Object of Desire (27 page)

“No…I'm…I guess I'm too high.” That was one extremely ironic lie.

“Well, aren't we going for pizza?” he asked.

“You know, the coke seems to have dried up my appetite.” I was pulling on my pants. “Thanks for drawing the picture of me.”

“Danny, is everything okay?”

I faced him. “That's not what I call making love.”

He flopped back down. “I know. I'm sorry. I'm terrible in bed.”

“Yeah,” I said. “You are.” I didn't care if it hurt him.

“I'm sorry,” he said again.

I didn't answer.

He sat up, his knees pulled to his chest. “Well, thanks for bringing me the brochure about the illustration class,” he said, watching me as I buttoned my shirt. “I really appreciate it. I'll look at it and let you know what I think.”

“Sure,” I said.

The room fell quiet. I wanted very badly to get out of there.

“Danny,” Kelly said, moving up behind me as I sat down on the mattress to put on my shoes. “I'm sorry. It's just the way I am.”

I sighed. “It's not a big deal. Forget it.”

“I think it is a big deal for you. And I'm
sorry.
I don't know how many times I can say it.”

I turned to look at him. “When you deny me a chance to kiss you, to really kiss you, that's like serving me prime rib but only allowing me to lick the gravy off of it.”

He smiled a little at the metaphor.

I stood up. “Without kissing, without some sense of the person, sex is just the manipulation of body parts. And I just don't have any interest in that anymore.”

“It's all I'm interested in,” he said flatly.

I shook my head. “How can you say that?”

He shrugged. “Beyond that, sex is way too dangerous.”

“Well,” I said, “you can't go through life avoiding danger all the time.”

He looked at me with hard eyes. “I can.”

I started to say that I felt sorry for him, but then closed my mouth and turned to leave. Kelly got up and walked me to the door.

“I like you a lot,” he said.

“It's fine, Kelly. Like I said, it's no big deal. Don't worry about it.” I paused, my hand on the doorknob. “Oh. Was the drawing for me to keep?”

“Yes!” He turned quickly and retrieved the sketch pad, tearing the page out. “Here.”

I took it. I wanted something to take home from there tonight.

“Thank you,” I said and tried to sound sincere.

Then I opened the door and left.

On the way home, all the traffic lights seemed out of sync. I had to stop at every one. And the reds took forever to change to green, so finally I just drove on through, taking a chance that I would be safe.

I
loved being in Chipper's room. I loved the smell of aftershave and dirty socks. I loved how warm it was, like an animal's den, with its big red shag carpet and oversize cushions strewn everywhere. His window shades were kept drawn almost to a close, with only the tiniest slits of sunshine permitted entry. And in that darkened sanctuary, we'd talk, sitting on the carpet, our backs against opposite walls, our feet stretched out in front of us, almost touching.

“I think when school starts again, I should go out for cross-country,” I told him.

“Yeah, you definitely should.” We were eating string cheese, passing it back and forth. “You should have some kind of sport. Otherwise, when the yearbook comes out, all you'll have listed after your name is the faggy play.”

“I know.” I sighed. “I'm a really fast runner. I think I could be really good at cross-country.”

Chipper handed the cheese back to me. “Well, now that I'm a senior, the coach is going to use me a lot.” I knew he'd been bummed that he'd sat on the bench for most of last season. “I can't wait until I score my first touchdown. And you better be there!”

I peeled off a strip of cheese and put it in my mouth. “Of
course,
I will be.”

I was fully aware that my feelings toward Chipper had blossomed into a kind of crush. How could I deny them after what I'd been doing with Troy? At home, I'd play Becky's old Partridge Family album, listening to “I Think I Love You” over and over. It was uncanny how David Cassidy had nailed exactly how I was feeling about Chipper.
This morning, I woke up with this feeling I didn't know how to deal with….
I'd stand in front of the mirror, mouthing the words to my reflection as the chipped little 45 record spun on Becky's old turntable.
I think I love you. So what am I so afraid of? I'm afraid that I'm not sure of a love there is no cure for….

I'd looked
bisexual
up in the dictionary. I knew what it was, and I accepted it about myself. But Chipper couldn't know the truth about me. No way could he know. He wouldn't let me hang out in his room with him if he did. He wouldn't get high with me, sitting there, facing me on his floor, his toes almost touching mine. He wouldn't be my friend at school next year—and if I'd thought having a junior as a friend and protector had been great, then how awesome would it be to have a senior and the star of the football team looking out for me?

Yet, in a way we never articulated, Chipper seemed to know precisely how I felt about him. And, deep down, I think he liked it. A hint of a smile would betray itself on his lips when I'd say things like of course, I'd be there when he scored his first touchdown. There was a cocky set to his shoulders when I'd tell him how cool I thought his car was, or how much I wished I had biceps as big as his. Once he asked me to walk on his back, the way George Jefferson was always doing for Mr. Bentley on TV. He'd hurt himself throwing a football, Chipper explained, and this could help him. I complied eagerly. It was the most extraordinary sensation, feeling his strong, hard back under my white athletic-socked feet.

I think I love you. Isn't that what life is made of?

Chipper looked up and caught me staring at him. He threw a pillow at me.

I caught it and laughed. “I've got to get going,” I told him reluctantly. “Mom wants me back by noon so we can go up to Massachusetts.”

Chipper laughed. “So she really thinks a guy called Rubberman can help her find Becky?”

“It's not Rubberman like Superman or Spider-Man. It's
the
Rubberman like
the
Flash or
the
Hulk.”

Chipper rolled his eyes. “Whatever.”

I was quiet for a moment. “Hey, Chipper, can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Do you ever miss Becky?”

“Sure.”

“Is that why you haven't gotten another girlfriend?”

He stood up abruptly. “Well, I didn't want to date anyone and get Becky pissed off at me. You know, if she came back.”

“I don't think she's coming back,” I said in a small voice. It was the first time I'd voiced out loud how I felt.

“When school starts,” Chipper said, ignoring my comment and fiddling with his football helmet, “I think I'll ask Mary Kay Suwicki to go out. You know, as a senior, I should have a girlfriend.”

I got to my feet. “Yeah,” I agreed.

I headed for the door.

“Good luck with Rubberman,” Chipper said.

“
The
Rubberman,” I corrected him.

He laughed. “Call me tomorrow.”

I smiled. “I will.”

Call me tomorrow.
I loved those words.

Of course, Mom couldn't know I had been at Chipper's. She would've had a bird. So I left Chipper's house by the back door, walking through other people's backyards and crossing the street a block past our house. That way, I could come back down on our side of the street, and it would look like I'd come from entirely the opposite direction of Chipper's house. It sure made for a long walk home, especially since Chipper lived right across the street, but it was a necessary tactic. Mom was waiting at the front door, as usual, her eagle eyes scanning the neighborhood for me. She made the sign of the cross when I came up the walk.

“Danny, get in here! Jesus Christ, where have you been?”

She held the door open for me to enter. “Mom,” I said, “it's not noon yet. You said to be back by noon.”

“Don't you know how I worry?” She drew in close to me, so that our noses were almost touching, the way she used to do when I was a kid. She'd say “See the owl!” and make googly eyes at me. It always made me laugh. I missed my mother's googly eyes.

“I'm sorry,” I said. “But I wasn't late.”

“It's just that we're in a jam!” Mom made the sign of the cross again. “Bud is sick. He's in the hospital. He can't drive us to Massachusetts!”

Bud. The taxicab driver. “What's wrong with him?” I asked.

“
I don't know.
” Mom's tone was clear: the nature of Bud's illness was irrelevant. It was the burden it placed on her getting to see the Rubberman that mattered. “His wife called to say he's been taken by ambulance to the hospital. Jesus! And on the day Warren finally got the Rubberman to agree to see us.”

I knew better than to suggest calling Dad. First of all, if Dad knew about this meeting, he'd be against it. Secondly, he'd been missing a lot of work lately. Drinking too much, I suspected, and sleeping late in the basement, missing appointments. His bosses at the real estate company weren't happy. Dad's secretary, Phyllis, would call us, asking very sweetly if Tony had left for work yet. Mom would open the basement door and scream down at him. Today, for once, he'd made it to the office on time. No way could we call him now.

“I've tried everyone,” Mom was saying, her face flushed red. “I even called Father McKenna, but he's out of town for a diocesan meeting. I can't ask Flo Armstrong, because she's coming over to watch your grandmother—and besides, she's a blabbermouth. She can't know where we're going. I can't trust anyone, because they might call the police, and then everything would collapse.” The vein on her forehead was throbbing. “I wish we hadn't had to sell Becky's car. I'd try to drive myself.”

It dawned on me to suggest Chipper. But I knew he'd refuse to get involved, and Mom would probably balk at asking him, anyway, since she hated him so much. Then another idea came to me.

“I can call Troy,” I suggested.

Mom looked at me. “That pot smoker? Danny, he's not even old enough to drive!”

“But he knows how,” I said. “And he drives everywhere. The only time he ever got caught was that time at the Dumpster. And that's only because the cops were there. He drives everywhere, and his father knows it and is fine with it. He has Troy go to the grocery store and the post office and everything. Besides, he's
almost
sixteen.”

“No,” Mom snarled. “There's got to be someone else.”

“Well, then, maybe the Rubberman could see us another day.”

“No!” Mom shrieked. “It's got to be
today!
I want to go to sleep tonight knowing where Becky is!”

She was pacing. Literally pacing. Walking around the living room in circles, over and over again. She looked like a cartoon. Nana was sitting on the couch, like she always did, her hands in her lap, watching Mom go round and round. Finally Mom stopped, mid-rotation, and looked at me with enormous eyes.

“Goddamn it then! Call Troy!”

He was glad to hear from me. I hadn't seen him in a few days, preferring to spend my afternoons hunkered down on Chipper's shag carpet, smoking the weed he bought from his own connections—far harsher than what I was used to smoking with Troy. I finally understood why some pot was called smooth.

Troy was eager to help. He'd be at our house in twenty minutes, he said, and he made it in fifteen. In the driveway, with Flo Armstrong safely inside with Nana, Mom gave Troy the obligatory lecture as he sat behind the wheel of the Jaguar.

“I'm only doing this because it's an emergency,” she said, wagging her finger at him through the driver's window. “You shouldn't be driving, Troy. You're too young. I'll clear it with your father later.”

“My father doesn't care if I drive, Mrs. Fortunato,” Troy told her.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “You haven't been smoking any of that wacky weed, have you?”

“No, Mrs. Fortunato. I gave that up.”

I suppressed a smile.

Mom got up front, and I slid into the back. We didn't talk much as we headed up Interstate 91, past Hartford and through Bloomfield and Windsor. I think Mom was embarrassed and horrified at what she was doing: allowing an underage driver to take her to see a motorcycle gang leader who was no doubt a convicted felon. And, to make matters worse, she was taking her fourteen-year-old son along for the ride. But she was desperate. Everything Mom did these days was driven by her desperation.

Once we'd crossed the state line into Massachusetts, she finally spoke. “We're to meet Warren and his friends at a rest stop right after Springfield.” She looked at her watch. “We're right on time.”

“And where do we go from there?” Troy asked.

“That I don't know,” Mom said. “Warren said to meet him there, and he'd lead us to the Rubberman.”

When we pulled off at the rest stop, I saw two motorcyclists waiting for us. It was Warren and one of the other guys who'd been in our living room. Mom greeted Warren with a hug. Troy and I waited in the car as she spoke with them. I saw her nod, then open her purse and hand Warren an envelope. More money, I assumed. Now I knew where the money went from the sale of Becky's car.

Mom came back and leaned her head through the passenger window. “I'm going with them. You boys wait here for me. They'll drop me back here after I speak to the Rubberman.”

“No!” I shouted from the backseat. “I'm not letting you go alone with them!”

“Danny, just sit there and wait for me!”

“No!” I pushed open the door and stood facing her. “I'm not letting you go alone!”

“Danny! Stop this!”

Warren had sauntered up to us. “Peg, it's okay. The boy can come.”

Mom shook her head. “He most certainly cannot. I shouldn't even have brought him. He's—”

“He's a brave boy, ain't you, Danny?” Warren asked, fixing me with those hooded eyes of his. “You ever been on a hog, Danny?”

“What's a hog?”

“A bike.”

“I've been on a bike, but not a motorcycle,” I told him.

Warren flashed his gap-toothed grin. “Well, today's your lucky day, then.”

“Oh, no,” Mom protested.

“He'll be fine, Peg.” Warren motioned for his friend to join us. “Lenny here will let him wear his helmet, just like I got a helmet for you, Peg.”

Lenny smiled down at me. He was huge man, probably six-five, with shoulders so wide that when he stepped in front of me, he completely blotted out the sun. It was like standing in the shade of a tall tree. From head to toe, he was clad in leather: a leather cap, a leather jacket, leather chaps over dirty dungarees, and enormous leather boots. He wasn't as old as Warren; there was no gray in his beard, and the face behind the whiskers was unlined. And—for some reason this reassured me—he had all his teeth.

Mom made no further protest. I think she was worried that if we were late, the Rubberman would change his mind about giving us information. She placed the helmet on her head and instructed me to do the same.

“Can I come?” Troy called from the car.

“No!” Mom shot back.

“Next time, buckaroo,” Lenny called cheerily to him. He had a Boston accent. “We don't got enough helmets or bikes to go around.”

“Wait here for us,” I told Troy. “Don't leave or nothing.”

“I won't leave you, Danny,” Troy promised.

I stuck the helmet on my head. It was way too big. Lenny leaned in to tighten it with the straps under my chin. I felt his rough fingers brush against my skin.

Mom was already up on Warren's bike, gripping his body the way I'd seen her do that time on the street. Lenny lifted his long leg and mounted his own bike, patting the soft quilted leather seat behind him. “Hop up here, kid,” he said.

I obeyed, nearly falling off the other side of the bike. Lenny laughed and settled me where I was supposed to be.

“Danny!” Mom shouted, “make sure you hang on tight!”

I ignored her. She was embarrassing me.

“Your momma's right,” Lenny said over his shoulder. “Get your arms around me and hold on real tight.”

There I was, wearing khakis, red Converse sneakers, a sweatshirt with the words
ST
.
FRANCIS XAVIER
emblazoned across the front, and a motorcycle helmet way too big for my head. Gingerly, I reached around Lenny's enormous leather body, my hands barely reaching each other in front. As he revved the bike, the sound sent trembles through my body, and when he took off, the force sent me backward a little bit. I grabbed on to Lenny's jacket for dear life. As we picked up speed, I held on to his solid frame as tightly as I could, my face pressed up against his leather. The wind rushed at us, and I could do nothing but press my face against Lenny's back as we flew down the highway. The smell of his leather was intoxicating. My lips even picked up its taste.