Looker

by Stanley Bennett Clay

  She tried to feel sorry for him, but all she could do was feel sorry for herself, a vileness rising up inside of her, like the liquor sickness she pretended to have.

  All the while, Senior Father stood in the shadows in silence, afraid to disrupt the flow of what was about to be spilled, whatever it was; a gossip’s delight.

  “Why did you need to see me?” Selma finally managed to get out.

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Excuse me. Kadidra Dempsey-Bohannon,” Dee interjected, extending her free hand.

  “Peter Caise.” Peter shook her hand politely.

  “And this is Mr. Lacey Cannon.” Dee exposed Senior Father rudely from the shadows.

  “Hello.” Lacey spoke in a forced baritone.

  “Mr. Cannon,” Peter acknowledged with a polite nod.

  “If you don’t mind, Mr. Caise,” Dee continued, “Mrs. Fant isn’t feeling well. You might want to arrange to speak with her at another time.”

  “It’s all right, Dee,” Selma interrupted. “Come in, Peter.”

  Selma seemed surprisingly lucid, given her usual state. Memories of things so hard to forget splashed in her face with a sobering chill as she opened her front door and led Peter in.

  She then turned and stopped Dee and Lacey at the threshold.

  “Are you sure?” Dee warned, with Lacey concurring.

  “I’m very sure,” Selma said with a newfound sobriety. “Now go back and enjoy the party.”

  It all came painfully back to Peter. The staircase to the bedrooms. Making love to Earl-Anthony because he thought that he loved him; making love to Earl-Anthony’s mother for the cleansing he needed for thinking he loved a man. And as sad as it all seemed, he had to chuckle a bit inside, at the absurdity of it all, the absurdity that causes mere man to question the nature that God has assigned. And so for this he needed to apologize; for succumbing to the absurdities of mere mortal man, and seducing two others in his self-loathing acts.

  He did not feel nervous anymore as Selma offered him a seat in the living room. He declined the cocktail she offered. Oddly, she did not make a drink for herself.

  Neither knew just how to begin or within whose court the ball was in. They both accepted blame. And they both needed to hear it from the only other person who could say it from truth. It never should have happened.

  But before all of that, and for a very long time, they sat in silence.

  Chapter Fifty-one

  By the way, I thought you might want to take a look at this,” Brando said, handing Clymenthia the document. “The deal with New Line.”

  “Thanks, Bran,” she said with a cursory glance at the papers in hand, handing them to Jeanette, who sat snuggled up to her.

  “You’re welcome,” he answered, kissing her gently on the cheek.

  “For everything,” Jeanette said. Her eyes then smiled up at him, gratefully.

  The party had been a rousing success, filled with unexpected moments of poignancy and self-reflection. And now it was almost over. It was the final farewell to an ordeal that would forever change the lives of Jeanette Bell and Clymenthia Teager.

  It was something that Clymenthia Teager would eventually write about and Jeanette Bell would lecture on. Within that vast love that Clymenthia had for Jeanette was a deep admiration, deepened by events that no one should endure. And Jeanette Bell was living proof of the infallibility of the soul, its indestructibility.

  “I’m going to talk about this,” she said. “Hopefully get other people talking.”

  What was not being talked about across the room was the mysterious young man at Selma’s door, a presence that sobered the old girl up like voltage. Getting anything out of Dee Bohannon was hopeless. Senior Father Lacey Cannon was at his wit’s end.

  “Why are you acting like you don’t know anything when I know you know something?” he accused with jovial impatience, following Dee into Brando’s kitchen, rendering her escape futile.

  “Wrong, Lacey,” Dee defended with a sigh, retrieving a bottle of Perrier from the refrigerator. “And anyway, you don’t know me that well and I don’t like you that well, even if I knew anything.”

  “Ah, excuse me?”

  “You’re a vicious little stereotype. Now, if you’ll excuse me.”

  She brushed past him and rejoined what was left of the party. Senior Father Lacey Cannon made a mental note. Dee Dempsey-Bohannon would not be added to the guest list of next year’s winter supper.

  Andrew, the Silver Lake thug prince, was still up and willing when Omar made the call. The attempted attitude prompted by Omar’s long absence soon fizzled with the prospect of some fucking. It had been months, and oh how he missed all that thick senior dick.

  Omar had left the party early, finding it hard to stand by and witness the pining that seemed to transmit back and forth between Brando and Collier. Always the good friend to the end, Brando tried to convince Omar to stay, but Omar begged off with some lame excuse, a suddenly remembered deadline he’d forgotten. Omar was angry with himself for not speaking up for what was in his heart.

  He pulled over to the curb and turned off the engine. He sat there a long time. And then he decided. He flipped open his cell phone and hit SPEED DIAL.

  “Hey,” said the Silver Lake thug prince.

  “Hey, man,” Omar said, his voice coolly lowered.

  “Hey,” the Silver Lake thug prince answered back again, gently caressing his balls with anticipation.

  “Listen, man…Listen.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I can’t make it tonight.”

  “What?” He stopped caressing his balls and froze.

  “I suddenly remembered.”

  “What?”

  “I’m under a deadline.”

  Chapter Fifty-two

  It was as if time had stood still—Collier in the kitchen loading dishes into the dishwasher while Brando vacuumed the hardwood floors. They seemed the perfect couple in perfect afterparty mode. They cleaned and they laughed like old friends and lovers glad to be around each other and in their old routine.

  Oh, the fantasies that danced inside Brando’s head.

  The party wrapped around midnight, an hour after the car service had picked up Jeanette and Clymenthia and whisked them off to LAX for the red-eye flight back home. And now it was just Brando and Collier, Collier and Brando. It was the first time all night the former mates had a chance to be alone together, and for Brando it seemed oh-so-familiar, yet oh-so-new.

  With their chores finished, they plopped down on the sofa in the living room. Vintage Luther hummed softly in the background.

  “She was very lucky to have you, Bran. You’re a very good litigator,” Collier said, sipping his coffee. “Remember, I know.”

  “You remember better than I do.” Brando laughed.

  “Please. You wear innocence a lot better than modesty.”

  Brando recognized that sparkle in Collier’s eyes.

  “You’re a good criminal defense lawyer, Bran. And you know it. I’m just glad you grew the balls back to practice what you know. God don’t like waste.”

  “I think I’ve grown balls to do a lot of things.”

  “Really?”

  “I called you, didn’t I?”

  “It didn’t take balls to do that.”

  “Yes it did, Collier. I couldn’t have done it before now. Not with what I have to say to you. I want to try again; this time, really try. I want us to be back together, Collier. I want to be back in your life, share your life. I want you to share mine.”

  In the back of his mind, Collier knew this was coming, and it scared him; the not knowing how to react, the not knowing what to say, or how to say what he had to say. He took another sip of coffee, a thoughtful sip. And then the words came to him.

  “If we couldn’t make it in ten years, what makes you think we could make it now?”

  “I love you,” Brando said, not missing a beat, startling himself. Collier was startled as well, disturbed
by the words that he heard. “I love you,” Brando said again. “I love you, Collier.”

  Collier took a breath, then one more sip of coffee. “I’ve waited so long to hear you say that,” he said.

  “And I mean it.”

  “I know you do, but—”

  “But what?”

  “It’s too late for us, Bran.”

  “What?”

  “It’s too late.”

  “No. No it’s not.”

  “Yes it is.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m involved with someone.”

  Brando couldn’t speak. The sensation dizzied him with a heaving he had not experienced since back in the day when Earl-Anthony broke his teenage heart.

  “Did you expect me to just sit around and wait for you to have this epiphany?” Collier asked as kindly as he could.

  “When…when did this, ah…when did this happen?”

  “It’s very new. We met about a month ago…at one of ‘those meetings’ you always hated going to. An empowerment group for black gay men.”

  “One of those vent sessions.”

  “You should try venting sometimes, Brando. It might do you some good.”

  “So where is this new Mr. Right?” Brando asked with more acid than intended.

  “He’s a navy guy, stationed at Camp Pendleton down in San Diego.”

  “Is it real?”

  “That’s what I’m hoping.”

  “So why did you come here tonight?”

  “You invited me.”

  “But you should have known—”

  “I didn’t know anything. All the years we were together, I didn’t know anything.”

  “Was it ever good?”

  “It was never bad, Bran. It was just never on fire.”

  “I’ve been celibate two years, Coll! Two years, waiting for you!”

  “I thought about not coming. But then I had to come, and finalize things. I was so proud of you when I saw you in the courtroom doing your thing. I thought that maybe finally you had rediscovered some passion in your life.”

  “I did, I have!”

  “Then share it with somebody. And when you do find that person, don’t wait ten years to tell them that you love them.”

  Collier took a final sip of coffee. He set the cup down on the coffee table and stood before Brando, who was seated and weakened by the blindsiding. He reached down to him and brought him up out of the chair. Then he hugged him, in a hug that said good-bye.

  For the first time in a long time Brando could not sleep soundly. All night long he tossed and turned. What he had built up in this newly opened mind and this newly opened heart came pouring out with a stinging so fierce and so foreign that his eyes watered, and his head swung back and forth on his damp pillow, waking him constantly with his own pained shrills.

  He sat straight up in bed and he prayed, “Why, dear God, why?” And then suddenly he wanted to curse Collier for cutting so deeply. Then quickly he asked God’s forgiveness for cursing a man who had only spoken the bittersweet truth. He had waited too long, stood to the side while life, thorny and funky and jagged and twisted and bitter and sweet, partied on.

  Chapter Fifty-three

  We’re seeing Miss Zara tonight, don’t forget. I’ll pick you up at eleven.” It was half past noon when Brando checked his voicemail. He had been numb and had ignored the ringing phone. The magnum of Dom Pérignon lay sweating in a bucket of half-watered ice. He needed a drink. He popped the cork and drank from the bottle.

  Those last moments with Collier flashed like lightning through the fog in his head. He was losing it all over again.

  And then suddenly he heard the echo of Omar’s voice. The voicemail. Miss Zara tonight. Collier gone. He drank from the bottle again. And again. And again.

  He was sick of himself and his Goody Two Shoes existence. The wild Santa Ana winds rule, like the ones that sparked last winter’s Malibu fires. Gentle breezes do nothing, spark nothing. He needed to set something on fire, set himself on fire, not just blow a flower into a smile but torch his soul into feeling; feelings.

  But what was this he was feeling now? He was crazy out of his head with self-pity and self-scorn.

  “Was it ever good?” he remembered asking stupidly.

  It was never bad, Brando. It was just never on fire.

  Truth hurts, and he winced at the pain.

  He couldn’t hold it in any longer. He had to talk to somebody, but not just anybody. He dialed Omar’s number. Omar picked up on the second ring.

  “You got my message?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So, ah, how did everything go?”

  Brando then hesitated, knowing too well what Omar was asking, caught between confession and denial, wanting to blurt it all out and bite down on his tongue at the same time.

  “What?” he finally coughed up.

  “You and Collier.”

  He hesitated; faked another cough. Then: “Aw, man, it’s…it’s the beginning of something, you know?” He was a terrible liar, an even worse actor.

  “You been drinking, Brando?”

  “Still celebrating.” The intended chuckle was bogus.

  “You okay?”

  “Yeah, yeah.” He lied again.

  “Okay,” Omar conceded with hesitance. “So we’re still on for tonight, right?”

  “Most def’nitely.”

  “All right, most def’nitely.”

  “O?”

  “Yeah?”

  Brando hesitated again, then chickened out. “See ya tonight,” he finally said.

  “All right, man,” Omar answered, trying to make it all out. “See ya tonight. Eleven.”

  “Eleven.”

  Brando hung up the phone and drank again from the magnum.

  Fuck it, he thought to himself. He was ready for anything, anything to make him forget he had nothing. He pulled out the card she had given him, and dialed the fucking number.

  “Brando Heywood,” she declared with a sultry cool.

  “Hello,” Brando responded, disguising his despair, “I thought I’d check and see what you and William were up to.”

  Chapter Fifty-four

  Selma Fant had not moved. It was fortuitous that the rolling liquor cart was in reach. She needn’t move to fix the drink after drink she drank through the night, morning, and now afternoon. And still, her misery would not drown. It bore a thousand cuts and would not die. The agony was insurmountable.

  Seeing him again, standing at her front door, gave her a heaving she did not want to experience. Desire and disdain twitched with the need to be cleansed, and the dirt nearly won out. She fought the urges that confirmed her sickness, and held herself at bay and never looked below his neck when finally they exchanged “I’m sorry’s.”

  She told him to find his way out and held her head high and eyes straight ahead so that she would not look upon the firm young ass that slowly headed toward the exit. For what seemed an eternity, she did not squeeze the lips between her legs that dripped with moist want.

  She fought the urge for as long as she could. And then she grabbed the arms of the Queen Anne chair she sat in and held herself bolted down, not allowing herself to run out of the room and have at him before he got away.

  And so all night, and morning, and now afternoon, she sat bolted in that chair, within reach of her liquor, and she drank and she drank, until she could drink no more.

  The drive was a short one from Ledera to Don Pedro Drive. It was the preparation that took most of the time. Vanessa and William Ellerbee had both freshly douched, bathed in bath oils, and given each other a drill sergeant’s once-over, first impressions being crucial.

  It was 3:30 PM when they walked out the door. This evening was a new beginning of old pleasures for them. This evening would be dedicated to the memory of the late DuPré Dixon.

  Dee left a message on Selma’s voicemail letting her know she was running late. She figured that Selma wasn’t picking up because she was pr
obably watching her videos, that video. Dee could not wipe the thought of the video out of her mind, and Selma enjoying it. She thought about it all through the ride to Don Pedro Drive. Should she confront Selma, or should she just leave it alone? She was conflicted and thrown off her game.

  At ten of four Peter Caise pulled out of the parking structure of his Park La Brea apartment complex. He was grateful for the red light that held him at the corner of Wilshire and Curson. To his right were the La Brea Tar Pits, and beyond that the L.A. County Art Museum.

  He sat there in the light traffic, not sure how he felt. Last night’s meeting with Selma Fant was a relief, and yet…He could see in Selma’s eyes the damage he had done, the damage mutually afflicted. After all those years there was a hunger still in her ancient eyes, a hunger he did not want to satisfy. He could see in her eyes, even as she said that she had forgiven him, that she had not forgiven herself, and was still infirm with damning desire.

  The car in back of him beeped its horn politely. The light had turned green. Peter looked up, waved his apology to the rearview mirror, and moved on. After all, he said what he had come to say to Selma Fant. The demons were no longer shared. He had dealt as best he could with his. She would have to do the same.

  Move on.

  He drove east on Wilshire and would turn right on Crenshaw. Earl-Anthony, Miss Zara, would be performing later tonight at the Catch One. A special midnight show.

  She was now at her sound check. He had called the Catch earlier and found out as much. It was now or never. He was halfway there, halfway to, hopefully, his soul’s freedom.

  At 4:18 PM Vanessa and William Ellerbee rang Brando’s doorbell. Anticipation was heightened as a response seemed interminable.

  The door finally opened, revealing a handsome but blurryeyed Brando. He had willed himself past his tentativeness. He was bolstered by champagne. They exchanged innuendo-laced pleasantries at the door, then he ushered them in with a forced smile and a gesture.