When You Don't See Me (12 page)

The sound of a key in the lock alerted me that someone was home. I was betting on Kendra and jumped up to put on clothes. She had an annoying habit of crawling on the futon, forcing me to stay under the covers or flash her.

I was pleasantly surprised when Roberto rounded the sheet into our room.

“Yo!” He jumped back a little. “Make some noise next time, will ya? I just about took you out.” He peered at me. “What's wrong with you?”

“What makes you think something's wrong?”

He looked at me like I'd just asked if he knew the alphabet. “Don't waste our time with guessing games. You need to jump in the shower. We got stuff to do.”

“I was gonna hang out here today.”

“You've already been hanging out here.”

“I just woke—”

“Time to take the act on the road. It's a great day outside. I won't even make you take a subway.”

“I hate it when people who wake up earlier than everybody else think it's their business to get the world moving,” I said.

“Squeaky clean boys get a cup of hot tea,” Roberto promised.

“Yeah, whatever.”

From the patch of blue I could see through our window, it did seem like a nice spring day. But after I showered and drank my tea, I grabbed a sweatshirt just in case. I had no idea where we were going or for how long.

“Hey,” I said when we were on the street, “we have to stop by my bank. As long as I have to be out at this ridiculous hour, I have junk I can take care of, too.”

“It's almost eleven.”

“I didn't fall asleep until after four. I'm tired.”

“It's all about you,” Roberto said.

“Don't you forget it.” Roberto stuck out his arm for a passing cab.

“What are you doing? Where are we going? I can't be throwing a bunch of money around for a cab.”

“I'm paying.”

He gave the driver a Lower Manhattan address and ignored my frown. We rode in silence. Occasionally, I saw a branch of my bank come and go past my window, each time thinking,
Oh, we have to stop there….

When the cab dropped us, we walked for a while down Lafayette Street until Roberto paused in front of a building.

“What?” I asked.

“You wanted to come here.”

I glared at him. “To SoHo?”

“No, to the bank. Right? Citibank? Isn't that you?”

“Oh.” I felt my face turn red. “Yeah. Give me a minute, will you?”

I went inside and looked at the unfamiliar lobby. After wandering around a few minutes, I found a customer service telephone. I took out my wallet, found the Visa card that I had in case of emergency, and looked at it.

Emergency.
It was a word that could mean different things. Some people would call not having any cash at their immediate disposal an emergency. Others would say it was an emergency to need a pair of Prada shoes. It was all relative.

And relatives were on my mind as I followed the directions on the Bat Phone. I'd never actually used the card, knowing my parents would be the ones paying the bill. No emergency was worth having to explain myself to them.

But thanks to Kendra…

The computerized voice told me that I had fifteen hundred dollars available. I felt light-headed. Then I got in line behind other customers. Unfortunately, the line moved slowly, allowing time for an internal debate to kick in.

Was I really about to rip off my parents for fifteen hundred dollars? Of course not. I wouldn't max out the card. That would be stupid. I'd only withdraw what I could afford to pay back.

Like five hundred. Five hundred dollars was nothing to my parents. And I
would
pay it back. I'd even call my mother and let her know the bill was coming, so she could prepare my father. Everything would be out in the open.

“May I help you?”

“Yes,” I answered, fumbling for the card that I'd held only minutes before. I found it sandwiched in my wallet between my Social Security card and my Wisconsin driver's license. I pulled it out and placed it on the counter.

“I need a cash advance on this, please. Five hundred dollars.”

The teller looked at the card, then back up at me. She picked up the card and examined it. “Unless you're a lot older than you look, honey, you can't collect on this one for quite some time. If ever.” She handed my Social Security card to me.

“Oh, sorry.” I went back into my wallet, producing the Visa card. “This should work better.”

“How much did you say you wanted?”

I hesitated. Odds were this would be a one-shot deal. My father might hit the roof. Maybe I should ask for a thousand. Or blow the whole wad. Screw 'em.

“Five hundred, please.”

The teller's pen flew over her paperwork with the efficiency of a machine, and she turned the slip around for me. “Sign here, Mr. Dunhill.”

It gave me a creepy feeling to be addressed like I was my father. I signed my name, then stuffed the hundreds and twenties the teller counted out in my pocket.

Roberto was leaning against the building with his arms folded. “Are you okay? I was about to go in and see if you were holding up the place.”

“Yeah, yeah, c'mon. Let's go take care of what you wanted to do. Then we can get something to eat. My treat this time.”

“You so robbed that place. I know you're broke.”

“Don't sweat it. Just let me do this, okay?”

“Fine.”

We continued to walk up Lafayette Street toward Houston in silence, until Roberto stopped and said, “This is it.”

I stared at the window of the Pop Shop and said, “This is why you dragged me out of bed? You're kidding, right?”

“I need a Radiant Baby T-shirt. My old one has paint all over it, and I want one for a date.”

He danced in place for a few steps before entering the store. I wasn't sure what that was about. Maybe he was boxing the ghost of Keith Haring. I shook my head and followed him inside.

I'd always liked the shop. Every time I came in, I saw something I hadn't noticed before. Or I got lost in the floor-to-ceiling murals. I loved the paintings of Keith Haring the way Roberto loved Basquiat. But as far as I knew, there was no Basquiat shop.

“Hey, how you doing?” A man appeared next to me with a box of merchandise to put on shelves: mugs, buttons, notebooks. He looked about my age, with dark hair, very carefully messed up. He had a couple tattoos on his forearms and a ring through his eyebrow. His eyes were the same bright blue as mine, and I couldn't stop peering into them, almost squinting. He smiled. “You looking for anything special?”

“I'm here with him.” I gestured in the direction where I'd last seen Roberto, who had of course moved on. It wasn't like me to be such a geek in reaction to an appealing face. I shrugged and said, “I'm just looking.”

“You ready, Nick?” Roberto asked.

I looked at Eyebrow Boy. “Thanks.”

“No problem. See you next time.” He flashed another smile.

When we were outside the store, Roberto said, “Were you cruising him? Do you want to go back?”

I regarded him warily. “If anything, he was cruising me.”

“Oh, I see.”

“I wasn't cruising him. He totally wasn't my type.”

“Okay, that does it. We're going back.” Roberto turned and started toward the Pop Shop.

I lunged, grabbed his arm, and spun him around. He was laughing.

“Damn,” I said. “I can't take you anywhere.”

“Were you taking me somewhere? I got us here.”

“Yeah, well,” I said, “I'm feeding us.”

We walked for a while, watching for possible places to eat. I started to point out a diner to Roberto when I realized he was no longer next to me. I turned around and saw him looking in a shop window. Instead of going back, I waited. After a few seconds, he approached me.

“Here's one for you,” he said. “What do Basquiat, Keith Haring, and Roberto Mirones have in common?”

“You're all amazing artists who started on the streets?”

“I cannot deny what is, but that's not what I was thinking.”

“What were you thinking?”

“AIDS will kill us all.”

He made it a simple statement of fact, but I felt like he'd knocked the wind out of me. I thought of Morgan and Kendra gossiping about him. I remembered Mark telling me that he was Roberto's friend, not his doctor. And Davii saying that I enjoyed being tragic.

No, fuck no, I do not,
I thought.

I stared at Roberto, keeping my eyes locked on his rather than checking his appearance for evidence. I wanted him to take it back. I wanted to yell at him. I wanted to sit on the sidewalk and bawl like a lost child.

“Nothing good ever happens below Houston Street,” I said and turned to keep walking.

He grabbed me from behind, his arm tight across my chest, and pulled me back against him. Like a lover. Or a mugger. Which was probably the thought of the woman who'd been walking toward us. She stopped and frowned at Roberto.

“Don't you hurt him,” she said.

“I'd cut out my own heart first,” he promised her.

It made me smile. Even though it was probably the smallest smile in New York, it reassured her. She nodded and walked on, but Roberto wouldn't let me move. His mouth was against my ear, and he made a fist of the hand that was over my heart.

“I told you this,” he said in a tone so low that I had to strain to hear him, “because you're the only one of my family that's strong enough, that I trust enough, to tell. JC doesn't believe in AIDS. Leo thinks it's a government plot to kill the gays and anybody not white. Ernie and Santo—they look up to me.”

“I
look up to you,” I said.

“
Hermano,
it may kill me, but I never said I'd die young. I'll die when I'm seventy-two. Then Leo can say, ‘See? The AIDS killed him. I told you they were out to get us.'” I laughed, because he wanted me to. He pushed his chest harder against me and said, “I've got your back. Always.”

“Me, too,” I said.

“I know.”

He let me go. I turned around, looked him in the eye, and repeated, “Always.”

For just a moment, he allowed his brown eyes to get soft. “No questions?” he asked, his tone a little surprised.

“No,” I said. “None of that matters.”

We were at a place on Spring Street with a board out front that advertised pizza by the slice. I had no appetite. But many months before, Roberto had taught me something.

Just pretend like everything's normal. Do the same things you do every day, like it's any day. Soon it will be normal again, and you'll be okay.

Eating was normal. Anyone could eat pizza, no matter what time of day or night. Pizza was always right. We'd eat it, everything would seem normal again, and we'd be okay.

“Here?” I asked.

“You read my mind,” Roberto said. “Pizza is always right.”

May 14, 2003

Dear Nick,

I could barely read your letter about being fired from your cleaning job because I was laughing so hard. I'm sure it all seemed horrible at the time, but it's good that you have a sense of humor about it now. I imagine that's because you got another job that you like better. It's funny how things work out, isn't it?

We did have a great time on our trip, thanks for asking. I'm enclosing photos of the two of us looking like typical sunburned, stupid tourists on the beach. Adam wanted me to point out that it's only the camera angle that makes my biceps look bigger than his. Always competing.

One thing Adam and I agree on. If you need anything, just ask. I know you aren't crazy about flying, and Adam's the same way. We'd drive to Manhattan to get you if you wanted to visit Wisconsin. Otherwise, I'm not sure when we'll be back in the city, but I'll definitely call you when that happens. You know my mother won't let me stay away from Brooklyn forever.

Take care of yourself and call any time. Collect if you need to. And nothing you say ever goes past me, as usual.

I love you,
Jeremy

M
y friend Adalla and I “met cute.” If we'd been in a romantic comedy, the audience would have known immediately that we were destined to fall in love and get a happy ending. It was a movie-perfect afternoon. A brief cloudburst, which would have made the day sopping in winter or steamy in summer, left everything feeling refreshed in May. Leaves were green. Flowers were blooming. An upbeat soundtrack played through my mind.

Or maybe that was the salsa music on the supermarket's sound system. I was trying to pick a checkout lane by mentally reviewing Nick's Rules for Fast Shopping. These were roughly similar to Nick's Rules for Picking Up Men While Shopping, but I was after only groceries on this particular day.

Rule One was,
Never get behind elderly ladies.
Despite a few unhappy times with my Dunhill grandparents, I didn't dislike old people. But old ladies tended to trap cashiers, unwary bystanders, and managers in pointless—and endless—conversations. Avoiding them was the best option whether I was picking up guys or soy milk.

Rule Two also applied to both situations:
Stay away from people on cell phones.
Most cell phone users couldn't do two things at once. Since the phone was their first priority, they did anything else in slow motion. In fact, Roberto had stayed on the sidewalk while I shopped so he could continue one of his many phone conversations with a random Mirones brother without annoying me.

Rule Three was,
Avoid the coupon bearers.
There was nothing they wouldn't do to use a coupon. They'd tear off an expiration date, slip in coupons for items they weren't buying, and thumb through dozens of tattered slips of paper hoping for fifteen cents off Clorox. Occasionally, my mother's distaste for a discount reared its ugly genetic head and made me see anyone with a coupon as a menace.

Rule Four worked no matter where I was or what I was doing:
Avoid lines with any person under four feet tall.
Especially if there was candy in the area. Children and shopping always ended in tears, and I was determined that they wouldn't be my tears.

The best line to be in was all male. Men were practical. Efficient. Miserable in any situation that involved standing in line and spending money that didn't also include placing bets or watching porn. Men weren't interested in having a
shopping experience.
Unless they were also picking up men. Then they might want to get out of the market quickly with me. A win/win situation.

So there I stood, fourth in line, with only men in front of me. No one was using a coupon, talking on a cell phone, or chasing kids away from Mr. Goodbar.

I scanned tabloids and made up translations for their Spanish captions until something made me look behind me. An approaching girl either stepped in something slippery or turned one of her high heels. She was holding a toddler and a huge container of orange juice. Both went flying. I had the presence of mind to ignore the orange juice and grab the kid, who was all big round eyes and big round mouth as I caught her.

Then we were both drenched in a geyser of orange juice as the container burst.

“Dios mio!”
the girl gasped, reaching for the child with a horrified look. “I'm so sorry!”

“Me, too. This orange juice has added pulp,” I said. I held up a palm to ward off Senorita Stiletto before she stepped into the puddle of orange juice. The toddler suddenly realized she was in the arms of a stranger. She let out a piercing wail, and various people came at me like I was snatching her.

Roberto was still on his phone by the time I walked out of the market. I was sort of cleaned up, thanks to a store clerk. I had my single bag of bread and shaving gel, and the little girl was still yelling while Senorita Stiletto continued to apologize as they followed me out.

Roberto raked the two of us with his eyes, snapped his phone shut, and said something that provoked a rapid conversation in Spanish. I understood nothing. Then I heard a word I recognized. I'd once thought the boys on the corner were calling me “American” until Roberto corrected me.

“Don't tell her I'm a fag,” I said indignantly.

“He didn't say it the way you think,” Senorita Stiletto said, extending a hand past the baby. “I'm Adalla.”

“I'm Roberto Mirones. He's Nick Dunhill.
Mijo,
you have pulp in your hair.”

We ended up walking her home. I was allowed to carry the child. Roberto carried the replacement orange juice. I gave Adalla a lecture about treacherous shoes and told her to get a baby sling like the one I'd once used to haul my cousin Emily around. Roberto tried to get her phone number. Adalla spent most of the walk laughing at the two of us.

She had big white teeth in a great smile that made her look prettier than she was. Her eyes were a little close-set and her ears stuck out, but for some reason, I found everything about her adorable. She was one of those people I immediately liked and felt comfortable with.

She said she was twenty-three, and Isleta, her daughter, was eighteen months old. Adalla had a short, slightly plump body, but she made the best of it. Although Roberto had turned on the Mirones charm, I was the one she watched. I wasn't sure why, since Roberto had so quickly labeled me
maricon
so she wouldn't think I was boyfriend material.

The building on Lexington where she lived was ugly. Only four stories, it was dwarfed by the surrounding buildings. But the three people we met at different times on the stairs all smiled and spoke. It seemed everyone knew Adalla and Isleta.

They lived with Adalla's mother, who wasn't home, although her presence pervaded the apartment. At least I hoped it was the mother who was responsible for every surface and corner being crammed with plaster saints, candles, and rosaries. Seeing Mary—whose woeful expression made her look like she could use a dose of Wellbutrin—wherever I turned made me feel guilty, and I wasn't even Catholic. Roberto, too, had the look of a man whose collar was too tight, and he was wearing a muscle shirt.

Not long after we got there, he seemed to decide that Adalla wasn't going to succumb to his charms, so he made an excuse and left. I was content to stay put, with Isleta on my lap and a bottle of water at hand.

“You crushed him,” I said.

“What are you talking about?”

“He was flirting with you.”

“He's Latino, I'm a female. It's expected. But I'm years older than he is, and I have a child. He's not interested in me. He only stuck around long enough to make sure you'd be okay with me.”

“What are
you
talking about?”

She shook her head and said, “You don't speak any Spanish?”

“I have no aptitude for other languages,” I said. “I even have that in writing from my sixth grade teacher. I understood enough to know he called me a fag.”

“No, he didn't. He told me if
I
was the kind of person who'd call you a fag, I needed to high-heel myself away from you. He's protective of you.”

“Oh. Anyway, you shouldn't be wearing high heels.”

I found out a lot of things about Adalla that day. Her mother had come to the States in the 1960s, and later became a citizen. Adalla was born in Texas and grew up in Corpus Christi. She was finishing her courses at a community college when she met Isleta's father, who was Cuban. When she got pregnant, he split. She thought he might have had a wife in Sarasota, where he was from.

Adalla and her mother moved to New York when her uncle Jorge, who owned a cleaning service, offered them jobs. His company only cleaned offices, so Adalla had never heard of I Dream of Cleanie. Her mother helped supervise a crew that cleaned a tower on 125th, and Adalla worked in Uncle Jorge's accounting department.

Even though she talked a lot about herself, Adalla's eyes, when she wasn't watching Isleta, seemed to be assessing me. Finally she said, “Have you ever been with a girl?”

“Have
you?
” I countered.

She laughed and said, “I like you, Nick Dunhill.”

The feeling was mutual. Once she had my cell number, Adalla called me at odd times. Since she was new to the city, she surfed the Web at her office, looking up interesting factoids to share with me. If she called while I was out with Isaiah, I'd put my cell phone on speaker. That way he could hear her, too, as he rocketed the Wamsley & Wilkes van through the streets.

“Did you know the guy who designed the Statue of Liberty used his mistress and his mother as models?” she'd ask, and “Twisted,” Isaiah would answer. Or, “The Harlem Globetrotters originated in Chicago!” was delivered in an indignant tone, and I answered, “Posers.”

I spent my free time with her and Isleta. Since I was less stressed about money, I splurged on a baby sling and gave it to her. She wouldn't stop wearing impractical shoes, so I took charge of Isleta whenever we went places. The weather was great, and we did things outside that didn't cost money. Watched street performers. Went to free concerts. Explored Harlem together, something I could never do with Kendra. We passed hours people-watching in various parks and talking about nothing in particular.

Adalla's mother, Inez, was usually at home when I went by for Adalla and Isleta. Inez rarely spoke and seemed to regard me with suspicion.

“Why does she hate me?” I asked Adalla. “It's because I'm gay, isn't it?”

“She doesn't hate you. She's afraid you're my boyfriend.”

“Would that be bad? Is it because I'm white?”

“No. It's because you're gay.”

“But you just said—”

“She doesn't care if you're gay as long as you're not my boyfriend.”

I was waiting for Adalla to get ready one Sunday—she tended to go overboard with her hair and makeup—when Inez came home from Mass to find me feeding Isleta sections of a pear.

“How come you're so good with kids?” Inez asked. “You got brothers and sisters?”

“Two brothers. But we're about the same age. I used to spend a lot of time with my cousin Emily. She's a year older than Isleta.”

Adalla must have overheard our conversation. I was almost asleep later, stretched out on a blanket in Ralph Bunche Park, when she said, “Where does your cousin live?”

“You mean my uncle?” I asked. “Blaine?”

“I don't know. Is Blaine Emily's father?”

“Yes. They both live in the city. Midtown. Hell's Kitchen, to be exact. But in different apartments.”

“Blaine's divorced?”

“No. I mean, yes. But not from Emily's mother. It's confusing.”

“I know I'm not a gofer for some hotshot design firm, but if you speak very slowly, maybe I can follow.”

“Shut up,” I said, sitting up and yawning. “I was half asleep.”

“Now that you're awake, tell me about your uncle's complicated life.”

“He got married in college. Then they got divorced when Blaine figured out he's gay.”

That prompted a flurry of questions about gay men and their sexuality, as I knew it would. I answered as best I could.

“It's not easy being the ambassador for gaydom, even in the shadow of the United Nations,” I finally said. “I'm not the one who slept with women and got married. Do you want to interview Blaine?” She smacked my leg. “He moved to New York, met Daniel, they fell in love, and now they live together. Daniel's sister, Gwendy, is a lesbian. Don't start hounding me with questions about that, because I've never been a lesbian, either. Gwendy's partner, Gretchen, wanted a baby. Blaine agreed to be the sperm donor. Emily was born in December of 2000. She lives in the same building as Blaine, but not with him.”

“I can't believe I comprehended all that,” Adalla teased.

“It's actually a lot more complicated and involved. It could fill entire books. I gave you the condensed version.”

Adalla looked thoughtful for a few minutes and finally said, “I was brought up to believe family is the most important thing. But I'm not so traditional, either. A single mother who's never been married. I want Isleta to have male role models, but my brothers live in Texas. I think it's good that Emily's mothers and fathers can live in the same place.”

“I'm in the mood for ice cream,” I said. “Do you want to go somewhere else? Or should I just grab something from a vendor?”

“A vendor. Can you get me a bottled water?”

“Sure,” I said, waving her away when she reached inside the diaper bag for money. “I've got it.”

When I came back, I'd barely settled on the blanket when she said, “You should bring your cousin with you when we hang out like this.”

“Emily's social calendar is pretty busy,” I said vaguely. Adalla gave me a sideways glance, then looked away. She seemed miffed, so I said, “What?”

“Why don't you want your family to meet us? It's because I'm Mexican, isn't it?”