Serenading Stanley (18 page)

S
TANLEY
had classes all the next day, but he didn’t learn a thing. Instead, he spent the day walking into walls and dropping pencils and staring through classroom windows, lost in thought. His mind was too busy rehashing everything that had happened the night before for any serviceable knowledge to seep in. And while a lot of his preoccupation had to do with Roger Jane, a surprising amount of it was also centered on Ramon and ChiChi.

They had seemed so in love with each other. What must it have been like for Ramon, seeing the way ChiChi had chosen to work his way through massage training? To be in love with the man and still know that one floor up from where Ramon laid his head every night, ChiChi was sexually servicing a host of strangers. After all, only a fool would believe those were legitimate massages being practiced in 6D. The worst part, of course, was that not ten feet below, Ramon, the man who loved ChiChi, lay alone in his bed listening to every sound.

Could Ramon’s love for ChiChi really be strong enough to overcome that? Could
anyone’s
love be that strong? How did Ramon handle it? How could he trust his heart to someone like ChiChi? How did he ignore all those noises creeping down from above, and how could he simply disregard all the imaginings that must have torn through his head about what those noises meant? And if ChiChi really loved Ramon back, why would he put Ramon through all that?

How would Stanley feel if he knew Roger was downstairs doing the same thing? Would he be able to accept it and still keep his feelings for the man intact? Stanley wasn’t sure. Well, yes he was. He couldn’t do it. It would hurt too much. Way too much. People in love shouldn’t have to be miserable because of it, should they? It should be all trust and bluebirds and walks in the park. That’s what love should be about. That’s what it was like in the movies. Why shouldn’t love be that way in real life too?

And that thought pulled Stanley up short.

Love. Real life. Had he just admitted to himself he was in love with Roger Jane? He knew he was infatuated, of course. He knew he was in
lust
with the guy. Hell, after getting one tiny glimpse of Roger standing there with his Adonis body and his magical green eyes and those strong, beautiful arms, who the hell wouldn’t be in lust with him?

But love? Had Stanley already crossed that threshold where there was no turning back? Shit. He didn’t even have to ask himself twice. He knew it was true. There wasn’t one teeny tiny doubt in his mind.

Dammit, he was
already
head over heels in love with Roger Jane. He was! It’s exactly what he had feared would happen, and now, by God, it had. Hadn’t it? Love. Shit!

And what would Roger do when he found out? For all the sweet words Roger Jane could utter and all the loving looks he could cast in Stanley’s direction when they were alone, Stanley didn’t doubt for a minute if Roger
had
set his sights on Stanley, it wasn’t because he wanted to spend the rest of his life with him. Maybe it was just a passing moment of lustful fantasy on Roger’s part. Or maybe he felt like partaking of a bit of sexual slumming. Maybe he just wanted to bestow a pity fuck on poor old Stanley who lived upstairs and wasn’t exactly Mr. America material. And if Stanley was in love with Roger
now,
how lost would he be after he actually slept
with him? Had sex
with him? Even if it
was
a pity fuck?

And here Stanley had been thinking he and Ramon had a lot in common. But it wasn’t true, was it? Ramon had a person who really loved him back. And while Roger
acted
like he was gaga over Stanley, just one look at the two of them together should be enough to dispel that rumor. Roger was a god. Stanley was a—well, if not a troll, at least a nothing-special-run-of-the-mill mortal. What the hell could the two of them possibly have in common?

Back at the apartment building, Stanley schlepped his fifty-pound book bag up those six flights of stairs, and once again, when he got to four, he found himself tiptoeing the rest of the way up to six. He quietly twisted the key in his lock, eased himself into the apartment, and softly closed the door behind him, doing everything but holding his breath as he tried not to make any noise. He toed off his shoes before taking a single step across the apartment floor. He didn’t want Roger to know he was home. He couldn’t face him right now. He just couldn’t.

Stanley had some serious thinking to do about Roger Jane. He felt like a runaway freight train barreling toward a broken trestle, about to plummet over the edge, dragging his whole life along behind him and unable to do a single thing about it.

Or was there? He could stop being a wimp. He could do that much. He could just come right out and demand Roger Jane leave his mortal ass alone and go pick on somebody else for a change. Pick on somebody worthy of his attentions. Find another god to fuck around with. Let the poor ugly mortal be.

Stanley eased himself quietly into the shower, set the water at barely a dribble to keep the noise level down, and all the while, he tried to think of a way out of his dilemma. The worst part was, there
was
no way out. It was already too late. Even if he managed to sever all ties with Roger Jane, Stanley would still end up with a broken heart. There was no getting around it now. The best he could hope for was to at least put a halt to this clusterfuck of emotions before he and Roger had sex. After that, the clusterfuck would be insurmountable, his heart lost completely. And that, above all else, he had to avoid. If today was any indication, with a full-fledged broken heart, Stanley would
never
finish school. He’d
never
get his master’s. Hell, he’d probably end up on skid row cradling a jug of cheap wine and ranting to strangers in Nahuatl like a drunken Aztec. Christ, wouldn’t his mother love that?

As depressed as he had ever been in his life, Stanley stepped from the shower and dried off. He slipped on a pair of baggy jeans and a T-shirt, and the second he was dressed, he heard a knock at his door.

He stared at the fucking door as if it were a terrorist aiming an Uzi at his head.

Please God, no. He couldn’t face Roger now. He couldn’t! Not yet. Maybe not ever.

But he couldn’t not answer the door either. He couldn’t be that big of a coward.

Simply trying not to think about it, Stanley strode to the door, sucked in a huge gulp of air to brace his nerves (like that was really going to help) and yanked the fucker open.

Then he blinked. It wasn’t Roger at all. It was the wimpy bookkeeper. What was his name? Ingersol. That was it. The straight guy. And as far as Stanley knew, the only straight guy in the building. What was even more surprising to Stanley than seeing the straight bookkeeper standing on his doorstep, was seeing the straight bookkeeper standing on his doorstep looking absolutely terrified.

“Oh, shit,” Stanley said. “Who’s getting beat up this time?”

As soon as Stanley answered the door and spoke, Ingersol looked even more panic-stricken. “You’re not the nurse!”

“No,” Stanley said. “I’m sorry. The nurse is one floor down. What’s wro—”

“Oh, God!” the man exclaimed, slapping his chest so hard a handful of pens flew out of his pocket protector and clattered to the floor like pick-up sticks. “I’m so stupid!”

Whirling, Ingersol raced toward the stairs. He had his hands in his hair now. Stanley wondered if he was going to start pulling it out in clumps like a madman.
What the hell is going on?

“What’s wrong?” Stanley prodded again, matching Ingersol step for step. “Is it Arthur? Has something happened to Arthur?” He followed the bookkeeper down the stairs to five, doing everything but plucking at his shirtsleeve to get his attention. “I don’t know if Roger’s even home yet. Should we call the paramedics? Who’s hurt? What’s happened? Talk to me, dammit!”

By this time, they were both standing in front of Roger’s door. Ingersol rapped on it hard. Then he rapped on it again.

The door opened and a smiling Roger poked his head out. He looked surprised to see Ingersol standing there. And looking past him, he seemed doubly surprised to see Stanley standing behind him.

“Stanley,” he said. “I didn’t know you were home yet.”

When Stanley didn’t answer, Roger’s eyes shifted from Stanley back to Ingersol. “What’s wrong, Pete?”

Ingersol grabbed his arm. “Come with me. Quick.”

“Why? Tell me what’s wrong?”

“It’s Sylvia,” Ingersol said, but he wasn’t standing still while he said it. He was already dragging Roger toward the stairs.

Roger didn’t fight it. He merely tilted his head at Stanley and said, “Close my door, babe. And you’d better come along too. At least I’ll get a few minutes with you.”

Stanley wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he said nothing.

Even in the midst of high drama, Roger took a moment to be civil. He did it on the stairs. “Stanley, this is Peter Ingersol. Pete, this is Stanley Sternbaum.”

Pete barely registered the introduction. “She’s home. I know she is. But she won’t answer her door. She wouldn’t answer it last night, and she wouldn’t answer it this morning. Now she still won’t answer it. Arthur’s not home or I would have begged him to open her door with his passkey. I know Sylvia trusts you, Roger. Plus, if anything is
really
wrong, you’re a nurse. Maybe you can help her.”

“Sylvia lives in 4B,” Roger explained to Stanley. “Pete is in 3B, directly below her. They’re… friends.”

The way Roger spoke the word “friends,” Stanley suspected there was more to the story than what Roger was telling, but this obviously wasn’t the time to explain it. Judging by the fear on Pete’s face and the blush that now crept into it, Stanley figured an explanation wasn’t necessary. The man had a crush on Sylvia. Any fool could figure that out. The only thing Stanley thought he might need to reevaluate was his assumption that Peter Ingersol was straight. That conclusion seemed to be suddenly up for grabs.

But there wasn’t time to worry about it now. Roger tried the doorknob to 4B. Locked. He leaned in close to the door. “Sylvia. It’s Roger. Let me in.”

Nothing.

Roger spent five seconds pounding the shit out of the door, and when that produced no results, Stanley said, “Let me try.”

With a quizzical expression, both Pete and Roger stepped back.

Stanley braced himself and with one precision kick applied directly to the doorknob, wood splintered, the building shook, and Sylvia’s door flew open with a crash.

Roger smiled at Stanley and ruffled his hair. “Damn, boy, where’d you learn to do that?”

“Chuck Norris. Texas Ranger. Reruns,” Stanley answered. Then he gave an embarrassed shrug and rubbed his knee. “Ow.”

“Chuck Norris never said ‘ow,’” Roger wryly observed, making Stanley blush.

Pete raced through the door calling Sylvia’s name. Roger and Stanley hustled in behind him. They fanned out: Roger heading for the kitchen, Stanley aiming for the bathroom to the left. Pete veered right, heading for the bedroom.

Stanley felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up when Pete bellowed through the bedroom door. “No!”

Rushing through the door side by side with Roger, Stanley saw Sylvia lying fully dressed upon the bed, one arm hanging over the side. Her face was as still and pale as alabaster. She looked like a mannequin.

“Oh, shit,” Roger muttered, lifting her shoulders from the bed and giving her a good shake. Her head flopped around like a rag doll’s. Her eyes didn’t open. “Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.”

Roger turned to Pete. “Call 911.”

It was then Stanley saw the pill bottle on the nightstand by the bed. The bottle was lying on its side, empty. Roger saw it too, and their eyes found each other’s. They could hear Pete speaking on the phone in the other room. They could detect the tremble in his voice from all the way across the apartment. He was obviously on the verge of tears.

“Stanley,” Roger said. “Go downstairs and direct the paramedics up here. Will you do that? It won’t take them long to get here, and that’ll speed up the process.”

Stanley nodded. “Will she be all right?”

“I hope so,” Roger said, reaching out and grasping Stanley’s hand. With his other arm he hugged Sylvia close, holding her in a sitting position, continuing to shake her, still trying to wake her up. Trying to get a reaction. Anything. Knowing all the while it was useless. She needed more than a good shake to bring her out of this. But at least she was breathing. Thank God for that.

“Now go,” Roger pleaded. “And come back up with the EMT’s. I’ll drive Pete to the hospital behind the ambulance, and I want you to come with us. We need to talk. Okay?”

Stanley nodded. He was trembling now too. He wasn’t used to this much drama. His hands were shaking as if he had malaria or something. He couldn’t bear to stare at Sylvia’s still, still face, but he couldn’t tear his eyes away either. “Okay,” he said, barely trusting his voice. He glanced back at Pete, now speaking frantically into the phone. Giving the address. Explaining the problem to 911, pleading with them to hurry. “Is Pete—?”

Roger gave his hand a reassuring squeeze. “Yes. He is. Now go.”

And Stanley went.

S
TANLEY
watched from a distance as Roger and Pete huddled with a young doctor in the ER waiting room. The place was packed, and frankly Stanley was a little astounded no one had slapped Pete Ingersol on a gurney and wheeled him into the treatment room. Or a padded cell. The guy was almost hysterical. If Stanley had been uncertain how Pete felt about his transsexual neighbor before, he certainly wasn’t now. The only other thing he wondered was if Sylvia knew how much in love Pete was with her. If she didn’t know, and assuming she pulled out of this okay, Stanley decided he was sure as hell going to tell her. She needed to know. And Pete deserved it too.

When he finally pulled his eyes from Pete, Stanley felt himself go weak watching Roger Jane in action. He worked in this hospital. He knew the staff. He knew the doctor he was talking to right now. In a calmer, less panicky way, he was just as concerned about Sylvia as Pete. And Roger understood what was going on. Pete didn’t. Neither did Stanley. That was probably why both Pete and Stanley were such nervous fucking wrecks.