Jason was the first man Tim loved in San Francisco. Jason was the one who taught him so much about life. And Jason was the man who left Tim the red Thunderbird in his will plus this house and everything in it. Even after their affair was over, Jason was a man who looked out for Tim and maybe, Tim wanted to believe, just maybe Jason still watched over him in death.
Tim hadn’t even smoked pot lately. Well, not much. He’d had his first drink all week when he got off work. He felt that he deserved it, after having come under the scrutiny of Nick’s grandmother and barely missed meeting Nick’s mother, too.
Now he dreamed that Nick was boarding an airplane. He stowed his carry-on in the overhead bin and took his seat on the aisle surrounded by strangers. Music played in the background as Nick buckled his seatbelt and picked up the in-flight magazine. Tim knew the song; he just couldn’t think of its name. The lyrics had to do with changing your mind and being so in love you couldn’t get out. He remembered now… he’d stopped at the Edge for one more drink after he left work. They were playing oldies. Tim knew that song. Emotional Rescue by the Rolling Stones.
In Tim’s dream the song was as loud and clear as if he had on headphones. And now he did. He was in the cockpit, in the pilot’s seat. “There’s no one left to fly the plane.” Tim heard a voice in his head. It was Karen Black as Nancy Pryor in Airport 75, a flight attendant back when people called them stewardesses. Tim had run across the movie the other night in a box of old VHS tapes Jason left in the basement.
The plane accelerated, but lost altitude at the same time. Tim looked at the control panel, but he didn’t have a clue. He was above a freeway filled with cars and trucks and motor homes. The ground came closer and drivers swerved off the road to get out of the way, some rolling over each other as they burst into flame. Tim pressed a lever and the enormous plane set down on the freeway, smooth as glass… but it still moved faster. Where were the brakes? How did the flaps come down? Which button was he supposed to push? An overpass loomed at the bottom of the hill. Even if the body of the plane fit under it, the wings would shear off.
Tim woke up shaking and turned on the television, but he couldn’t find any news about a plane crash. He turned on the computer to look at the headlines. Nothing. Maybe it was just a regular nightmare like normal people have. Maybe it had no meaning, but didn’t he always know? He could usually tell whether they came from that part of his brain that held his grandmother’s “gift.” Maybe it was something he ate. Or maybe this dream was about a far distant future or past or maybe it was someone else’s problem. Even so, Tim decided he wouldn’t fly again for a long time. Once Nick was home, Tim wouldn’t let him fly either. He’d tie him down if he had to. Come to think of it, that might be a nice switch in their sex lives.
Thinking of Nick made him horny again, but it would only be a few more hours now. Tim put on the coffee, took a long shower and dressed in jeans and a pale blue t-shirt. Nick liked that shade of blue on Tim. Then he drove around looking for someplace to buy chocolates. What had Nick’s grandmother said about charcoal and castles? He’d meant to Google that, but it was too late now.
Tim figured there must be racks of Ghirardelli chocolates near the sourdough bread at the overpriced airport gift shops. He glanced at his watch as if he could speed up time by wishing for it to go faster. Then he glanced at the speedometer and let up on the gas. The last thing he needed was a speeding ticket.
Tim still wasn’t used to having a car. He’d spent years walking, running and riding public transportation. There was another great view over every hill in San Francisco. After Tim grew familiar with Eureka Valley he discovered other San Francisco neighborhoods. He liked to climb onto a bus he didn’t know just to see where it took him and then find his way home on foot. He didn’t care much for the major bus lines crowded with tourists, the homeless and commuters, dead-faced and unaware. He liked the odd routes, the ones that ran only every half-hour or so, snaking a path up into a crevasse of toy houses to the top of another vista. They were the buses that carried little old ladies home from the hairdresser or the grocery store. The driver often knew them by name and dropped them off in front of their doors.
San Francisco was a great place to explore without a car, but Tim was glad to have one at a time like this. He parked as close to the terminal as he could. He didn’t want to waste any time. Shuttles glided by on their overhead tracks like they were straight out of the Jetsons cartoon show. Tim raced into the terminal, bought the first box of chocolates he saw and stared up at the arrivals screen outside the security checkpoint. United flight 1233 from New Orleans to SFO was arriving at 9:51 a.m. That must be it. He was just in time.
Tim spotted a drunken woman with a hurricane glass who wore strands of beads, even though Mardi Gras was a long ways off. She must have been celebrating all night. Tim was surprised they’d let her on the plane, but her husband seemed to be holding her upright. A group of college-aged kids in t-shirts from bars on Bourbon Street carried shopping bags with pictures of hot sauce, spices and crawfish. Tim’s heart raced. This had to be Nick’s flight.
More shopping bags advertised Café du Monde and Pat O’Brien’s. A young mother tried to quiet a screaming child by feeding him pralines. The sugar rush would only make things worse, Tim thought. He was glad he didn’t have kids. He’d give that one a valium! Within a few minutes the crowd had passed by, and there was still no sign of Nick.
Tim went to the United counter and waited to speak to an agent, a cute redhead about his own age. Tim’s ‘gay-dar’ kicked in, along with an automatic smile. He could always flirt, even when his heart wasn’t in it.
“Hello. How may I help you?”
“Hi… I was supposed to meet someone on a flight from New Orleans around ten o’clock. Is there any way that you could find out whether he was booked on this one that just landed?”
“What’s the name?” The agent smiled back at Tim.
“Nicholas Musgrove,” Tim said.
“M-U-S-G-R-O-V-E?”
“Yes, have you ever heard of Amanda Musgrove, the mystery writer?”
“Oh yes, I love her books!”
“Nick is her grandson,” Tim said. He was never above a little name-dropping either, if he thought it would help. “She told me yesterday that Nick was coming in around ten o’clock and that I should bring him chocolates.” Tim held up the box.
“His name isn’t listed here, sorry.”
“Is there another United flight from New Orleans?”
The redhead shook his head. “Are you sure it was SFO? There’s a flight into Oakland through Denver at 9:46. Might your friend have been on that one? It was right on time… no, I take that back. It was early.”
“Damn! Of course he could. His family lives in Alameda. Oakland would be the closest airport. I never thought of that. They went to a funeral in New Orleans, and he stayed on a few days afterward. Of course he’d be flying back through Oakland, the same way they went. And I’m way too late to meet him there. Geez, I’m so stupid!”
“Yes, here he is—Nicholas Musgrove—on the passenger manifest. United Flight 718 had a layover in Denver and landed in Oakland already. I’m really sorry.” The agent smiled up sheepishly at Tim.
“That’s okay. It’s my own fault. Thanks for trying to help. I can’t seem to pass up an opportunity to mess things up lately. You want a chocolate truffle?”
“Thanks, I’ll save it for my break,” he smiled and reached into the box. He knew how to flirt, too. “My name is Peter. Well, you probably already guessed that, since it’s on my name tag, but anyway. Please tell Mrs. Musgrove she has a fan here at the United Airlines counter. And good luck finding your friend.”
Tim looked around for a pay phone. Maybe now that Nick was back he’d have his cell phone turned back on. Didn’t they make pay phones anymore? Not even for airports? Tim felt his blood boil up like he was about to have a panic attack. Then he stopped in his tracks and took a deep breath. His psychic ability was generally
useless while he was awake, but he closed his eyes and pictured Nick and knew what he would be doing right now. Nick would have retrieved his luggage and caught a cab to Alameda by now where he’d left his truck at his parents’ house. He would run in to take a leak, give his mother and grandmother a peck on the cheek, turn down their offer of coffee and/or breakfast, wave goodbye to his dad on the recliner and hit the road. He would be headed up Highway 101 to the Russian River as soon as he could. He’d told Tim on the phone from New Orleans that there was a lot of work to do when he got back, and Nick was always practical.
To hell with practical! Tim would drive north too, through the city, across the Golden Gate and all the way to Monte Rio. He was tired of telephones, misunderstandings, mistakes and mix-ups. He had to see Nick in person. That was the only way to patch things up between them. Tim didn’t even stop at his house. He had a jacket and his backpack with his gym gear in the car. Anything else he needed he would buy.
The fog was thick on the Golden Gate Bridge, and Tim was cold with the top down, but once he came through the rainbow tunnel, the sunshine felt warm and everything would be fine. Tim longed for the day when he could drive to the Russian River and think only about the good times he and Nick would have once he got there. He could hardly wait until this whole misunderstanding about Theodore’s nephew, Craig, was long-forgotten.
In the back of Tim’s mind, the river was still associated with trips that he and Jason took together, especially that weekend of his birthday when he first met Phil. That was the time he wanted to forget the most.
Tim could hardly believe his good luck that Phil was spending the night of his birthday with him instead of with Jason. He almost forgot how he was supposed to be mad at Jason for leaving him alone. Phil was amazing, and Tim was surprised with himself that he was able to let go and enjoy the sex so much. He might have been intimidated by someone he considered so far out of his league. Maybe it was the pot. He and Phil smoked a joint together too, as soon as they got back to the cabin. And they each opened a beer, but the bottles were still half full the next morning, one on each of the bedside tables, warm and flat.
They slept late and then had another go at it, foreplay to mutual orgasm without the greasy acrobatics of last night. Then they showered, and Tim offered Phil a ride somewhere, wherever he was staying or just back into town, but Phil said he wanted to walk; it wasn’t far, and it was such a nice morning for it. He left Tim his business card—his name spelled out on a piano keyboard; it didn’t mention his other, more lucrative business. And Phil already knew where Tim worked; they’d talked about it last night—where Tim and Jason knew each other from—but Tim never got around to asking whether Jason knew Phil before.
Tim remained in a state of woozy satisfaction all morning, even after Phil left. In the depths of his subconscious mind he stood in front of an enormous Wurlitzer jukebox. The columns of colors bubbled up like those old-fashioned candle-shaped Christmas tree lights. Tim stood on his tiptoes to drop a handful of coins into the slot. Then he pressed the buttons to play Diana Ross singing “Love Hangover” over and over and over again.
Tim took the Rohnert Park exit and drove by the nursery, just in case, but Nick’s truck wasn’t there, so he got right back on the freeway. When he finally reached the steep, narrow road to Nick’s house in Monte Rio, the truck wasn’t there yet either, but Tim would wait. It couldn’t be long now. He set the parking brake on the Thunderbird and reached for the Altoids box in his backpack. He had just lit the joint when Nick’s truck pulled up and parked behind the Thunderbird.
“Snowman!” Nick yelled and climbed down from the cab.
“Nick, I went to meet you at the airport in San Francisco. I didn’t know you were flying into Oakland. Your grandmother said I should bring you some choc—”
Nick put his hand over Tim’s mouth. “Hold on a minute. Whoa, there’ll be plenty of time to talk.” Nick took his hand from Tim’s mouth and put his lips there. Then he wrapped his arms around him, moved his mouth to Tim’s ear and closed his teeth on flesh just enough to make Tim wince. Nick whispered, “Help me carry the groceries inside. Then bed. Then talk.”
Tim didn’t say another word, as much as he wanted to. They stashed the perishables in the refrigerator and Nick said, “Come on. The rest can wait. I can’t.”
The two of them tore off their clothes and devoured each other. There would be plenty of time to talk about everything later.
Chapter 22
Ruth thought over the events of the night before while her coffee brewed. They came to mind backward and out of order. She and Artie had talked about Mrs. Musgrove while they balanced their registers and restocked the bar. Artie was thrilled that a celebrity had stopped in, even though he wasn’t much of a reader. “Arturo should have met her,” he told Ruth. “He’s a big fan of her books. He reads everything.”
“She’ll be back, Artie. I’d be surprised if you hadn’t seen her around before. You probably just didn’t know who she was.”
“I doubt it.”
“Well, she lived on Hancock Street until this past summer—in the upstairs unit—the same place Tim lives now. She mentioned that she and her husband had been married over fifty years. They might even have come into the restaurant together.
“No, I would have spotted a woman like her,” Artie disagreed. “I do remember hearing about some friends of Karl’s parents who lived upstairs there when Jason had the place.”
“They’re the ones, all right,” Ruth said.
“She must have seen a lot of changes in all these years. This was just a working-class neighborhood back then, mostly Irish. The gays didn’t start taking over until the early ’70s. Let’s see, the Summer of Love was back in ’67, wasn’t it?”
“That was just before my time, but when I was at Stanford we used to drive up to the city on weekends, and we could still see hippies on Haight Street. I don’t remember coming to the Castro district at all.”
“You probably wouldn’t have. The gays took a while to spill over the hill and glitter-fy this old part of town. And I’m sure a lot of them got sidetracked on the paths through Buena Vista Park on their way.” Artie laughed.
“Weren’t you and Arturo here then?”
“No, we were still in Vietnam.” Artie’s laugh disappeared in an instant.
“I’m sorry, I must have forgotten.” Ruth felt guilty, as if she’d brought up a sore subject, but she was awfully tired.
“I wish I could forget.”
“I just hope that someday Tim might find the kind of happiness you and Arturo have together, Artie.”
“I suppose he might, but married life isn’t for everyone, you know. Sometimes I think the only reason Arturo and I are still together is that we have so much history. It would be hard to explain to someone who hadn’t been through the war and then AIDS.” Artie’s voice trailed off. “Maybe Tim will settle down, and maybe he won’t. It’s not in everyone’s make-up.”
Ruth tried to bring the conversation back to the present. “Well, Artie… Mrs. Musgrove—Amanda—was here to check up on Tim because Nick is quite taken with him, according to her. She said it all came out while they were in New Orleans for that funeral. And she wanted to know my take on the murders here last summer. We were just getting started when her daughter-in-law came to pick her up. That was Nick’s mother, the little blonde woman.”
“I didn’t see her either,” Artie said.
“Amanda Musgrove wants to talk with me some more. I imagine she might want to use some of my impressions on that whole Roy Rodgers business in one of her plots. Wouldn’t that be exciting, Artie? Anyway, she’ll be back. She said she would. And we exchanged phone numbers, too.”
Ruth replayed the conversation in her head as she poured a cup of coffee and sat down with the Chronicle crossword puzzle. Whether or not Tim was one to settle down, Ruth wondered if she would. She felt settled here in Tim’s old apartment, of course, or at least comfortable, but not permanent. Her thoughts
drifted to Sam, somewhere off in Germany, and she looked forward to seeing him again any day now. What a charming man.
Ruth decided that a brisk walk this morning might do her a world of good. She also had a check to deposit from some of the furniture she’d left on consignment in Edina, so she pulled on her slacks and a sweatshirt and covered her head with a bandana. It was warm enough today that she didn’t need a jacket just to walk down to the Bank of America at 18th and Castro. She thought she might walk over to Tim’s place, too.
Ruth saw Teresa struggling with her keys at the front gate with her groceries piled high in a two-wheeled cart. She pressed the buzzer for her and said, “Teresa, did you finally buy a new cart?”
“Yes, I took your advice, Ruthie. I got a good one this time. Where are you off to? Do you have time for a Bloody Mary?”
“Thanks, Teresa, but I have to stop at the bank and then I thought I might walk over to Tim’s place and see what’s going on. We were so busy last night at Arts I hardly had time to talk to him.”
“Well, have fun,” Teresa said,” and I love your babushka, honey.”
“My what?”
“That handkerchief on your head… you’d better be careful wearing that in this neighborhood, though. People will think you’re into something kinky.” Teresa laughed. “But I think that’s only when they wear them in their back pockets. You’re probably safe with it on your head like that.”
“What on earth? It’s just that my hair was such a mess. I don’t even know where this came from. It’s not mine. It just showed up in my laundry. Maybe it was in the dryer or maybe Tim left it behind. What do you mean? What’s kinky about it?”
“You’ll have to ask Tim about it,” Teresa said in a stage whisper. “It’s some kind of color code the gay boys use. Red, yellow, blue… they each have a meaning, depending on whether they’re on the left or the right. You don’t see them so much in the Castro anymore, but I think they still wear them South of Market. Lenny tried to explain it all to me once, but I wasn’t paying much attention. What do I care?”
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