by Nick Nolan
“That’s just about everything. The rest is too hard to explain.”
There was more? He gathered his courage. “Could you try?”
The boys leaned against the stone balustrade overlooking the shadowy beach below, their nearly touching elbows like flipping magnets, attracting then repelling.
“OK, but don’t hate me,” Carlo warned. “But you know how you can tell where someone is looking when they talk to you?”
Jeremy nodded.
“It’s like when a straight guy talks to you, he might make eye contact, then he looks away totally like he’s trying to find something he wants to stare at, and you’re not it. But a gay guy locks eyes with you, then looks away, only to check out your nose, or your neck or ears or mouth or hair. And that’s how I know…when I think a guy is gay like me. It’s like both of us have eyes that are hungry, and the other dude is an all-you-can-eat buffet.”
“And you’re saying I do that?”
“Well, I thought you did.”
“So then a girl like Carmen probably gets the same thing from most guys.”
“And she didn’t get it from you.”
“Maybe she just wasn’t my type,” he suggested.
“You’re right, Jeremy. I guess she wasn’t.” He smiled. “But anyway, I’ve gotta go. It’s late.”
They began the long walk back to the conservatory. “Thanks for coming over and helping me out. And…thanks for being honest.”
“No prob.”
“Oh, and one more thing before I forget. I need directions to the Halloween party on Saturday at Ellie’s.” He dropped her name as if they were old friends.
“I thought you didn’t have a license.”
“I don’t yet.”
“Then why don’t I pick you up at eight on Saturday? That is if you don’t mind people seeing you come with me. Everyone knows I like boys and people might talk.”
Jeremy hesitated. “So I figured by that comment in class about you always being willing.”
“So you caught that. You’re quick.”
“Thanks. Anyway, I’d like to go with you to Ellie’s,” he lied, figuring he could back out if he needed to. “Why should I care what people think because I show up with someone who’s gay?” he laughed. “I know who I really am, and that’s all that matters.”
“Yep,” Carlo replied, zipping closed his backpack. “That’s what matters. By the way, will you be honest with me if I ask you something?”
They stopped walking, and Jeremy nodded.
“If you were gay, would you be interested in someone like me?”
Their eyes locked in spite of the darkness, and Jeremy took a step backward, as if pulling against an invisible bungee cord. “I really can’t say,” he stated, his mind racing. “It’d be like you asking if I…liked cheesecake even though you knew I hated desserts.”
“Oh, well, thanks.” He threw his backpack over his shoulder. “I get the picture, in spite of the shitty analogy.” He turned and marched back toward the villa with Jeremy in tow. “But you forget one thing, Jeremy Tyler,” he called over his shoulder as they neared the door. “Nobody doesn’t like Sara Lee.”
Arthur smiled benignly while scrutinizing Jeremy’s face for some hint of what had happened. He could tell the boy was upset, but beyond that, he was as unreadable as a Chinese newspaper.
“So where do you want to eat your dinner?”
“Upstairs. I’ve got to study some more.” He clutched his book bag to his chest like a shield and marched out of the kitchen without looking back.
“Jeremy?”
“What?” His voice cracked.
“I forgot to tell you earlier. Your uncle wants to see you in his office right away.”
He paused. “What about?” Am I moving back to Fresno?
“I’ve no idea. But he asked where you were over an hour ago, and I told him I’d send you along right after your session was over. Just take that hallway on the left to the end,” he pointed, “then the long stairwell all the way down until you come to a door with his name on it. Knock, then wait.”
He followed Arthur’s directions down the staircase, then padded along the carpeted hallway toward the cluster of rooms from which his uncle commanded the family’s various corporations. His arms blossomed into goose bumps as a stream of frigid air blew past him. There was no echo of waves inside these tomblike corridors, no sounds but his breath.
The door at the end of the hall held a gold plaque with BILL MORTSON engraved in a stately font. He knocked softly.
“It’s open, Jeremy,” came the pleasant voice from somewhere.
He placed his hand on the icy doorknob and twisted. The door glided open.
The light in the chamber was eerie, emanating from the blinking computers as well as a fire that had nearly burned itself out in the elegant fireplace on the far wall. The rest of the office was fenced with dark floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crowded with crumbling books and paperback manuals, bronze statuary and framed credentials, degrees and awards. And on the floor was something Jeremy had seen only in movies: a flattened polar bear’s body with the roaring head attached, as if the creature had been run over by a steam roller that stopped just in time to be too late.
Bill hunched in an oxblood leather chair behind a castle-size desk, his glasses reflecting like mirrors the green light from the triple monitors in front of him, while his fingers tapped between a trio of keyboards and mouses. “Just a moment, my boy.” His hands slid to each mouse, clicked twice, and the glowing screens extinguished one by one. “Have a seat over there, son.” He motioned to the pair of leather armchairs on either side of the fireplace.
The boy nodded, then seated himself in the chair farthest away. His uncle finally rose, grasping the edge of the desk to steady himself.
“Would you care for anything to drink, a soda, or a beer, perhaps?” he offered, teetering over to a refrigerator disguised to look like another bookshelf.
“No, thank you. I don’t drink,” he replied, trying not to sound ungracious.
“Probably better that way.” His uncle smiled, then stepped carefully, as if his shoes were a size too small, to the empty wing chair opposite Jeremy. Then with a grunt, he fell into the chair. “I know that we haven’t had much time to get to know each other yet, as I’ve been busy with a new software we’re developing.”
“Oh yeah?” He tapped his foot.
“Our family’s consumer software division is always running to stay ahead of the competition, of which there is aplenty.”
“I’ll bet,” he responded, wondering how long it was going to take for him to break the news that he’d be going back to Fresno.
“In any case, when things calm down a bit, I hope we can do something together as a family. Your aunt and I were never fortunate enough to have children of our own; the closest we came was having the privilege of raising your father, of whom I was extremely fond.” He paused here, and Jeremy figured his uncle might be expecting him to say something.
“I don’t remember him,” Jeremy said.
“Of course not. You were far too young.” He shook his head. “After your father’s tragic accident, my wife and I tried desperately to bring you back home, but to no avail. But you know this already.” He stood again. “What I am trying to say in my awkward fashion is that we, your aunt and I, are so very pleased to have you back with us again, at long last.”
“I hope I never have to leave,” Jeremy replied sourly.
“You’ve no idea how that makes me feel to hear you say that.” He smiled. “In any case, I won’t take up any more of your time, as I’m certain you’ve had a long, arduous day. But before you go, I want to give you something.”
He tottered over to a pair of closet doors, then pulled them open to reveal a storage room piled high with large boxes. “Come and get this, son. The one on the floor here.”
Jeremy sprang from the chair to where his uncle was bent over, feebly dragging backward a large carton from inside the do
orway into the office itself.
“A computer!” Jeremy exclaimed. The box had been opened already, and he saw that a printer was inside, as well. “Thanks so much, Uncle Bill!”
“I expect you’ll need this for your studies. It’s a rather good starter machine, and when you’re ready, I’ll get you something faster. It’s heavy. Why don’t you let me ring for Arthur to help you take it to your room?” He reached for the intercom button on the wall.
“It’s OK, I got it.” He began sliding the box toward the door, knowing that he wasn’t yet up to fielding Arthur’s questions about his study session with Carlo. “I’ve never had my own computer before. I really appreciate this, Uncle Bill.”
“It’s my pleasure, young man,” he replied. “Incidentally, I’ve ordered the best man in my company to come by and configure your high-speed line while you’re at school. By this time tomorrow, you’ll be online with your own e-mail address.”
“I hope I can make this up to you somehow,” Jeremy offered enthusiastically, pushing the box along the carpet ahead of him toward the hallway. The door magically swung open for him.
“You can start by testing our new e-mail software that I’ve installed on that machine. It may have some glitches, so I want you to let me know just as soon as you have any problems. Will you do that?”
“Sure I will,” he replied over his shoulder. “I’m glad I can help out.”
“Good! You’re already speaking like a Tyler. Your aunt will be so proud.”
Jeremy stopped and stood facing him, holding out his hand. “And Uncle Bill? I really want to thank you for taking me in. I don’t know what I would’ve done otherwise.”
The man reached out and took the boy’s hand, grasped it, then pumped slowly. “Son, you have to understand something,” he began. “For the past seventeen years, it’s been my wish to do for you exactly what I did for your father.” Jeremy saw that although the man’s eyes were looking at him, he got the feeling they were seeing something from long ago, instead. “We just had to wait for the right opportunity to come along, and God bless us all, here it is.”
He’d nearly lugged the computer to the very top of the stairs when the phone in his room rang. It was nearly ten; who could be calling him at this hour? Had Carlo forgotten something, or was it Ellie or Reed about the party? With a final push, he hefted the box over the top few risers, then leapt through the doorway, snatching the handset as he belly flopped onto his bed.
“Hello?” he puffed.
“Jeremy Tyler?” He did not recognize the voice.
“Yeah?”
“Jeremy, it’s Mom. I need to talk to you about something important.” She didn’t sound drunk. Instead, her enunciated words were as careful and deliberate as a newscaster’s. And no baby voice, for once.
His body snapped upright as he whirled around and sat up on the edge of the bed. “What’s goin’ on?” he asked innocently, disguising his dread.
“How’s everything going there? And be honest with me.”
Why did she sound suspicious?
“It’s going great so far. I mean, it’s only been a few days. So how’re you doing in the hospital?”
And be honest with me.
“Same old bullshit rehab. It never changes. You’d think someone would be able to come up with something new by now. But that’s besides the point.” She began speaking so fast that her words rear-ended each other. “Listen, I can only make local calls here, and I can’t talk long because I’m on one of the nurse’s cell phones and she doesn’t know I’m using it. So I need for you to listen carefully to what I’m going to say.”
“Sure. I’m listening,” he sighed.
“Watch out for Bill. Don’t trust him for a second.”
“And what the fuck do you mean by that?”
“Don’t cuss at me, Jeremy. I mean he might try to do something bad to you,” she whispered. “Have they told you about the Tyler Trust yet?”
“Yes, Mom. Aunt Katharine just did,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me about it before? Our family has more money than God, and up ’til now I’ve been wearing the same shoes for three years…”
“It’s a long story, and I’ll explain—” she paused to take a drag on her cigarette “—the whole thing later. You’ve got to believe me when I say that Bill might try to get you out of the way, like he did your father.”
“You better slow down and explain exactly what you mean…” he was appalled that she would bring up his father’s death as part of whatever scheme she was working “…because Uncle Bill’s been really, really nice to me.” No wonder Arthur had overheard Katharine talking about restraining orders and attorneys!
“Of course he is. That’s how he works.” A deep rattling cough sent her into spasms. “Like Satan.”
“So now you’re trying to tell me he had something to do with Dad’s accident? That Uncle Bill murdered my father and suddenly, oh, by the way, I’m next?”
“I’m pretty sure he did, but I can’t prove anything yet.”
“And being the world’s best mom, you sent me away to a place where you felt there was a chance I could get murdered too?” he laughed bitterly. “Why are you doing this to me?”
“Because I’m worried about you.”
She almost sounded convincing.
“Bullshit! You’ve never been worried about me!” he yelled, remembering the old joke: How do you know if an alcoholic is lying? Her lips are moving. “You’re trying to scare me into running to your side because someone at the hospital pissed you off and now you’ve had enough of this bullshit rehab, or you just saw a beer commercial and boy did it look good.” He stomped across the room toward the balcony. “Well you can stay there or leave or do whatever the hell you want because I’m not going anywhere.” His voice rose to a pitch he’d never heard come from himself. “You’re on your own, Mother!”
“Jeremy!” she hissed. “Listen to me!”
“I’m never leaving this place, do you understand? This is my new home, and Aunt Katharine and Uncle Bill are my family. They’re my new parents. Something good has finally happened to me, and you’re not going to steal it from me again!” He felt his eyes brim with tears. “She told me how she fought you in court to keep me here and all you wanted was the money. You fucked my father to get pregnant, and then you only had me because of the money!” He began crying, his words now nearly incoherent. “Then he died! Isn’t his death and seventeen years of fucking up your son’s life enough for you?”
“I understand you’re angry, Jeremy,” she pleaded. He could hear the tears in her own voice—were they real? “It wasn’t like that! I’ll explain it all to you later if you’ll give me the chance. Just promise me you’ll watch out for yourself. Promise me, Jeremy!”
He heard a second voice yell through the earpiece. “Bitch, gimme back my phone!”
Sounds of scuffling, then dead air.
With a shaking hand, Jeremy hung up, his mother’s words spinning in his head. He fell face forward onto the bed, his body jerking with sobs as he buried his face in his pillow. What was happening to him? He’d never dared talk to her like that before! And only this afternoon he’d told Arthur that if she relapsed he would be the good son and tend to her. What if, after the way he acted, she never called him again, or his words caused her to go on another bender and she died? And then what would happen when he screwed up or failed his classes or his serious character flaw was discovered and Katharine and Bill wanted nothing to do with him?
Where would he go then?
Chapter Fifteen
With a heave, he pulled the leaden door open and then froze. The thunder of male voices, spraying water, and slamming metal blasting him from beyond the doorway made him want to flee; if he went farther, he’d be subjecting himself to the sharpened beak of the school’s pecking order. But he had to do this; it was his only chance. So he pictured the string going through the top of his head and lifted himself higher, then entered.
“Where
’s the coach?” Jeremy asked a tall Asian boy who’d just slipped his shirt off.
“The cage.” He pointed absently, then unbuckled his belt. Jeremy made his way to the end of the locker room where a sunburned, crinkle-faced man with a whistle around his neck leaned against the doorway to a chain-link room. Jeremy saw him scrutinizing his clipboard, shaking his head.
“Coach?”
“Coach Tunny,” the man replied, not lifting his eyes.
“Coach Tunny, here’s my admission slip.” He offered the dog-eared paper to the man.
“What’s your game?” He punctuated his question with a gum snap.
“Two-hundred-meter backstroke, but I’m a little out of practice.”
“Best time?”
“Just under three.”
“Gotta suit?”
“Not yet.”
“Get one from the box over there, then meet the team poolside for drills.” He pointed with the clipboard at a box on the floor, then reached into a cubby and retrieved a strip of paper. “And here’s your locker combo.”
“Thanks, Coach Tunny.”
He raised his eyes finally. “Just ‘Coach,’” he mumbled.
Jeremy bent and fished through the assortment of spandex Speedos until he found a black one that appeared to be his size and then stretched it to the slim width of his hips.
Perfect.
After changing, Jeremy hugged his shoulders against the cold and tiptoed along the slippery cement toward the sounds of splashing water and the coach’s shrieking whistle.
The air outside was thick with chlorine; it scorched the lining of his nose and singed his eyes. The huge rectangular pool was furious with thrashing and kicking as the swimmers windmilled along the lanes with frantic arms. Watching them called up a memory of himself as a child, hooking his fingers through the chain-link at the swim park while watching the young men practice. Their grace had mesmerized him; he imagined them to be flying boys, skimming the water like geese before liftoff. So he’d been delighted when, at the age of eight, his mother had enrolled him in lessons so she wouldn’t have to look after him during the endless summer days while school was out. And he learned to love swimming. It was the one physical activity he excelled at naturally.