  AFTER WORK I SURPRISED ERIC and showed up at his apartment. I sat on his couch, eating pretzels and doodling over a picture of Joan Van Ark in People while Eric opened a bottle of wine. “Kate thinks I should start going to therapy twice a week,” I said. Eric raised both eyebrows but remained silent. “No comment?”

  Eric shrugged. “I’m listening, but if you want to know the truth, I think it’s a great idea.”

  “Chad and I have decided to move in together.”

  “Well, that was bound to happen soon enough.”

  I bit into a pretzel and gave both dogs a piece. “I’m nervous about it. I’ll be moving into his apartment. That means I’ll have to put most of my stuff in storage.”

  “Well, you don’t have much stuff.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s just that I’m the one who has to move. I’ll be making most of the changes. He only has to make a little room for me in his apartment.”

  “But this is what you want. Isn’t it?” I detected a hint of sarcasm. “And, please, stop feeding pretzels to the dogs. The salt gives them high blood pressure.”

  I was stunned. “I apologize, Dr. Doolittle.” Standing up, I refilled my glass with more wine. With my back to Eric, I said, “I’ve also hired a private investigator to help me find Nicholas.”

  “Does Chad know you’ve hired a private investigator?”

  I spun around. “Of course.”

  “Frank, did you really tell Chad?”

  “No, but I will.”

  “Have you discussed this with Kate?”

  “Eric, I don’t need to ask anyone for permission,” I answered immediately.

  Eric gripped the armrest. He extended his head as far back as his neck would allow and breathed in deeply through his nostrils. Then he exhaled. “Of course you don’t, but honestly, I don’t know what to say to you. You’ve been here for fifteen minutes, dropping bombs left and right. My living room has become a minefield.” Molly jumped off the couch and retreated with Ellie to the kitchen.

  “Excuse me. I came here to confide in my best friend.”

  “Best friend?” Eric laughed. “Seems like your best friend is in the dark as much as Chad and your therapist. Do you hear yourself? ‘I’m going to therapy twice a week. Chad and I are moving in together. Oh, I’ve hired a private investigator.’ I’m going to be picking pieces of shrapnel out of my hair for weeks.”

  “Ha-ha,” I said. In the kitchen I heard the dogs lapping up water from their bowl. “Well, excuse me for just being honest.”

  Eric sat up and leaned forward. “I’ll give you honesty, if that’s what you want. I think you’re making the same mistakes all over again. You’re keeping secrets from your boyfriend—the man you plan on moving in with—and you’re being selectively honest with your therapist instead of working through the truth. And the only reason you’re being honest with me is because you know I’m going to find out the truth eventually and I’m probably the only person you know who can’t stay mad at you.”

  Though I had always appreciated Eric for his honesty, it felt painful to hear it now. I sat down on the couch, staring at the photograph of Joan Van Ark, who now sported a goatee, bushy eyebrows, and devil’s horns.

  “Hey,” said Eric, placing his hand on mine. “What’s really going on?”

  “I’m scared he’s going to get away with it again.” My nose began to run, mixing with the salt from the Bavarian pretzels on my lips so that they began to sting.

  “Frank, you have to prepare yourself because that is a realistic possibility,” he said. “But think about how much you’ve accomplished. The police actually listened to you and looked into this. Okay, so they’re not going to launch a full investigation, but I bet Bill is scared to death now. And you did that.” Tears began to well up in Eric’s eyes, and his voice started to crack. “I am so proud of you, no matter what happens, and you should be proud, too.”

  A WEEK LATER, I RECEIVED A MESSAGE from my real estate agent. I knew he had gotten an offer. When I called him back, he told me that a thirty-three-year-old banker from London had left a deposit. He was waiting for me to give the word before he submitted the application to my co-op board. The only problem was that I had to be out of the apartment within a week.

  That night I told Chad the news.

  “That’s terrific, baby,” he said, giving me a hug. “Are you happy?”

  “Of course. It’s just that it’s all happening so fast.”

  Chad’s eyes widened. “That means it’s meant to be. It’s all happening without any problems. You have to remain positive.”

  That night Chad and I made arrangements to move all my furniture to my parents’ house. My mother agreed it was the best thing to do. She didn’t want me to spend the money on renting a storage space. My sister had her own theory. The day the movers arrived, Josephine called me. “Mommy really lucked out this time. She got a whole new living room, bedroom, and a flat-screen television. You even gave her the artwork. I went over to her house to look around, and she practically threw me out because she was worried I was going to take something.”

  “I’m relieved it all worked out. Mom called me as soon as the truck arrived to ask if I had already paid and tipped the movers. I told her not to worry.”

  “That’s our mother for you. Hey, if things don’t work out with Chad, make sure you call me first. I need some new furniture.”

  “There won’t be a next time,” I assured her.

  Hanging up, I started to think that maybe Chad was right. Was the key to happiness as simple as trying to maintain constant positivity? My parents raised me to think that life was an epic minefield of envious people waiting to cast evil eyes upon you. They had me believe that the future was based on luck, and according to my mother, I didn’t have any. Could anything change that? It occurred to me that whenever anything good happened in my life, I questioned it. I had grown to expect a negative outcome, and when it didn’t occur, I was surprised and suspicious.

  As a doctor, I often told patients to listen to their inner voice; however, when that voice is leading you down the road of paranoia, remember the facts. So far, these were the
facts: I had a career, my health, and a great boyfriend who loved me. I had a family and good friends. I was even able to initiate a police investigation against Bill Fox, based on something that had happened thirty years ago. And I was about to take a huge step and move in with Chad. There it was: no evil eye, no luck, just facts.

  The Saturday I moved in with Chad, I was sitting on the floor in front of my hall closet, packing up the remaining items I had stored away over the years. My empty apartment echoed like a gallery whenever I spoke to myself or walked across the bare floors.

  On my iPod I played Vanessa Daou’s “Autumn Perspective” as I sorted through my collection of DVDs, CDs, and comic books. I packed them up, along with all my coffee table books, which included The Films of Alfred Hitchcock and two others on Batman and Spider-Man. The only thing left for me to do was sort through hundreds of pictures and keepsakes I’d collected from my past lives with other men. The deal I made with myself was that I could keep only what fit into a single shoe box. That included pictures, the rings my grandfather left me, my Living Dead Girl action figure, the Tiffany’s dog tag Eric bought me, and my first-row ticket stub to Madonna’s Reinvention concert. Of all the books in my collection, I chose to keep two on my new nightstand: Anna Karenina, which I promised to read as my New Year’s resolution, and Bill’s memoir.

  The rest had to be thrown out.

  It was easy for me to discard the other mementos now that I had a reason to. Looking into that huge, black garbage bag, I glanced one last time at photos of my various incarnations: shaved head; overly muscular Frank dancing shirtless at Gay Pride; angry, drunk, bearded Frank in San Diego with Ivan; happy, outrageous Frank on a cruise; and depressed, fat, and single Frank at Eric and Scott’s apartment on New Year’s Eve. It was very emotional to pack up my life this time. I had been living on my own for over five years and single for three of those. Moving in with Chad felt like a risk, but that was a chance I was willing to take.