Object of Desire (36 page)

“I'm so sorry, Chipper. It was my Mom. She—”

I noticed the look he threw at Troy.

“Oh, I see,” he said. “You had a meeting of Fags Anonymous.”

“Fuck you, Chipper,” Troy said.

Chipper lunged forward, grabbing the front of Troy's shirt. Troy's face was terrified.

“Stop!” I shouted, pushing my hands between them. Chipper let go, and Troy backed off a couple of feet. “Chipper, you know that Troy hauls Mom and me around when she's out hunting for Becky. She had another crazy scheme today, and I had to leave my grandmother. I'm sorry. There was no way to let you know.”

Chipper folded his arms across his chest and looked away. “Whatever. I just had a really shitty day, and I didn't appreciate waiting around at that frigging nursing home, feeling all stood up—especially after I'd been good enough to offer to give you a ride home.”

I stood in front of him, feeling horrible. “You're right. I am
so
sorry, Chipper.”

Chipper moved his eyes suddenly to meet mine, and the intensity of them startled me. Chipper had beautiful eyes. So dark. So reflective. I could almost see myself in them.

“Let's go for a ride,” he said in a low voice. “Just us.”

I turned to Troy. “I gotta go with Chipper now.”

I could see the hurt on Troy's face. Troy had shown courage in standing up to Chipper, but it was stupid, too. Chipper was right. Troy
was
a fag. A stupid fag. At least I was bisexual. That little bit of straightness in me made the difference between us, I thought.

Troy looked at me through his tinted glasses. “You want me to come by tomorrow and pick you up for school?”

“No,” I said. I realized I needed to redeem myself in front of Chipper. “You know, Troy, the only reason I still hang out with you is that my mom makes me. She needs you to drive her around. But that's over now, after what happened today. I think from now on you should just keep your distance.”

Troy took a step back, as if I'd punched him. “Fuck you, too, then,” he finally said.

“Okay, whatever,” I said.

He turned to Chipper. “Hope you continue to enjoy playing tailback on the team. Every time you get out to play, Coach says to get your
tail back
on that bench.”

Chipper's eyes went wild. He made another mad lunge at Troy, but Troy sprinted away too fast.

Hopping into his Jaguar, he sped off.

“Get in,” Chipper said, swearing under his breath. I ran around to the passenger side of the Mach 1. In moments we were squealing out of the parking lot. Chipper drove with one hand and dug out his marijuana pipe from under the seat with the other. He handed it to me to light.

“You know, it pisses me off to come over here and find you hanging out with that fag Kitchenette again,” he said.

“His name is Kitchens.”

“Whatever,” Chipper said. “He's still a fag.”

I lit the pipe and took a hit. It was the last of the pot I had stolen from Troy. I was feeling pretty bad about what I'd said to him. It would be hard to be in the play together and not be friends. When I saw him the next day, I'd have to apologize.

“He's really not so bad,” I told Chipper, handing him the pipe. “He gets good weed, you gotta give him that. Plus he puts up with Mom's crap.” I laughed. “She got this tip that Becky was living with Bruno down in Naugatuck.”

“Naugatuck? Where the fuck is that?”

“Down near Waterbury. So we drove down there, and it wasn't her.” Chipper handed me back the pipe. “I'm starting to think she's not with Bruno at all.”

“I coulda told you that.”

I looked over at him. “How could you have told me that?”

He scoffed. “All that talk about Becky running off with bikers. That's bullshit. She wasn't into bikers. That's not why she disappeared.”

He had never been quite so definitive before. “Then why
did
she disappear?” I asked.

He didn't answer.

“Chipper,” I said, pressing, “do you know why Becky disappeared?”

“All I know is,” he told me, taking another hit off the pipe, “I had one fucking long, shitty day.”

“Why? What happened?”

We turned into Eagle Hill Cemetery. The Mach 1 jostled over a dirt road, climbing the hill to the summit of the old graveyard.

“That little fucker Kitchenette was right.” The car dropped down into a rut, knocking us around a bit, but Chipper didn't comment, just drove on. “Coach O'Brian says I'm not big enough to play against St. Thomas. All the guys are frigging brutes on that team.”

“Well, he's making a big mistake,” I told him.

“Damn straight he is. I think I'm
plenty
big enough.” He came to a stop and shut off the ignition behind a large tree. Only a few orange leaves still clung to its branches. “Okay,” Chipper acknowledged, “so maybe I'm not as big as that dickhead Tommy Masters, the coach's kiss-ass quarterback, but Masters hasn't won a single game for us all season. He's the clumsiest player on the team.”

“He's terrible,” I agreed.

“And if I'm not as big as some of those freaks, I'm
strong.
I'm stronger than any of them.” Chipper suddenly popped open his car door and jumped outside. “I'll show you how strong I am.”

I got out of the car as well, watching him. The sun had set, but there was still enough blue light to see as Chipper made his way to an overturned gravestone. Bending over, he struggled with it, getting his fingers underneath, digging into the moist earth. Finally, he budged the stone and lifted it up toward his chest, grunting. He managed to get it up off the ground by about five inches; then he let it drop. I think he was disappointed that he couldn't lift it over his head, but I decided to cheer, anyway.

“Aw right!” I said. “That was awesome!”

There was a hint of a smile on his face. “Fucking coach,” he muttered under his breath. “I'm plenty strong.”

“You
are.
You have an amazing body, Chipper.”

Shadows crept across his face. From the top of the tree, a crow cawed several times. “I've been going to the gym every day,” he said, cocky now. “I've been getting really ripped up. You wanna see?”

I could barely answer. “Yeah…”

He pulled his football jersey over his head and tossed it to the ground. His torso was leaner than those of most football players, but he'd developed a nice set of round shoulders. His pectorals were defined but flat against his body. A six-pack of abdominals dropped down into his jeans. He flexed me the classic double-bicep pose.

“Wow,” I said, and I meant it.

Suddenly he sat, plopping down on the gravestone he'd attempted to lift, and covered his face with his hands. I thought he might be crying. “I've waited four years to make a name for myself on the team,” he muttered. “And now that fucking asshole won't let me play! All four years of high school
down the fucking drain!
”

I sat down beside him and placed my arm around his naked shoulders. “You're a great player, Chipper. He's
got
to see that.”

He looked at me. “Do you have any idea what I'm going through? All my life was leading up to this year.
This year!
My senior year! I was supposed to be the big star of the school! My dad always told me I'd be the top guy. He said I had everything going for me. And now he acts like it's somehow my fault that I'm not playing, that the coach keeps me on the bench. He blames me!”

“Well, he doesn't know what he's talking about….”

Chipper leaned his head back, his face contorted, the veins on his neck standing out. “I was supposed to be the star, not that asshole Tommy Masters! It was supposed to be
me!
”

“If you were the star, we'd be undefeated. Masters sucks!”

He put his face in his hands again and moaned. “Everything started going wrong for me the day Becky left,” he said in a muffled voice. “From that day on, I was cursed.”

“Why?” I asked, drawing in a little closer. “What happened that day?”

Chipper stood up. “I am
fucking strong!
Nobody can say otherwise! Come here! Feel my bicep!”

I stood and obeyed, cupping my hand over his left bicep. A jolt of electricity shivered through my body.

“Wow,” I said again, and once again meant it. Even more this time.

“Okay, that's enough,” Chipper said and pulled his jersey back on.

Without saying another word, he got back into the car. I followed.

For much of the ride home, we didn't speak. When the apartment complex was in sight, Chipper turned to me and said, “You liked that, huh?”

“Liked what?”

“Feeling my muscle.”

I shrugged. “I liked it okay.”

“Then maybe you
are
a fag.”

I was silent.

“If you keep hanging out with that Kitchenette kid, mark my words, Danny, you
will
turn into a fag,” Chipper told me. He pulled the car into the lot outside my apartment, making sure to park far enough way so that Mom wouldn't see us. “And if you turn into a fag, we can't hang out anymore.”

“I'm not a fag,” I said.

“Hard not to think so the way you jumped on my muscle.”

“You asked me to.”

“I was just testing you.”

I sighed.

“You're the only one who understands me,” Chipper wailed suddenly. “My father is on my ass all the time. And Coach O'Brian is an asshole.” He turned and looked at me hard. “So I don't want you hanging out with Troy anymore. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“See you tomorrow, then.”

“Okay, Chipper.”

I got out of the car, and he sped off.

Inside the apartment, Mom was already in bed. I imagined she'd cried herself to sleep again. Dad was sitting on the couch, drunk, watching
Match Game PM.
There was nothing in the refrigerator to eat, so I just went to my room. I couldn't get Chipper's words out of my head. He had felt cursed since the day Becky disappeared. Why? What had happened that day?

He drowned her.

The idea hit me like a freight train.

He drowned her in the pond.

But I was sure the police had dragged the pond in their search for her. I was being crazy. Chipper would never do such a thing. Why would such a crazy idea come into my mind?

I pulled out my scrapbook of Beautiful Men. I turned each page, gazing into their eyes, caressing the glossy magazine images, no matter that they were bumpy and scarred from the paste underneath. Recently I'd added Erik Estrada, John Schneider, and David Naughton to the collection—the last of whom hailed from Hartford, so he was my current favorite. David Naughton was proof that somebody from here could grow up and make it.

But none of them, I decided, were as beautiful as Chipper, whose shirtless torso in that dark cemetery remained burned into my mind.

I
t was Penelope Sue's annual Halloween party. Everybody who was anybody—or at least everybody Penelope Sue had decided was anybody—was there. My invitation, I was certain, had come courtesy of Donovan, since his wife seemed determined to cling to her complete and utter oblivion of my existence. It had always been Donovan who'd made sure Frank and I got invited to these soirees at his house.

This time, however, Frank had indicated by a slow turn of his head that he wasn't interested in attending; since our contretemps the other night, he was still sleeping in the casita, and most of our communication had become similarly nonverbal. So I was obliged to ask Randall to accompany me. When I apprised Donovan of this change to the guest list, he insisted that Randall bring along his “hunky new Arab boyfriend.” So it was three of us who gathered on Saturday night at Hassan's to put on our costumes.

“I am less an authentic sheik,” Hassan said, slipping into an Arab headdress, “than I am Rudolph Valentino playing one in a silent movie.” He admired himself in the mirror. “Just so that it's clear.”

“Well,” said Randall, “I'm less an authentic drag queen than I am a Century City orthodontist playing one for a pretentious Palm Springs party.”

I laughed. Randall had wanted to go as Cher, during her “If I Could Turn Back Time” period. Black fishnet stockings stretched across the round tree trunks he called thighs, while a wig of black ringlets cascaded from his head. But when the look failed to come together, he came up with the idea of going as Cher playing Baby Jane Hudson in a remake of
What Ever Happened to Baby Jane?
Rouging his lips, caking on face powder, Randall strode around the room, swinging his hips and waving a cigarette—Cher doing Bette Davis doing Baby Jane. “You are the gayest man ever to live,” I told him.

As for me, I couldn't decide what to wear. I wasn't really in the mood for a party. But it was the prospect of seeing Donovan that had finally convinced me to accept the invitation. Now, even I had to admit
that
was a first. Donovan Hunt was usually the very
last
reason I ever went to one of his (or his wife's) parties. But this time, I needed to talk with him. He was the only one I could talk to, in fact. Besides, another night of sitting alone in the house, with Frank watching television out in the casita, neither of us speaking, was just too depressing to consider.

“Does this look okay?” I asked the boys.

Randall made a face. “What are you supposed to be? A matador?”

“No, silly,” Hassan interjected. “He's a pirate.”

I scoffed. “You're both wrong. If I were a matador, I'd have a red cape. If I were a pirate, I'd have an eye patch.”

“Then what
are
you?” Randall asked.

“I'm a gypsy.” I turned and looked back in the mirror. I thought I looked pretty good. Okay, so the short little black vest I was wearing, picked up at a vintage costume shop, probably did come from a matador costume originally. And the single large gold loop hanging from my left ear might well have been more appropriate for a pirate than a gypsy. But only a gypsy wore this many rings. From every finger of both of my hands, including my thumbs, sparkled fake amethysts and rubies and diamonds. And only a gypsy would wear a pentagram around his neck, its sharp points occasionally stabbing his bare chest, in order to ward off werewolves. I thought it was obvious that I was a gypsy.

Piling into the Jeep, we headed out to Rancho Mirage. The house Donovan shared with Penelope Sue was perched as high up the mountain as city code allowed. It was a slick and streamlined concoction of steel and stone and glass. An elongated swimming pool wrapped around three sides of the place like a moat, crossed at strategic points by stone bridges that led from various rooms into the terraced gardens. In the sunken living room, one wall was made entirely of glass, through which we could view those in the pool like sea creatures displayed in an aquarium. This night, as shirtless waiters in Mardi Gras masks passed out hors d'oeuvres, Donovan had arranged a show of sleek-limbed boys and girls to swim gracefully past us like so many trained dolphins.

In one corner, Penelope Sue held court. She was dressed as Marie Antoinette—a rather tone-deaf costume, I thought, given her reputation as the richest and most elitist woman in the Coachella Valley. But maybe she rather liked the reference and had decided to embrace it rather than run away from it. In any event, she stood there in her enormous white wig and glittering pink hoop skirt—looking more, Randall thought, like Glinda the Good Witch than Marie Antoinette—and grandly received the air kisses of her guests. I watched. After each one, she rolled her eyes. Suddenly I missed Kelly terribly.

From across the room, Thad and Jimmy waved animatedly. They were dressed as Musketeers, complete with hats and feathers and ruffled shirts. “Only two Musketeers?” I asked, approaching them. “Where's your third?”

Thad gave me a sly grin. “You must have tired him out the other night, dancing on top of that box.”

I groaned, not wanting to be reminded of that night.

“
These
are what so transfixed the entire bar,” Thad said grandly, running his palm down my abdominals. “Believe me, I dreamt about them all night long.”

“He did,” Jimmy spoke up, a rare utterance from his corner. “He told me so the next morning.”

I blushed.

“And
you
, darling,” Thad said, turning to Randall. “Who are you trying to be? Michael Jackson in
Thriller?
”

“I'm Cher playing Baby Jane Hudson,” Randall explained.

Thad shivered. “Brilliant concept. I'll give you an A for effort.” He leaned in to give Randall a kiss. I could see Randall tense up as he did so. I realized my friend hadn't told Hassan about his little encounter with Thad and Jimmy. Clearly, he was hoping for some discretion, and except for the kiss, Thad complied, giving away none of their intimacy as he shook Hassan's hand.

“And
you,
” Thad said, apprising Hassan up and down. “You can slip into my tent any time you want.”

Hassan smiled. “I thank you for the offer,” he said courteously.

Thad laughed. “Don't thank me. Just take me up on it.” He knocked back the last of his drink. “Fabulous party, don't you think? My dear Penelope certainly knows how to throw them.”

“That she does,” I said.

“But my dear Danny,” Thad said, leaning his head in toward me. “I can't help but notice there are no Fortunatos hanging on the walls. I mean, I know there are a couple of Renoirs and a Picasso or two or three, but nothing by
you?
And here I thought Donovan was an old friend of yours.”

I laughed. Thad had bought a print of mine just last week, so he apparently expected others to follow. “I think it's
Mrs.
Hunt who makes the decisions about what art goes on the walls,” I told him. “And she's never seemed able to remember my name.”

“Hmm,” Thad said.

“Speaking of Donovan,” I asked, “where is he?”

“Oh, he's around,” Thad replied. “With a new boy on his arm. And in my humble opinion, the most stunning one in a long time. For a change, he's a blond.”

“Well, you know, blonds were Donovan's first love,” Randall quipped, his eyes turning to me.

I ignored him. “It's amazing what Penelope puts up with.”

“You are assuming,” Hassan interjected, “that marriages are only successful if they are based on passion. Perhaps Mr. and Mrs. Hunt have founded their union on things other than romantic bliss.”

I laughed. “Well, I'd have to agree with you there.
Definitely
other things than romantic bliss.”

“I need a refill,” Thad said. “Jimmy and I will mosey on over to the bar. Can we bring you back anything?”

I asked for a Grey Goose martini, up, with a twist. Hassan requested a club soda. Randall said he'd accompany Thad and Jimmy so he could help carry back the drinks. Off they headed across the room. That left Hassan and me to scope out the crowd by ourselves.

“It's a strange but fascinating custom, this Halloween,” said Hassan.

“The gay national holiday,” I told him.

Not all the guests were gay, of course, but certainly more than half were of the lavender persuasion. And nearly everyone present considered themselves
fops:
friends of Penelope, a designation taken very seriously in the desert. Some of the costumes they'd put together were extraordinary. Clearly, many of the fops had spent the better part of the year planning for this night. One guy came as a Christmas tree, complete with balsam branches and a star on top of his head. One woman was dressed as a butterfly, with gigantic gossamer wings, which she kept folded behind her, except for those moments when she spread them, five yards wide, to the astonishment of the room. Hassan and I stood off to one side, gazing out across the great oval-shaped room, with its tan suede walls. An assortment of witches and soldiers, vampires and harlequins, cowboys and ballerinas mingled and sipped their drinks under the magnificent chandelier.

“I think if I were to take your picture tonight,” Hassan said suddenly, apropos of nothing, “it would be a portrait of grief.”

It took me by surprise, and I looked over at him. “Excuse me?”

“It has changed. Your image. The emptiness has been filled in with grief.”

I said nothing, just nodded my head slightly.

Hassan leaned in close. “Feeling grief is better than being empty.”

I thought of Frank, alone in the casita.

“You know, Hassan,” I said, pushing the thought away, “this whole Yoda thing is getting a bit weird.”

He frowned. “Yoda? I don't know the reference.”

“He was the cuddly little oracle in the
Star Wars
series. He was always spouting off words of wisdom, seeing things in the characters that nobody else saw.”

His frown turned into a smile. “So are you calling me cuddly?”

I smiled back. “If I could take a picture of
you,
” I said, moving my face close to his, “I'd take a portrait of somebody in love.”

His eyes flickered away. “Do you mean Randall? I am not in love with Randall.”

“Well, then, I'm sorry to hear that.”

“I am very fond of him,” Hassan said. “But, no, I am not in love.”

“How do you know?” I asked, and the question was genuine. “How do you know when you're in love and when you're not?”

Hassan laughed. “I think the concept of being ‘in love' is much overused in this country.”

“Perhaps,” I said—and even as the word was still on my lips, I turned and saw him.
Kelly.
Across the room. Dressed as himself, no costume, just his usual dark shirt and corduroy pants. He looked like a homeless man, hovering on the sidelines. Then the crowd shifted, and I lost sight of him.

“Here you go, Mr. Chippendale,” Thad said, suddenly at my side, handing me my drink. My heart was thudding in my chest, and for a moment, I didn't respond. “Well, do you want me to
drink
it for you, too?”

“Oh, thanks,” I said, accepting the drink and taking a big sip.

My eyes returned to the crowd, searching. It had occurred to me that Donovan might invite Kelly, but I hadn't dared to ask. Since the other day, when Kelly had told me he wouldn't allow himself to fall in love with me, I hadn't replied to his texts. They'd come in fairly frequently that night and the next day. Then, gradually, they began tapering off. Finally, the last one had said:
I GUESS BEING MY FRIEND IS TOO MUCH WORK
.
SORRY THEN
.
GOODBYE
.

He was right. It
was
a lot of work. For too little gain. Yet still I missed him fiercely. It was agony not texting him back. I was miserable not seeing him. I'd tried to hold my ground and put him out of my mind. I tried to distract myself with a trip up to Sherman Oaks, where I took Ollie out to dinner to make up for running out on him. Driving into Los Angeles for the first time in many, many months, I realized I no longer thought of the city as home. I hated the traffic and the congestion and the noise and the commotion and couldn't wait to get out of there. But Ollie was so grateful, so touched, by the fact that I had come to see him that the long stretches of silence over dinner were almost worthwhile. Still, I couldn't help but compare the experience to the dinners I'd shared with Kelly, who'd kept me in stitches with laughter and ensured there was never an awkward, quiet moment. That night, driving back into Palm Springs, passing the windmills on my right and glimpsing the lights of the city in front of me, I felt for the first time as if I was coming home. It had taken me this long—and meeting Kelly, I realized—to feel that way.

It was then that the chain around my neck broke, and my pentagram dropped to the floor.

“So much for protection from werewolves,” I said as Randall bent down to retrieve it.

“What did you and Hassan talk about while I was gone?” he whispered in my ear as he pressed forward to hand me the pentagram.

“Grief,” I said.

“Grief?”

I nodded. “Apparently I'm grieving.”

“Of course, you are,” Randall said.

I shook my head. I felt
guilt
about Frank, not grief. In fact, as much as it pained me to think that I had hurt Frank, our separation felt right. Appropriate. How could I continue spooning with Frank in our bed every night when my mind was fixed on someone else? It wasn't fair to Frank; it wasn't fair to
us,
to the “us” that we had been. As long as I felt this way about Kelly, it was better to be apart. How long that would last, I didn't know. But glimpsing Kelly again tonight, and the tumble of emotions that followed, suggested my feelings for him weren't quite over yet.