Object of Desire (20 page)

“Okay.” I sat back as the busboy came by to clear away our plates. “But if that's the case, knowing Donovan, he certainly
wanted
it to be something more.”

“You'll have to ask him. I don't know.”

“Have you ever had a boyfriend?”

Kelly laughed. “God, no.”

“Never?”

“I can barely deal with myself than have to deal with someone else, too.”

“How old are you?”

“Twenty-six.”

“And no boyfriend, ever?”

He shook his head.

“Have you ever been in love?”

“I've asked myself that. Truth is, I don't know.”

I smiled. “Then you haven't been. If you had, you'd know.”

He shrugged. “Then I suppose I haven't.”

With that, I let my inquisition drop.

Neither of us wanted dessert. I paid the check, leaving Kelly's sketch along with my signed credit card slip. I told him he ought to sign it for the waiter. He just scoffed.

Outside, the night sky was a purple star-studded dome. The air was a little bit cool, a sign that the long, hot summer was coming to an end. I asked Kelly if he wanted a ride back to his place. He told me he didn't live far. He could walk.

“Please,” I said. “Let me see your sketches.”

“Tell you what,” he said. “I'll race you there. If you beat me, then you can see them.”

“But I don't know here you live,” I protested.

He laughed. “So follow me!” And he took off running down the street.

This was absurd. He was running away from me. We hadn't even said good night. The valet stood at my elbow, waiting for my call slip so he could go get my Jeep and receive his tip. I didn't know what to say.

I turned to the valet. “I guess I should go after him.”

He was an older Mexican man. “Better leave now, or you'll lose him.”

“I'll be back for my car,” I said.

And then I took off. Kelly was quite a ways down Arenas Road by now, a small figure far off in the distance. Once again, he had an unfair advantage over me. He was wearing running shoes. I had on pointy Kenneth Coles. But I did my best. Just because he was twenty-six and I was forty-one, I was not about to concede this race.

I passed him as we neared Cahuilla. “Slowpoke!” I shouted.

He hooted and caught up with me. “You're gonna have blisters, running in those shoes!”

“And it will be your fault!”

“Weeee-hooo!” he yelled.

I yelled back. Our voices seemed to echo off the mountains behind us.

He came to a sudden stop in front of a pink stucco apartment complex. A shingle out front read
HAPPY PALMS
.

“I won!” he crowed.

“No fair,” I said. “I didn't know where to stop.”

“Doesn't matter. I got here first.”

I jogged over to him. My heart was thudding in my chest, and my face was flushed. My shirt was wet, and my feet hurt. But I was giddy.

“I didn't run all this way not to come in and see your sketches,” I told him.

“Sorry. Guess you did.”

I got up close. We were quiet for several seconds.

“You smell good,” Kelly finally said.

“What? My sweat?”

“No. Your cologne. It's nice.”

I kissed him.

When I pulled back, he was looking at me with those big black eyes.

“Thank you for dinner,” he said.

I didn't speak.

“I had fun,” he said.

“So did I,” I told him.

And I kissed him again.

Did he kiss me back? It's hard to say now. I thought he did. I thought I felt his lips move, a hint of his tongue in my mouth. But I don't know. I don't know now if he kissed me back.

But it didn't matter. Standing there, under the purple sky, the neighborhood as still and quiet as an empty church, I tasted the wine from dinner on his lips. I tasted his laughter, his conversation, his silly little jokes.

“What do you call a monkey in a minefield?” I asked him softly in his ear.

He moved around so he could answer me the same way. His lips tickled. “A baboom,” he whispered. “Sorry. Told ya I know them all.”

I nudged his face back around and kissed him a third time, bringing my hands up to his hair. How soft it was. How thick. I remembered my own hair being that thick once. My fingers got lost in it as my lips pressed against his. My heart was beating so fast and so strong that I was sure he must have heard it. I felt alive. My blood was zooming through all my veins; my lungs were puffed up with air.
Alive.
I had forgotten how good it felt.

“Let me see your sketches,” I murmured.

“Some other time,” he said in reply.

He moved away then, slipping out of my arms and leaping onto the concrete stairs. I made a move to catch him, but he was too fast. He turned and looked down at me.

“Thank you again,” he said.

“Yeah,” I managed to say.

Then he hurried up the steps. I heard his running shoes slap against the concrete. Somewhere overhead, in the shadows of a second-floor terrace, I heard a door open, then clank shut, a bolt sliding into its lock.

I turned and began walking back down the street. My heart was still laboring in my chest, thumping so hard, it almost hurt. I had to stop, place my hands on my knees, and take a few deep breaths to calm it down. Yet all the while, I was laughing.

It didn't matter that I hadn't been invited upstairs. Those lovely pheromones had been released by my brain and were now flooding my body, filling up my head and my torso and swimming down into my limbs. It seemed as if I could actually feel them, little tickles of electricity pulsing through my body. How good I felt.

How alive.

T
he way the altar boys were lighting the candles, with the tiny flames blown this way and that by whatever little breezes had been caught in the nave of the church, reminded me of the night Becky had disappeared, when Dad had sat in his chair, flicking his cigarette lighter on and off, and I'd watched from my room upstairs. Now Dad sat next to me in the pew, smelling of too much cologne. It was so strong that it made me cough. I had begun to understand why my father wore so much cologne these days, but I didn't admit it, not even to myself.

The pallbearers were carrying Aunt Patsy's casket down the aisle. Nana sat at the end of the pew, not saying anything. She wasn't crying. She just sat there in the dress Mom had picked out for her, dark green with a paisley print. She had insisted on applying her own lipstick, taking it out of Mom's hand and doing it herself. I looked over at Nana now and felt sad that she'd messed up on her bottom lip. A line of pink pointed down to her chin. But she hadn't let anyone fix it. “Leave me alone,” she'd said.

I was not sure she fully understood why were in the church. But she did understand that Aunt Patsy was gone. She used to ask all the time where she was, but from the moment Aunt Patsy died, Nana had stopped asking about her. So many facts no longer stuck in her mind. But this one apparently did.

Mom sat on my other side. I didn't think she wanted to sit next to Dad. She didn't like all the cologne, either, though we never talked about it. Mom seemed to resent being there at the funeral at all. She was resentful whenever she had to do anything that didn't involve looking for Becky. She had gotten dressed hastily herself, pulling on a dark blue dress that didn't seem to fit her right anymore. She'd lost a lot of weight since Becky disappeared. Her shoulder blades stuck up through the top of her dress. She sat there next to me, twisting her Rosary beads in her lap with her big, man-size hands.

I adjusted my clip-on necktie. It was the one I usually wore to school. I'd wanted to get a real necktie, one that I actually tied, but Mom never went clothes shopping anymore, and the ones Dad owned were the really narrow ones from the sixties. So I just made sure my pathetic little tie was clipped tightly to my collar.

It had been a while since I'd been in this church. In the old days, we used to attend every Sunday as a family. Yet while Mom had started attending daily Mass since Becky's disappearance, she no longer insisted I go at all. Once upon a time, she would have warned me that I'd go straight to hell if I deliberately skipped Mass. Now it seemed she had too much else on her mind to worry about my eternal salvation.

The heat was way too high in the church, and I was starting to sweat in my blue polyester suit from Sears. I'd never been to a funeral before. I had no idea what to expect. All I knew was they were
not
going to open Aunt Patsy's coffin, and I was glad of that. Dad said Aunt Patsy had lost so much weight while she was in the hospice that no one would've recognized her. I had never seen a dead person, and I wanted to keep it that way. In my mind, Aunt Patsy was always talking, always asking me how school was going, always carrying in cherry pies for Thanksgiving or Christmas or Easter. Now she'd just be lying there dead in her casket, all skinny and wasted away. I didn't want to see that.

Father McKenna was walking up the aisle now, in a long white robe, swinging an urn of incense. The scent mingled with Dad's cologne, and I was suddenly overwhelmed by the thick, smoky sweetness and began to cough again. As the priest passed us, we stood, and the organ behind us in the choir loft began pumping out its deep, mournful music. I recognized the hymn, “I Am the Bread of Life.” John 6:35. Back at St. John's, we'd had to memorize it. Mom and Dad were mumbling some of the words, so I moved my mouth a little, too, ending with, “And I will ray-ay-se him uh-uh-up on the la-ah-ah-ast day.”

Dad started to cry on that. I wasn't sure whom he was crying about. Aunt Patsy, who was his only sister, or Becky, who was his only daughter.

We sat back down after the hymn was finished. The church was quiet. Father McKenna stood in front of the altar and stretched out his hands. “Dearly beloved—”

Suddenly his words were cut off by the sound of a motorcycle outside in the parking lot. Even though it was February, the windows were open a little to let air into the small, stuffy church. The sound was unmistakable. The engine roared like a machine gun, then suddenly cut off, punctuated by a short squeal of tires. Father McKenna stopped only for a moment, his eyes glancing toward the windows; then he resumed.

“We are gathered here today to remember our sister Patricia Ann,” he intoned.

“Danny.” Mom was leaning down, whispering in my ear. “Danny, tell your father I'll meet you all at the cemetery. Tell him I'm sorry, but it can't be helped.”

I didn't move. I didn't know what to say. Mom slid out of the pew. I assumed she walked to the back of the church, but I didn't look around. Then I heard the clack of the church door opening and closing.

Father McKenna was continuing to drone on. I leaned into Dad.

“Mom said she'd meet us at the cemetery,” I said softly.

Dad made no reply.

“She said she was sorry, but it couldn't be helped.”

He just closed his eyes.

Outside the motorcycle roared back to life. It was really a horrible sound. So loud, so shrill. I heard its tires burn rubber on the pavement.

Only after a few minutes had passed did I consider the possibility that my mother might have gotten on that thing. She couldn't have taken our car. It wasn't there. The funeral director had picked us up in a limousine.

Did Mom get on the back of a motorcycle?

The image was absurd. Ridiculous. Comical. And also terrifying. All through the funeral, it was all I could think about. Why would she do it? Who was driving the motorcycle? Where was she going? At Communion time, when we went up to the altar and took the Host, I slowed down alongside the wall of windows and peered outside. Nothing to see. Mom was gone.

The funeral was boring. It was just like a regular Mass for the most part. In his sermon, Father McKenna said that Aunt Patsy was now accepted into God's embrace and would be living for all eternity with Jesus and all the saints. Except he always referred to her as Patricia. It was like he was talking about somebody I didn't know.

I closed my eyes. I pictured a room in the house I was going to live in when I grew up. It was going to be a big house with an inground pool right next to Mom and Dad's, and my favorite room would have a giant television and pillows scattered all over the floor. That's where I'd hang out, watching
Doctor Who
with my son Joey. I was wishing I was there now, far away from this church and Aunt Patsy's casket up front.

Finally, the funeral was over, and we all headed back down the aisle, past the thirty or so people who had shown up. Aunt Patsy hadn't had too many friends. All her life had been spent taking care of Nana. I scanned the faces. Not too many people I knew.

But then—way in back—I saw Chipper Paguni. He sat there by himself, slunk down in the pew. He was wearing a big, bulky black sweater. His eyes met mine briefly, then looked away.

My heart started beating faster. Chipper. I wasn't sure why he'd come. He'd been keeping his distance the last few months. His parents were angry with us. My parents—well, Mom more than Dad—blamed Chipper, believing he knew more about Becky's disappearance than he'd let on. So I wasn't sure why he'd come to Aunt Patsy's funeral. He'd known her, of course, but not well.

We were outside the church when I considered the possibility that Chipper had come because of me.

I'll take care of you while I'm still here.

He had promised that—even if there hadn't been much cause for him to defend me lately. At school I'd fallen into a routine. In class and in the corridors, I kept to myself; at lunch I sat with Troy, and we'd make fun of our idiotic classmates under our breath. No one had much to do with us. There hadn't been any major harassment in some time—partly, I was sure, because Chipper had let it be known ever since that day last fall that I shouldn't be messed with. And I remained grateful to him for that.

The funeral director, a tall man with ice blue eyes and thick snow-white hair, was waiting for us as we emerged from the church. He gestured silently for us to slip into the limousine. He moved with a stiffness that reminded me of one of the creepy automatons outside the Spook House at Coleman's Carnival, the ones that turned and moved their wooden arms and beckoned you to enter. Sliding into the limo, I settled in on one side, with Dad and Nana facing me on the other. No one said a word about Mom.

The funeral procession began. The limo followed slowly as the hearse bearing Aunt Patsy's coffin led the way. Resting my head against the back of the seat, I closed my eyes. I thought about Chipper. It made me happy that he had been there.
He is looking out for me,
I told myself. I felt special. I imagined that I was in his car instead of in this dreary old limousine, Aerosmith playing on the eight-track. Chipper was reaching across, placing his hand on my knee, and I was placing my hand over his. I could smell him as we drove along in his car—that sweet, slightly tangy but clean smell that suffused his underpants. I'd started holding them every night under my pillow, occasionally bringing them to my face. I'd kiss them and let the soft white cotton caress my cheeks. In my mind, riding in Chipper's car, his hand on my knee, I imagined him leaning over to me and saying, ever so softly—

“Danny.”

I opened my eyes.

My father was speaking to me.

“It's time to get out,” he said.

We were at the cemetery. I stepped out of the limo and had to blink a few times. The sun was really bright, reflecting off the snow. The few people who'd followed us from the church were getting out of their cars, and we all trudged over to a small stone chapel. I still didn't know where Mom was, and no one asked about her. Dad was holding on to Nana's arm as she made her way across the snow. I looked around, hoping to spot Chipper, but he apparently hadn't come.

Inside the chapel, Father McKenna said a few more prayers. There would be no graveside service since the snow was too deep. Dad had explained that Aunt Patsy would be stashed in the mausoleum for now and buried later, when the snow had melted a little. I fet sad that there wouldn't be anybody here then, just her and the grave digger.

“Danny,” my father said when it was all over and we were heading back to the limo. I looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot. “Your friend is over there.”

“Chipper?” I asked, my voice betraying my feelings.

“No,” Dad said. “Whatshisname.”

I looked in the direction Dad was nodding.

It was Troy.

I approached him.

“What are you doing here?” I asked.

The sunlight brought out the golden highlights in his red hair and had turned his tinted aviator glasses a dark blue. I couldn't see his eyes.

“I saw in the newspaper that your aunt's funeral was ending up here,” he said. “And I live just down the street.”

“Oh.” I paused. “Thanks for coming.”

“Want to come over?” he asked.

“I can't. We're going back to my house now for cake and casseroles.”

“Come on. Ask your father.”

Part of me hoped that Chipper might show up back at our house, since he'd been at the funeral. But I knew he wouldn't. There was too much bad blood for him to show up. So I told Troy to hold on, and I crunched back through the snow to Dad.

“Dad, can I go over to Troy's house?”

He just looked at me with those bloodshot eyes. “The ladies from the church have made lunch for us back home.”

“I'm not hungry. Do I really have to go? Can I stay with Troy? I can get his father to drive me home later.”

Normally, Dad would say, “Ask your mother” in these situations. But since Mom was AWOL, he just shrugged. “Be back before it gets dark,” he said. “And don't mess up your suit. Your mother will raise holy hell if you do.”

I hurried back to Troy. We didn't say a word, just clomped through the snow toward the street. My suit pants were soon completely drenched below my knees, and my feet were freezing in my shoes. Troy's house was about a block away. We remained mum the whole time. I looked up at the house when we got to the front. It was made of red brick, with a two-car garage attached. It was a lot bigger than my own house. At the end of the driveway, its head and arm sticking out of the snow, was one of those ceramic black guys holding a lantern. I recognized the Jaguar parked in front of the garage. I hoped Troy wasn't going to suggest we go for a ride.

I felt weird walking into his house. Somewhere inside here, his mother had blown her brains out. This was a day all about death, it seemed.

It was Saturday, so Troy's father was seated in the living room, in his La-Z-Boy, his feet up. Mr. Kitchens was wearing black socks, no shoes. He was a large man, with a white shirt stretched across a very round belly, with an indentation that revealed his belly button. He didn't look like a rich man stretched out in that chair. He looked kind of sloppy, in fact. There was a half-eaten sandwich on the table next to the chair, and a glass of milk. He was watching television. S
ome kind of cop movie,
I thought, with a really loud, squealing car chase. He looked over at us as we came in.

“We're just gonna go upstairs and listen to tapes,” Troy said.

Mr. Kitchens nodded and went back to watching TV. We climbed the stairs to Troy's room.

I'd never been to Troy's house before. His room was pretty cool. There were posters covering practically every inch of every wall. Patti Smith. Blondie. Troy had turned me on to punk music, giving me tapes at school. His bed was unmade. Against the far wall was a big blue beanbag chair. On the top of his dresser sat a glow-in-the-dark skull, and next to it, a plastic model of a red Corvette.