Shy (12 page)

Frank and I joined a support group for people with social anxiety disorder. In fact, we joined two support groups. Unfortunately, we never made it to the first meeting of either group because on both occasions we chickened out at the front door and went for cheeseburgers instead.

Not once during the beginning weeks of our relationship did we even
consider
going to a bar for drinks. Even stone-cold sober, we were perfectly content to be in each other’s company. Just the two of us.

I mean three.

Pedro must not be forgotten. And in truth, Pedro was sometimes the only jarring note in our otherwise idyllic existence. It drove Frank nuts that Pedro was not everything he wished him to be. He quickly came to love Pedro, but he did not love the occasional smelly accident or the constant begging or the periodic attempt by Pedro to remove a finger or two from the hand that fed him.

Chihuahuas are notoriously cranky. It’s a simple fact of nature. But Frank didn’t like it, so he did everything in his power to change the natural order.

And Pedro fought him every step of the way.

Frank enrolled Pedro in obedience courses being held at a dog-bathing spa not far from the apartment. On the first day of the course, heralded as a “meet and greet” for the students to get to know each other, Frank and I clipped a leash to a freshly scrubbed and exceedingly pissed off Pedro (he knew something was up) and set off to begin his new life in academia. Frank and I were so nervous, what with all the other dog owners hovering around the front door mingling and sharing pet stories with their tethered pets looking all happy and excited too, that Pedro must have picked up on our anxiety and took it as a sign that we were in danger. His instinct for protection kicked in. Yes, even Chihuahuas have one, especially where their masters are concerned. He went into full battle mode, growling at six pet owners, snapping at a pretty little Pomeranian who just wanted to get laid, nipping two instructors who tried to intercede, and damn near emasculating a Russian wolfhound when Pedro latched onto his nuts with his sharp little teeth and refused to let go. Pedro wreaked such havoc that we were firmly, and not very politely, evicted from the premises before the first class ever began. Hell, we didn’t even get to the free tea and cookies and doggy treats.

Frank was steamed for all of five minutes, then he started laughing. Then I started laughing. By the time we were back at the apartment, Pedro was laughing too, prancing and frolicking and nipping (playfully) at our pant legs. He knew he had won. And so did we. Even Frank had to admit it.

N
EEDLESS
to say, obedience school was never mentioned again. Pedro certainly never brought it up, and neither did Frank. Secretly though, I began a more concerted effort to teach Pedro a few of the most fundamental rules that applied to living with humans. Like not pooping everywhere he took a fancy to poop. And not humping every ankle that came looming onto his horizon. I knew I had been a bad influence on Pedro, letting him get the upper hand (or upper paw) in our relationship, and I tried to atone for my sins. With minimal success, I’m afraid. Pedro was simply too set in his ways. Old dog, new tricks. That sort of thing. And secretly, I still thought of Pedro’s shortcomings as part of his charm. Thank God most dog owners know better.

One day I walked in on Frank having a spirited conversation on the phone. He was all smiles, and I have to say, when I walked into the room his smiles grew even wider, God love him. I ask you, is there anything greater in the world than having your man light up when you walk into a room? Even being told “you look skinny in those jeans” doesn’t hold a candle to it. I was overcome with a sudden urge for two-peckered sex, but Frank had other ideas.

“Here he is now,” Frank said into the phone. “I’ll let
you
tell him.”

Who is it?
I mouthed. Frank just shrugged and handed me the phone.

“Hello?” I ventured into the mouthpiece, wondering at Frank’s mysterious little grin.

“Hello, young man!” A booming voice sang out. “I hear you’ve taken my boy under your wing!”

“Uh—”

“This is Frankie’s dad. You can call me Joseph. Or Joe. I don’t care. Pretty near everybody calls me one or the other. I just wanted to let you know that I appreciate you helping Frank get settled in. He ain’t never been in a big city before, so I’m glad you two found each other. Otherwise he’d probably be sleeping in the bus station. He tells me you’ve got a dog. Got four myself. Wonderful things, dogs. You’ll never have a better friend than your dog. Remember that, son.”

I looked down at Pedro who was sniffing around the floor lamp looking for a place to pee. He had just hiked up his hind leg in preparation for the first salvo when Frank saw what I was looking at, gasped, and scooped Pedro into the air. He grabbed his leash and a plastic poop bag and ran out the front door with Pedro under his arm before Pedro knew what the hell was happening.

Frank’s father apparently didn’t know what was happening either. “What’s the matter, boy? Cat got your tongue? You still there? Hello? Hello?”

“Mr. Wells,” I said. “I mean Joseph. I mean Joe. It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir. I’ve heard a lot about you. And I’m more than happy to be helping Frank-
ie
out. He’s a great guy.” And hot in bed. But that didn’t need to be said, so I left it out. “Did he tell you he’s found a job already?”

“Yes, he did, Tom. That is your name, isn’t it? Tom? And he told me you were loaning him your car to get to work in too. That’s a fine thing to do for another human being. I kinda had to choke back a tear when Frankie told me that. You’re a good man, Tom. A good man and a good friend to my boy. The true measure of a man is what he does for others, not what he does for himself, and you measure up just fine, Tom. I’ll never forget it. Neither will Frankie.”

It was obvious that Frank’s dad was the sort of person who tells you exactly how he feels and unapologetically makes no bones about wearing his heart on his sleeve. I respect people like that. You always know exactly where you stand with them, and there is nothing underhanded about the things they say. Their words can be taken at face value. Someone like Stanley the dick could tell you how wonderful you are, and you know all along that what he is actually
thinking
is pretty much the polar opposite of the syrupy crap pouring out of his mouth.

Frank’s dad seemed to divine my thoughts. “Guess Frankie’s big brother didn’t have time to help him out. Too bad about that, but Stanley’s always been a selfish shit. Even when he was little he used to hog all the candy. Poor Frankie hardly ever got any. Probably why he’s got such pretty teeth. Sometimes people are just born assholes, Tom. No rhyme or reason to it. It’s just the way it is. I hate to admit it, but Stanley’s one of them.”

I bit back a laugh and made a mental note to never try to pull the wool over Joseph Wells’s eyes. Obviously Indiana farmers know bullshit when they see it. Even as it applies to members of their own family. Suffice it to say, it was nice to know that my opinion of Stanley was backed by a competent authority. The man’s father, no less.

“These phone calls cost money, son, so I’m going to let you go. It’s been a real pleasure talking to you.”

“It’s been a pleasure for me too. And don’t worry about the cost next time. You call collect any time you want. We’d both love to hear from you.”

“We’ll see. We’ll see. Anyway, give Frankie a hug for me. And thanks again for everything you’ve done.”

“If you’ll just hold on a second, Frank will be right back. He’s walking the dog. I’m sure he’d like to say good-bye.”

“No, son, that’s okay. Time is money, especially where Ma Bell is concerned, or whoever the hell is running the phone company these days. You just tell Frankie what I said, and don’t forget the phone works both ways. I’d love to hear from you boys too, any time you feel like talking.”

“Okay, sir. We’ll call. I promise.”

“Bye then. I gotta run. A farm don’t operate itself, you know.” And Joseph Wells softly hung up the phone, but not before I heard the sound of coughing. A lot of coughing. I remembered what Frank had told me about his dad being unwell. I hoped it was nothing serious. I really liked the guy.

I headed out the front door in search of my new lover and my ill-trained dog. I wanted to tell Frank right away everything his father and I had talked about. And then I wanted to get Frank back inside and take another stab at that two-peckered sex idea I had entertained earlier.

I
T
WAS
during the second week of Frank’s new job at the nursery that Jerry called me at the bank just before noon and asked me to meet him for lunch. I hadn’t heard a peep from the guy since the morning after the party. In truth, I had all but forgotten that Jerry existed at all. I wondered if he would be crushed if I told him that. I snickered at the thought, then decided I was being mean. Besides, why should I tell him how happy I was when he’d
see
how happy I was the minute we got together anyway? My obvious happiness would probably be
more
than enough to crush the fucker. Then I decided
that
was mean too, so I straightened my wimple and promised myself I would play nicely. After all, it wasn’t Jerry’s fault I ended up with the good brother, while he ended up with Stanley. Oh, wait a minute. Yes it was. The slut.

I straightened my wimple
again
and walked out of the bank at one minute after twelve, adjusting my tie and making myself presentable.

Jerry was waiting by the ATM, leaning against the rail. He shot me a chipper little grin when he spotted me. I offered him a bland smile and a limp wave in return, striving for the impression that I wasn’t all that excited to see him again and was really only here out of some unavoidable sense of duty. It worked. Jerry deflated like a leaky balloon. Poor guy. He had no idea what I was about to do to his ego. There is nothing worse than seeing a happy ex. Nothing. Believe me, I know.

On the flip side of the coin, there’s nothing more satisfying than seeing a
miserable
ex. It’s a boon to one’s ego to learn that the bastard really did wind up being sorry he dumped you, just like you screamed that he would as he walked out the door. And at the moment, Jerry was looking pretty darned sorry indeed.

I gave him a sympathetic pout. “Are things that bad with you and Stanley, then?”

Jerry tried to look astonished but he didn’t carry it off very well. Then he tried to look smug, but that just seemed pathetic, and he knew it. Finally, he bit the bullet and said, “There is no more ‘you and Stanley’. I mean me and Stanley. He dumped me and split. Didn’t even pay his half of the rent before he left.”

“Gee,” I couldn’t help saying. “Just like you did to me.”

Jerry appeared stricken by my words. “I’m sorry, Tom. I really am. I was such an ass.”

He sounded sincere. He even looked sincere. It took me about three seconds to realize, my God in heaven, he
was
sincere.

He was talking to me but he was looking at his shoes. A little trick he must have learned from me during one of my SAD attacks. Even in Jerry’s quieter moments, he rarely muttered. But he was muttering now. “I’m sorry I hurt you, Tom. I shouldn’t have done it. It was wrong of me.”

Suddenly I was the one feeling uncomfortable. I don’t know what I had expected from Jerry but it wasn’t sincerity. And it sure as hell wasn’t remorse. I gave him an awkward pat on the back. We were walking down the street by this time, heading for the cafe on the corner. It was one of the few restaurants I felt comfortable eating in, thanks to the high booths that prevented the other diners from watching me chew. Pretty much a SAD requirement, as I’ve mentioned earlier. Jerry knew all this. That’s why he didn’t question where we were going. He had been around the block enough times with me and my idiosyncrasies to know that if we were going to have lunch, it was going to be in this cafe or nowhere.

“Wrong or not,” I told him, “our breakup is water under the bridge. It’s old news, Jerry. I don’t hold any grudges and I hope you don’t either. We both survived. That’s what counts. Life goes on.” Two weeks ago I was crying in my beer over the guy. Then I spend a few rapturous hours with my face in Frank’s crotch and I change my tune completely. Fickle, huh?

Jerry waited until we were seated in the cafe. Happily, we were ushered into my favorite booth. The one by the window. Out of habit, I immediately commandeered the seat that left me facing
away
from the rest of the restaurant. Another SAD requirement. Jerry knew the rules, so he was content taking the other seat, even though it put his back to the window and gave me the view. It was no great loss on his part, since the view consisted solely of a homeless man sitting on a bus bench cleaning his grungy toenails with a pocket knife.

When we were situated, Jerry peered over his menu to study my face. He let the conversation pick up where it had left off out in the street.

“It looks like
your
life is proceeding nicely. Still with Frank, I guess.”

There might have been a hint of snippiness in the statement, but Jerry hid it pretty well. I realized he was fishing for information. I wondered if he was going to ask me to take him back. I hoped not. I didn’t want to hurt him. He seemed hurt enough already, thanks to that dick Stanley.

“Still with Frank,” I said, nodding, making a concerted effort not to jump up and do a jig. No need to rub it in his face that I was happy and he was not. I could tell by the bruised look in his eyes that he was more than aware of the fact. “He’s working now,” I went on. “Things are going great. He’s a wonderful guy. I hope you can get to know him.”

I told myself to shut up. I was gloating. It was just so hard to talk about Frank without rattling on and on and on and—

“I want you back,” Jerry said. “I still love you, Tom, and I want you back.” He reached out to grasp my hand. It startled me. I jerked away and tipped over the saltshaker. Jerry looked stunned that I had pulled away from him like that. He carefully righted the saltshaker, brushed the salt off the table, then rested his hands in his lap.