Almost Like Being in Love (37 page)

‚Travis!‛ he sobs, falling into my arms.

‚Craigy!‛ I sob back, falling into his.

‚Hey!‛ calls Clayton from the living room
.
‚What about me?‛

Craig pivots contemptuously, his upper lip curled in a rictus of disgust.

‚Get out,‛ he hisses with awful finality. ‚You’ve served your purpose.‛

Clayton begins to weep silently as he trudges up the stairs to pack his few
pitiful things into a tiny suitcase. When he returns ten minutes later,
shoulders hunched and pain creasing his brow, he finds us naked in the
Jacuzzi, making love for the first time in twenty years.

‚Do I at least get a goodbye?‛ he asks Craig haltingly, his voice fracturing
into a dozen slivers. Craig continues licking my neck and doesn’t even
bother to look up.

‚No,‛ he snaps. ‚And leave the Bronco. I paid for it.‛

Poughkeepsie came and went, along with every shred of self-respect I’d ever owned. When did I turn into such a callous shitball? So when the conductor bellowed “Tarrytown!” I bolted out of there like a Krupp 88 mortar aimed at Tunis. Anything to get off that train.

Beckley hadn’t changed much since Craig and I had last kissed there, except for the brand-new shower stalls that were now only big enough for one boy apiece (as though there were hormone-neutralizing properties in tile( and the chapel rectory, where we’d once stripped off our shirts and made out behind a life-size canvas of Jesus and the Madonna. 'Within five minutes, we’d sent Leviticus the way of the Hindenburg.( Everything else was just where I’d expected it to be: our joined-at-the-hip leather chairs in the library, our belly button table in study hall, our naked swimming pool at the gym, and the bed in his room—where we were never afraid to spill our hearts to each other.

There was also our oak tree ninety-three paces into the woods, which appeared to have been anticipating our return since 1978. So for close to an hour, I sat beneath its branches, hoping to recapture what had once been ours. But my scruples had other ideas.

Christmas Eve. Two years from now. The snow falls gently along Fifth
Avenue and Vic Damone sings ‚Winter Wonderland‛ while Craig and I hold
hands and scope out the window displays at Saks. We pass St. Patrick’s

Cathedral just as midnight mass is ending—and amid the devout Christians
descending the endless steps, we spot a familiar figure clad in black and
sporting an inverted collar. It’s Clayton. Unable to overcome his grief, he’s
converted to Catholicism, sworn an eternal vow of celibacy, and become a
priest. Father Bergman.

My last stop was the gazebo. By then I was feeling so guilty, I couldn’t even bring myself to stick my head under the concrete bench, where my boyfriend had immortalized our synthesis years earlier: Craig Loves Travis, 6/9/78. Instead, I watched game three of a Little League championship and tried to shut off my brain. I didn’t have much luck.

Twenty years from now. Our anniversary. During a midnight stroll across
Lincoln Center Plaza, we pass a grizzled old fart who’s leaning against the
fountain, selling pencils. It’s Clayton. Though he pretends he hasn’t seen us,
his bottom lip still quivers with yearning when he recognizes Craig.

Moments later, he clutches his heart and keels over
.

By the time I stood up to leave, two things had happened: (a) the Hastings Hornets had taken a three-run lead in the eighth when Dobbs Ferry lost its starting lefty to a bar mitzvah lesson; and (b) the tears were streaming down my face. Poor Clayton. Broken. Splintered. A shell of the man we all once loved.

Why do I do this to myself?!

G:

There’s a modem on the train, but it’s $7 a minute. No time for a spell-check. Sorry.

I just went back to Beckley. Remember the bag of oranges you left in our closet? There’s still a black spot where they grew into the floor.

G, I’m going to tell Clayton why I’m really here. Otherwise, he’ll end up selling matches in the snow without legs—and I can’t live with that.

I’ll explain later.

T

ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT

Literary Representatives

LOS ANGELES

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LONDON

Gordon:

For God’s sake, don’t let him tell the truth! What if Clayton kills him?

What if Craig finds out? This is no way to end a picture!

I want you to fly to Saratoga Springs yourself. Do whatever you have to. If you need cash, stop by my office on your way to the airport.

I’m serious, Gordon. With a finish like this, we won’t even get foreign.

Pop

FROM THE DESK OF

Gordon Duboise

Pop:

Don’t worry. I trust Travis. Even when he doesn’t know what he’s doing.

By the way—this is still a little premature, but would you be ready to handle a daughter-in-law if you should happen to get one?

Your Kid

ARGOSY ENTERTAINMENT

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NEW YORK

TORONTO

LONDON

Gordon:

I’m 67 years old. A fax like that could have killed me.

I’m reserving a table at Le Dome for 7:30. Bring a designated driver.

We’ll need one.

Pop

P.S. Yes. I’ve been ready to handle it for the past ten years.

FROM THE JOURNAL OF

Travis Puckett

Clay—

Meet me at T-Bird’s when you get off work. I need to talk to you before the tournament because I don’t think you should be holding a bowling ball when I say what I have to say.

Your Buddy

Beer no. 1:
We were sitting at an otherwise romantic table in a corner of the bar, with an assortment of pretzels and nuts that all tasted like drywall. Since there was nobody there at 5:30 except for us—and since it’s a lot easier to commit a homicide when there aren’t any witnesses—I stalled for time. That’s how we wound up discussing the cartoon characters who’d given us boners when we were eight.

“I had the hots for Aquaman,” admitted Clayton conspiratorially.

“Big deal,” I countered with a dismissive shrug, confident that I held the trump card. “I got a stiffy from Elroy Jetson.” Clayton was horrified.

“Lower your voice,” he growled. “That’s perverse.”

“I know,” I nodded. “Keep it to yourself.”

Beer no. 2:
By now I was feeling a lot better (Clayton was still sober), so we moved on to Mouseketeer asses.

“Bobby’s was the one that was asking for it,” he insisted.

“Tim’s was,” I frowned in reply.

“Bobby’s!”

“Tim’s! You couldn’t even see Bobby’s crack!”

“No? Where the fuck were you looking?”

Beer no. 3:
Halfway through our second pitcher, we were so knee-deep in the Hardy Boys, I didn’t even notice that the room had slanted 36 degrees.

“Tell me something,” whispered Clayton confidentially, checking over his shoulder to make sure nobody could hear us. “You ever wonder if Frank and Joe got it on with each other? I mean, the way F. W. Dixon was always cramming it up our butts about how good-looking they were and how many muscles they had, what the hell were we
supposed
to think?”

“Duh,” I shot back, steadying the table with both hands so it wouldn’t slide across the floor. “Remember
The Mystery of Cabin Island
? They were snowed in for three days. Just them and Tony and Phil and Biff and Chet. Trust me, the underpants came off after twenty minutes. I’ve given this a lot of thought.”

Beer no. 4:
Clayton was still clear-headed, but all of my consonants were gone. I didn’t even realize he was talking about Craig until it was too late.

“Wanna hear a secret?” he sighed.

“Shoot.”

“I still have dreams about him.” Daring myself to do it, I raised my head from the table and gaped at him through varnished pupils.

“Wanna hear a bigger one?”

“What’s that?”

“So do I.”

Holy shit! I said it! With only vowels
. Though I’d more or less prepared my body for the rain of ruin that was to follow, what ensued was the loudest silence I’d ever heard in my life. Then Clayton merely nodded thoughtfully as though he’d known it all along.

“I had a feeling something was up when I showed you his picture,” he mumbled. “You looked like I’d just stuck a rake up your ass, wide-end first. Was Craig the kid from high school?”

I nodded dumbly.
When is he going to hit me?! What’s he waiting for? I
don’t do suspense well!

“Yes,” I replied carefully.
Stop staring at me like that! Take your shot!
I’ve
got it coming!

“Is that why you showed up here? The rest was bullshit?”

“Yes.”
Hurt me! Please! Don’t make me turn you into a priest!

Clayton leaned across the table until our noses were practically touching. “Travis, level with me,” he said earnestly, his forehead creasing with genuine concern. “Do you think I’m a putz?” The question was so unexpected, I didn’t have time to sanitize the answer.

“Only if you leave him,” I blurted.
Travis, shut up! What are you saying?

Stop drinking!
“Clay, there’s nobody else like Craig in the world. I know.

I’ve looked. So he runs for State Assembly and maybe you only see each other on weekends for a while. Big wow. The rest of the world deserves him too—and if you just want to keep him locked up for yourself, then fuck you anyway.”
Nice touch, Puckett. Have fun in the wood-chipper
.

“Would
you
let him do it?” he challenged, snapping a pretzel as though it were my spine.

“In a heartbeat.”

“Why?”

“Because he wants to, you schmuck!”

“Yeah? And what if you lost him?” That’s when I finally slammed on the brakes and owned up to the truth I’d been avoiding ever since Robert Mitchum had found Saratoga Springs.

“I already did,” I confessed, tossing in the towel once and for all.

“You’re the one he loves, Clay. Hold on to it. Because I don’t want to have to go through this again in another twenty years. And I’m warning you—if you fuck this up, you’re not getting him back. I’ll make sure of that myself.”

Our eyes stayed locked together for another couple of seconds, and suddenly I wasn’t afraid of him any more. Instead, I was so damned grateful that Craig had found somebody like Clayton, I could afford to play Susan Hayward for the evening. '“I’ll cry tomorrow, baby.”( He must have sensed it, because all of a sudden he reached for my head, mussed up my hair, and grinned.

“Know what?” he said simply. “I trust you. Now, come on. We got a game to bowl. A-frame or no A-frame.”

Right after that, I passed out.

G:

I told him the truth and he still thinks I’m his best friend. Except for Craig, nobody ever liked me that fast before. 'Don’t challenge me on this one. It took you eight months. I counted.)

Clayton wins. I’m not even in the running. They’ve shared twelve years with each other— almost a third of their lives. Conservatively, that works out to 8,760 kisses (based on a median of two a day), 1,248 fights

'two a week(, and 4,380 nights they’ve fallen asleep together 'not counting the last three, which he’s spent on a couch in his office(. And what do I pop for? A two-week road trip and a trespassing fine—which, by the way, you fronted. Somebody ought to drop a cement truck on me.

We’re leaving in the morning without seeing Craig. I just couldn’t handle it. And neither could anybody else.

Sorry for putting you through all this.

T

FROM THE JOURNAL OF

Travis Puckett

THE PUCKETT/DUBOISE DEBATES

GORDO: T, please tell me this is a joke.

TRAVIS: Why? Doesn’t the screenplay have an ending yet?