Object of Desire (34 page)

That was, until Jake latched on to me with his eyes and gave me a show, peeling his shirt off over his head. “Don't cha wish your boyfriend had abs like me?” he sang, changing the lyrics to suit the occasion at hand. And suit the occasion they certainly did. Turn-of-the-century housewives would have paid good money for washboards as rippled as Jake's stomach. For a second or two, I stood unable to move, a combination of the vodka and an unexpected, overpowering lust. But then I moved in, my hands on his small waist, my lips on his neck.

“Come on, Ishmael!” Jake shouted, pushing me back. “I've been waiting to see this body for a long time! Off with the shirt!”

He yanked at my tee. I happily obliged, confident I could impress these little children. Jake growled, leaning in to lick my chest. I was beaming.

I wanted him. I wanted to fuck Jake Jones right there in the middle of the dance floor. Not just because I'd suddenly realized how gorgeous he was, but for the simple reason that
he wasn't Kelly.
He was blond and bright-eyed, without an ounce of body fat. As different from Kelly as he could be. And he wanted me. That was different from Kelly, too.

And—this was significant—Jake was even younger than Kelly was.

I don't need you,
I was thinking.
I can get better.

My lips made a sloppy landing onto Jake's mouth. The boy laughed, gently moving away and grabbing my hand. “Come on!” he urged. “Let's show them!”

The stripper was off his box. It sat there vacant. Jake hopped up, pulling me along with him. I almost fell getting up there, but I managed. I found my balance and looked around. Twenty years. It had been twenty years since I'd had this vantage point.

“Let's show them!” Jake cried again.

And so we did. We made everyone wish their boyfriends had abs like us. We banged each other's crotches; we humped each other from behind; we twisted and we turned and we spun around. It was exhilarating. I had forgotten how liberating, how magnificent, this felt. All eyes were on me.
Me!
I soaked up their stares, wolfed down their desire. Me! They were looking at me!

There was only one flicker of embarrassment: when I looked out and spotted Thad Urquhart and Jimmy Carlisle across the room, watching me, with surprise on their faces. I shook off the feeling. For the evening, I wasn't Danny Fortunato, the artist. I was Danny, the kid on the box, even if my yellow thong had long ago been discarded.

“Kiss me,” I said to Jake, pulling him in. “Let's give 'em a show!”

“I gotta go pee,” he said, hopping down off the box.

For a second, I turned and faced the crowd alone. Were they looking at me? Or had they been looking at Jake all along? I was suddenly mortified. I hopped off the box—and as I did so, I stumbled. I was immediately up on my feet. No one had seemed to notice. Or maybe I was too drunk to notice if they had noticed.

I made my way over to Thad and Jimmy. “Well, well, quite the show,” Thad was saying as I approached.

I laughed. “Your little friend Jake dragged me up there.”

“Darling, you seemed like a pro,” Thad said.

“I am,” I said. “Or I was.” I looked around for Jake. “Is he out of the bathroom yet?”

Thad looked at me oddly. “Oh, no, darling, Jake said good night. He left with some friends.”

“What? No. He said he had to go pee,” I replied.

Thad gave me a sympathetic smile. “Perhaps he did, but then he left. We just said good night to him.”

I didn't know what to say. The kid had been after me for weeks. Then he got me, and he—
he walks away?

It was the same old thing that I'd dealt with all my life. As soon as I showed interest in a guy, he wasn't interested in me.

I mumbled something to Thad about needing to pee myself and hurried away through the crowd. More mortifying than dancing on the box—or falling off of it as I got down—was giving the appearance that I'd been dumped. I was pissed. I pulled my phone out of my jeans and scrolled through my contacts. Sure enough, there was Jake's number where he'd placed it. I was about to call when I saw I had a voice mail. I could see it was from Frank. I figured I ought to listen to that first, so I entered the code to hear it. But the noise in the club was too loud for me to make anything out, so I saved the message for later. I decided to text Jake.

WHATS UP
?
U COULDVE SAID GOODBYE
.

Almost instantly:
SORRY
.
MY PEEPS WERE LEAVING
.
FUN DANCING WITH YA
.

I was fuming.
THOUGHT WE MIGHT HAVE DONE A LITTLE MORE THAN DANCE
.

Again, almost instantly:
SORRY
.
DIDNT MEAN TO MISLEAD U
.

I staggered a little. That was what Kelly had said earlier.

I looked around. The stripper was back up on the box, pretending he didn't see me. I realized that no one in this place saw me. No one was looking at me. They had never been, not even when I was dancing, except to maybe glance at me with pity. I was vanishing—as surely as Becky had vanished all those years ago. Suddenly I felt so utterly foolish. An old man trapped in a warehouse of children. Once again, I was an old man who'd made an ass of himself by pretending he still had what it took, that he could still play the game. My vision was spinning. It was time for me to go home.

I slid into my Jeep and steadied my hand before inserting the key into the ignition. It had been a long time since I'd been drunk behind the wheel of a car. Back in the day, I thought nothing of driving around West Hollywood drunk or high. And never once did I have an accident or get pinched. But now I actually felt a little apprehensive about driving home the few blocks from the bar. I supposed it was a sign that I was starting to sober up.

But just how drunk I remained became obvious when I banged my leg as I came through the front door. Frank was sitting in a chair, waiting for me. He said nothing, just looked up at me with a blank expression. Immediately, I was on the defensive.

“Okay, okay, I'm sorry I didn't call.”

“I was getting worried.”

“So I went out. I went dancing. Big deal. Is that a crime on a Saturday night?” I was aware that my voice was slurring, but I couldn't stop now. I was on a roll. “We used to go out dancing on Saturday nights. Remember that, Frank? We used to go out, you and me. But tonight you had a function on campus, and lo and behold, I wanted to go dancing. Is that such a crime?”

Frank said nothing. I went into the kitchen and poured myself a glass of water. I drank it down without stopping for breath.

“No, Danny, it's not a crime.” Frank had gotten up and followed me into the kitchen. “It's just that you usually call me to let me know where you are.”

“I'm sorry,” I said, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. “It was spur of the moment. I lost track of the time.”

“And when I called you, you didn't call back.”

“I was in a
club,
Frank. Clubs are
loud,
in case you no longer remember. I couldn't hear your message.” I leveled my eyes at him. “You should have texted me.”

“Danny, you know I don't know how to text.”

I laughed. “Okay, well, if you're done grilling me, I'm going to bed.”

He put his hand on my shoulder as I tried to pass him. “Danny, you're drunk and you're angry. What's going on?”

“I'm
bored,
Frank!” I suddenly shouted, shaking his hand off me. “I'm fucking
bored.
That's what's wrong!”

He just looked at me. I couldn't have stopped now even if I'd been sober and completely in control of my emotions.

“
You
got boring, Frank. Yes,
you!
You sit around here, drinking coffee and grading papers and watching television. That's your life. When was the last time we went hiking? Huh? Took a canoe up to Arrowhead? When was it that we officially gave up our goal of finally spotting a bighorn sheep?”

“I wasn't aware we gave it up, Danny. I just—”

“When was the last time we went dancing? When was the last time we had
fun,
Frank?
When?
”

His face remained expressionless. He took a long breath and seemed to think about what he should say. “I'm sorry, Danny,” he finally replied. “I know I've become sedentary. That's why I've started jogging again. I hope it will help me….” He stopped, and for a moment, I thought he might cry. “I'm sorry that you're bored.”

I made a noise of exasperation and continued down the hall.

“Danny, wait,” Frank said. “We still have fun. Ollie comes down and—”

I spun around. “And you sit at the end of the bed and
watch,
Frank! Or you don't participate at all!”

“I tried last time,” he said quietly. “You walked out on us.”

I waved him away as if his point was irrelevant. “All I know is, Frank, I'm not ready to get old like you are. I've still got some life left in me. I'm not ready to go gently into that good night quite yet. I want to have some fun before it's too late.”

“I've never stopped you from having fun, Danny.”

I didn't know what to say to that, or why his words pissed me off so much. At the moment, it felt as if he was the obstacle to
all
my fun, to
everything
I wanted, but I wasn't sure how to express that idea, or if it, in fact, made any sense at all. I started to say something, stopped, then turned and headed down the hall toward the bedroom.

“Danny,” Frank called after me. “Does any of this have to do with Kelly?”

I turned back to face him. “Yes,” I said forcefully. It was as if the dam suddenly burst. “Yes, indeed, it has everything to do with Kelly. I love him, Frank. I can't deny it. I'm
in love
with him.”

“I see,” Frank said.

We were silent. I didn't regret my words. I was glad I had spoken them. But I had no idea what to say next. We just stood there, in the hallway, looking at each other.

Frank broke the silence. “And does he feel the same way about you?”

“I don't know how he feels,” I admitted.

Frank just nodded slowly.

“For once in my life,” I said, less agitated now, “I want to know what it feels like to be loved by somebody the way I loved
you,
Frank. I want
so bad
to know how that feels.”

“Do you think Kelly can give that to you?” Frank asked, his voice thick.

“I don't know,” I admitted again.

Frank turned away. “I'm sorry I've failed you, Danny.”

My instinct was to reassure him, to tell him he hadn't failed me. But he had. We had failed each other. We'd stopped honoring that bargain we'd made twenty years ago, when we'd tacitly accepted that the deal between us was the best either of us would ever get. Neither if us had entered into this partnership with rosy misconceptions. Even as recently as three years ago, when we'd exchanged vows in front of that Unitarian minister in Vancouver, I'd known what I was pledging myself to. I'd understood the marriage's limits, its lines of demarcation. But such limitations no longer served. To reassure Frank now would be disingenuous and wrong. I would not do it.

“I'll sleep in the casita tonight,” Frank said, moving down the hall.

“No, Frank, that's not necessary….”

“Yes, it is,” he said. “For me.”

“Frank, then you take our bed. I'll sleep on the couch….”

He didn't look back at me. “I don't want be under the same roof as you tonight, Danny,” he said, his voice sharp. The anger in his words surprised, even reproached, me.

He walked out the kitchen door. I watched him through the windows as he moved like a ghost across the deck and then down the path to the casita.

In that moment I felt as if I'd never see him again.

My cell phone chirped. I dug it out of my jeans and flipped it open.

A text from Kelly.

IM SORRY
.
PLEASE DONT GIVE UP ON ME
.

I covered my face with my hands.

T
he Swan Convalescent Home smelled of Lysol, which was bad enough, but it was the smell lurking under the Lysol, the one you knew was there but couldn't quite detect, that was even worse. Down the corridor I walked past doors that opened onto the small, shriveled occupants within, like creatures in a zoo. Old women sat making repetitious hand circles on the trays in front of them. Old men with crooked necks and open mouths stared unblinking up at the ceiling. Occasionally, one of these souls would call to me, a guttural sound accompanied by a pleading of hands. I tried not to look at them. I kept my eyes straight ahead of me, my terror threatening to surge into my throat. I quickened my pace and rounded the corner to Nana's room.

As usual, she was adorned with a big red bow in her hair. She had never worn bows before coming here, but some nurse's aide had apparently decided “Adele”—what they called her, never “Mrs. Fortunato”—looked good with a bow. I thought she looked silly. The lipstick they put on her was even worse. As red as her bow, it was perfectly applied, unlike Nana's clumsy attempts at Aunt Patsy's funeral. But the worst part was the striped sash that tied her to the chair she sat in. “It's the only way to keep her from wandering off,” a nurse had explained when I asked her about the sash a few weeks before. “She keeps saying she's going home. We found her out in the street once. She's tied down for her own safety.”

“Hi, Nana,” I said, sitting down opposite her, setting my schoolbooks on the floor.

As usual, her old eyes found me but registered nothing.

“Danny off the pickle boat,” I said.

“Can you help me?” she asked.

“Did you just finish your lunch?” I asked. The remains of a tuna sandwich on white bread sat on a tray off to the side.

A visit to Nana was all about questions. The two of us sat there, asking each other questions to which the answers were either pointless or impossible. She'd ask me to help her or to take her home, and I'd ask her if she'd enjoyed her lunch. Never an answer for either of us. It was always just questions.

“Nana, I don't like that red bow, do you?” I asked, standing up. “I'm going to take it out of your hair, okay?”

I reached up to her gray head and pulled the ribbon. The bow came undone.

“It makes you look like Baby Jane. Did you ever see that movie? With Bette Davis?” I crumpled the ribbon and threw it in the trash. “Believe me, you don't want to look like Baby Jane.”

I sat back down and looked at her.

“Can you take me home?” she asked.

I sighed.

Every Monday I came to see Nana. Dad and Mom never came. It was too hard on them. I didn't blame them. I figured since they couldn't do it, I needed to come, even if Nana never seemed to know who I was or to appreciate my visits. It was just an endless repetition of “Can you take me home?” and “Can you help me?” I think her brain had frozen on those two questions, the last fragments of her conscious mind, the last words on her lips as she went under for the final time. Now they'd been placed in endless rotation by a brain that was no longer functioning properly, like a needle stuck forever on an old 45 record. On most of my visits, I'd sit opposite Nana and just listen to her ask those same questions, over and over, interrupting her now and then with my own futile queries, and that would be how the whole hour passed. Her roommate, an old black woman with a large purple growth on her forehead, would occasionally look over at me from her chair and smile sympathetically. She'd be watching television—
Guiding Light
usually—and she'd never utter a word.

But this time I wanted to tell Nana something. Something that had been building up inside me for weeks, getting stronger and stronger. The pressure was becoming so strong that I felt as if my chest would split open if I didn't speak the words out loud. I
had
to tell someone, and since there was no way I could tell Mom or Dad or anybody at school, not even Troy, I figured I could tell Nana.

I waited until her roommate's head was nodding down onto her chest. She often fell asleep, sometimes even snoring so long that even Nana seemed to notice. Once I was sure she was asleep, I pulled my chair as close to Nana as possible.

“Nana,” I told her, “I'm in love.”

“Can you help me?”

“You remember Chipper,” I said. “He lived across the street.”

I decided not to remind her of the Becky connection. If she was following my words somehow, I thought it was best not to muddy up my story with the fact that Chipper used to be Becky's boyfriend.

“He's a great guy, Nana. He's on the football team. They've had a real bad season this year. They haven't won a single game yet. And it's because the coach won't let Chipper play enough. He hardly plays at all. He's really angry about that. He tells me how he feels. I'm the only one he confides in. We sit in his room and—”

Again, I left out some details, like the pot and the way I'd walk on Chipper's back. “And we
talk,
” I said. “He's really opened up to me these last couple of weeks. It's been great. It's really a great feeling, you know, to be in love.”

“Can you help me?”

I sat back in my chair and smiled. It felt great to be talking out loud about Chipper, even if Nana didn't understand a word I was saying. I was aglow. I'd walked to the convalescent home from school, but Chipper was picking me up here after football practice. He told me he thought it was a good thing that I came to see my grandmother every Monday. “You're a good guy, Danny,” he'd told me. I had nearly cried.

At every game, I was there, cheering him on from the bleachers. I'd force Troy to join me in chanting: “Send in Paguni! Send in Paguni!” Sometimes we'd get everyone around us chanting. The coach never listened, however. So it was
his
fault that the team never won. If he'd only send in Paguni, the team would win.

I sighed. “I don't expect that Chipper feels the same way for me,” I told Nana. “He likes girls. So do I. I'm not gay. I'm bisexual. And see, here's the thing. Maybe Chipper is, too, deep down. Elton John says
everybody
is deep down. Maybe even you, Nana!” I laughed. “Sometimes I get the sense that Chipper knows how I feel, and that it's okay with him. Though I'll never ask him. It's fine if he doesn't like me that way. I can live with that. I just like being with him. It's enough.”

“Can you help me?”

“Oh, Nana.” I shifted in my chair. “You know what? I've got to read this book for school. If I don't pass the next test, I might get kicked out of the play. And that can't happen. I have a real part this year. I wish you could come see me. I think Mom and Dad are going to come. I told them about it, anyway.”

I reached down and lifted my latest assignment from Brother Pop's class.

“
Moby Dick,
” I said to Nana. “Did you ever read this? It's a huge book. How about if I read it to you? Then I can visit you and get my homework done at the same time. How's that sound?”

“Can you help me?”

I opened the book to the first chapter. “Call me Ishmael,” I said.

“Can you help me?”

“Some years ago—never mind how long precisely—”

“Can you help me?”

“—having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world.”

I waited, expecting to hear Nana chime in, but she didn't. So I went on. I read to her, and for the whole time, she was quiet. No more of her anguished routine questions. She just locked her eyes on me and seemed to listen. I didn't think she actually understood what I was saying, but somehow the sound of my voice lulled her. I read her the entire first chapter of
Moby Dick.
I had even started on the second—“Chapter Two, The Carpet-Bag”—when a hard rapping on the open door startled me. I looked up.

“Troy!” I said. “What are you doing here?”

“Your mom called me.” He stood in the doorway, looking at me with his blue glasses. “She needs me to take her to some bar.”

“Oh, Jesus.”

“I knew you were here. I want you to come with us.”

“No way. I'm tired of her craziness.”

“Well, I don't want to go alone with her. She's
your
mother.”

“Well, you should have told her no.”

“I couldn't do that.” He gave me a plaintive frown. “I told her I'd pick her up in fifteen minutes. Please come, Danny, okay?”

“Oh,
man.
” I stood, gathering my books. Leaning over, I kissed Nana on the forehead. “I'll come back and read again to you, Nana. Thanks for listening to me today.”

“Can you take me home?” she asked, the record once more spinning under its broken needle.

I smiled sadly. At least that hideous bow was gone from her hair.

In Troy's car, I threw my books into the backseat and folded my arms across my chest. “My mother shouldn't be calling you,” I grumbled. “She's out of her mind.”

“She says she got a lead.”

“She's always getting leads. Which take her fucking nowhere.”

“She says the Rubberman told Warren that Bruno is back in the state, and that he spends most of this time at this bar in Naugatuck.”

“Naugatuck? Where the fuck is that?”

“I don't know. Down near Waterbury. Your mom has directions.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said.

The thing that pissed me off the most was that Chipper was going to show up at the convalescent home to pick me up and I wouldn't be there. And there was no way to get word to him that I was taking off. I'd have to explain to him later tonight. Hopefully, he'd understand. He knew how crazy Mom was, after all.

Troy drove across town to the apartment complex to which Mom, Dad, and I had moved a few weeks earlier. It was a boxy, orange-brick place, with four apartments per unit, two up and two down. We were downstairs on the right. There were only two bedrooms—one for Mom and Dad, and one for me—but Mom had insisted that Becky, when she came home, should not feel that she'd lost her place in the family. So my room, which was small enough to start with, had been summarily divided in two. Mom had actually hung a sheet from the ceiling. On one side was Becky's bed, made up in pink and lace; her teddy bears still sat waiting for her against the wall, and her easel waited for her to finish the painting of the white house. On the other side of the sheet was my bed. The dresser was so close that I couldn't get out of bed except by climbing over the footboard.

I hated that apartment. It was horrible. Oh, it was clean enough. Mom had been worried about bugs, but so far there hadn't been any. I think if there had been, I would have run away. The apartment was just so small, so plain. I missed our yard. I missed Chipper being across the street. We'd had to sell most of our furniture, and what was left was crammed into the living room of the apartment: the stereo system balanced on top of the television, which sat on top of Mom's hope chest. For the size of the room, our old couch was way too big, but it served its purpose: Dad slept there most nights. The walls of the apartment were so thin that I could hear him pouring whiskey in the middle of the night from my room.

Mom was waiting outside of the apartment when Troy and I pulled up, her leather jacket draped over her arm. I got out of the car and let her get in front. “I think this is our lucky break,” she said as I slid into the backseat. “This time I really think we're onto something.”

I didn't reply. In fact, I didn't say a word for the whole hour it took for us to get to Naugatuck, all the way down on Interstate 84 and then onto Route 8. I pressed my face against the window and watched as giant tractor-trailers rattled past us. A Buick LeSabre driven by a harried-looking woman and filled with screaming little boys passed us on the left. As it did so, one of the brats stuck his tongue out at me through the back window. I gave him the finger.

We pulled onto a side road. “That's it,” Mom said, yanking on her leather jacket. “That place up ahead.”

The sign out front said
THE BLUE DOG
. There was nothing blue, however, that I could see. It was a dark shingled building with a red awning over the front door, the only wooden structure on a street of concrete warehouses. Motorcycles were parked out front, and there were broken bottles everywhere, but still it wasn't as desolate as that place in Yonkers, the one with the three
x
's on its roof. I'd had nightmares about that place.

Troy parked the Jaguar on the street, and Mom immediately opened the door. “You boys can wait here,” she said.

“No,” I said. “I'm going with you.”

And since I was going, that meant Troy was coming along, too. The three of us crossed the street and walked up the steps under the awning.

“Please God,” Mom prayed in a little voice before opening the door.

It took a few moments for my eyes to adjust to the darkness inside. When they did, the first thing I noticed was the men staring at us from the bar. Big men, in black shirts and with long hair and fuzzy arms. Across the room, two other men had paused in front of the dartboard, darts in hand, to look our way. Mom fooled herself that she could pass for a biker babe in that leather jacket; that was why she wore it, she said, so she could get into these places. But few biker babes wore Keds sneakers or walked around with two teenaged boys still wearing their dorky school pants and white button-down shirts.

Mom leaned up against the bar. “Warren here?”

The bartender, a fat, bald man with a full gray beard, shook his head.

“He told me to meet him here,” she said, trying to sound tough.

No one said a word. The men sitting at the bar continued to stare at us. At least the guys playing darts resumed their game.