

Max and Julie

Jon Rutherford

Copyright 2012 Jon Rutherford

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(This revision of Max and Julie: A Novella was carried out in late October 2012.)

::NOTICE::

This is a work of pure fiction.

It contains adult subject matter making it unsuitable for readers under age 18.

# 

# Prologue

_Is_ _there_ _anything_ more melancholy than December dusks?

Looking out the window behind my desk, I can barely make out heaps of dirty snow, one or two pedestrians, and little or no motor traffic on Parvenu Street. The only color I've seen in the past hour was a Yellow Cab. Well, that, and the little green glass frog sitting on my desktop. Thank God for Yellow Cabs—I guess. And frogs.

As I sit here, I'm fondling a little carved, inlaid wood box from Czechoslovakia. Inside it, there's a note written in blue-black ink with a fountain pen. I know the words by heart. They don't mean much in themselves, but because of the circumstances associated with them, they mean—

Damn it, I really should stop doing this. I've been doing it every afternoon for at least a week. And I started doing it almost a year ago. It's become addictive, and it amounts to self-punishment.

I ought to stop. Yeah, I know.

# 

# Chapter 1

_One_ _fine_ _December_ _day_ a year ago, Max and Julie Ventnor went out shopping in their old Saab. They needed "a few things" for their penthouse apartment—Max had mentioned the shopping when he called to see if I'd be home and if it'd be okay for them to drop by.

Now, "penthouse" may be misleading. It sounds fancy and rich. Max and Julie had a comfortable existence as well as possessing considerable savings, owing to Max's thirty-year writing career, and he was still at his peak now, in his mid-80's. But was their living space "rich?" Hardly. Fancy? Ha. No way. Tasteful? Yes. That's a different matter.

Technically, yes, it is a penthouse, a suite of seven rooms perched atop Grandjean Tower, the once fashionable address of dozens or perhaps hundreds of yuppies. These vulgar capitalist parasites deserted the place with the dot-com bust and subsequent financial wipeouts, in search of other garish but less costly living quarters.

For several years now, Grandjean Tower has been the residence of people of modest means, largely from the arts and academic communities. Some are even minor, mostly regional, celebrities: a few authors who go about giving book signings over a four-or-five-state area; even fewer, Max included, regularly invited to one or another of the coasts (usually the east). With the death of most bookstores (one thing our country still excels at is finding all sorts of ways to promote illiteracy) these have been more stay-at-home lately. Still, their names would be recognizable by most people who still know what a book is, and how to read one.

Several painters and at least one sculptor live at The Grandjean, as its occupants usually refer to it; unless they're feeling hostile to the penny-pinching owner and management, when they apply other names not requiring initial capitals but a good deal more colorful than "Grandjean"—the name, by the way, belonged to one of the original French settlers of our city, one of the more honest ones. Julie and Max had lived at The Grandjean for a good deal longer than the several years I'd known them.

Max, now 84, always walked with a cane, even indoors and at home in the penthouse. He'd needed it since something brought about a vestibular disorder resulting, among other things, in a precarious and sometimes almost non-existent sense of balance. It came upon him suddenly eight years ago in Bruges, during one of the couple's increasingly rare vacations abroad. Luckily whatever caused the dysfunction seemed to have no effect on Max's other faculties, and he'd been able to turn out—though some critics would prefer "churn out"—a novel every year, as he had during more than twenty years before the incident.

Before he turned to writing detective fiction exclusively, Max had written "literary" novels which won hearty critical approval but not enough money to live on. The situation was reversed with the birth of the detective series. Most critics failed to see the sly quasi-cryptic "literary" content of these, though a tiny handful did, and gushed over it. Most important to Max and Julie, now 81 herself, the predictably good crime fiction served as a reliable source of income and a guarantee against the ravages carried out against people of all ages, but especially the old, in a society where being rich and young is really all that matters, unless you're a politician.

Julie became a registered nurse just after Max met her at a wild boating party in Cambridge when he was finishing up his doctorate at Harvard and she was about to graduate from nursing school. As soon as he'd fished her out of the water, beating a trained lifeguard to the privilege, they knew they were destined for each other.

Her preference was always to work in psychiatric hospitals, and she never had trouble getting her wish. It proved handy for Max, as, within the confines of confidentiality, she was able to supply a wealth of information about the behavior of psychiatric patients, grist for the novel mill that had by now produced at least seven thrillers in which homicidal psychopaths played key roles. She'd been retired for a bit under fifteen years now.

Their rooftop apartment was spacious and comfortable, but like the other tenants Max and Julie experienced frequent breakdowns and _contretemps_ due both to the age of the building and to its neglect in recent, leaner, non-yuppie years. They all just kept their fingers crossed that the elevators—three of them, but only one that goes all the way to the roof—would keep working.

I wondered what the "few things" were that my two old friends were aiming to acquire on their excursion. I might have been expected to be concerned about my 84-year-old friend's being behind a steering wheel. But Max's condition in no way affected his ability to drive, and both he and Julie were skilled, careful drivers. I think I would have trusted Max's driving, or Julie's, more than my own.

A few minutes after five, there came a familiar knock, and I found Max and Julie, Max carrying a store's plastic bag and Julie, a small string-tied brown-paper parcel, at my apartment door. I live on the second floor of a building similar to theirs but built on a smaller scale, five blocks farther down Parvenu Street. There had been an obvious joke at one time associating the street name with the Grandjean yuppies, but as with the Ventnors' building, our street bore the name of one of the founding families of the city. The Parvenu clan stemmed from Marseilles and had been heavily engaged in illicit trade, including human trafficking of several particularly appalling kinds, from the fifteenth century through at least the early nineteenth. Their descendants have turned out to be bankers, for the most part, suggesting that some genetic flaw may underlie the Parvenus' choice of occupations.

I was always glad to see Max and Julie. And I was especially glad that afternoon, actually nearly evening, as the December daylight had already dissolved into somber violets and grays.

Here's why. I'd made the mistake of setting my own latest work, still barely begun, first in the Provence of the Troubadours, then, when I realized I was hopelessly out of my depth, in the Tuscany of the Medici. I'd had to give up on that, too, and I was now frantically wondering what other colorful venue might serve the narrative without breaking the bank of my knowledge and requiring months, even years, of research I was simply unable to afford at my age, even if I'd had the money to support it. At 64, I was twenty years Max's junior, but even so, I could see with increasing acuity that my life did not stretch out endlessly before me.

My advance had hinged on the Provençal schema, and I hadn't yet had the nerve to break the news of its abandonment to my publisher, let alone mention the Tuscan fiasco, which I would probably just kind of keep under my hat. I hoped that during our visit today, the Ventnors could give me some ideas.

We settled into, me, my armchair; Max and Julie, the big soft sofa into which you could almost disappear, and drank Darjeeling tea as night fell. By delightful coincidence, Max had bought, on a whim, a package of Irish shortbread cookies in an import store down the block, and we polished those off in no time.

They bid me open Julie's brown-paper parcel. It contained a beautiful little pre-Soviet _cloisonné_ box they'd found "for virtually nothing" in the antique shop around the corner, to add to my informal collection of miniature boxes from around the globe—none expensive or rare, all pretty and soothing to look at and fondle as I grappled daily with self-contradictory chronologies, misleading tenses, countless typos, and the hundred other pitfalls of a story under construction.

There was never a lack of things to talk about when we visited at either of our places, or when we ate together at some good but not too dear, usually Italian or Vietnamese, restaurant.

Max brought me up to date on his current novel. Almost thirty years' experience had abolished any reticence to discuss his works in progress, which flowed from his word processor with a fluency that had always been my envy. Not a bitter envy or covetous, though. I had long ago resigned myself to being a plodder. Max was a kind of speed genius. I was not. We were both comfortable with our own ways.

Max's new detective thriller sounded really exciting and as usual I asked if I might read the galleys. "You know you don't need to ask," said Max. "At the rate I'm going, I should be getting proofs in seven or eight months. That's assuming my editor finds no unusual problems. I don't foresee any right now."

Eventually our talk turned to my own work. I told Max and Julie about my quandary regarding the location of the main action.

"Why don't you just set it in your own hometown?" said Julie. "Would it be hard to update the story so it took place, in, say, the '50s or '60s?"

Julie's brilliantly simple idea had never once crossed my mind. I felt a surge of excitement in the vicinity of my heart and tummy, or possibly the gallbladder, anyway the same place you're most apt to feel the first pangs of romantic love, if you're susceptible to that kind of thing.

"Julie," I exclaimed, "that could be just the ticket. I don't know that it would ever have occurred to me to shift the action to the present day; well, what seems like the present day to us three, at any rate. I must say the notion tickles and even excites me. In fact, I think I've just pissed my pants!"

They laughed. "But what about your publisher?" said Max. "You mentioned that your proposal was for a story set in Provence in the era of Courtly Love."

"I don't know what he'll say," I admitted. "But since I've definitely abandoned my original idea as completely unworkable at my age, I have nothing to lose. Or maybe I should say nothing more to lose."

"If Jimmy gives you a hard time, you know I'm more than willing to exchange a few encouraging words with the man."

"I know, and I appreciate the gesture, Max."

Max had known my publisher, Jimmy Marsden, since he, Jimmy, was a second-year pupil at the Rhode Island prep school where Max had been his English lit teacher one year. Many years later, I knew, Max had confessed to Jimmy how passionately, and how hopelessly, he'd fancied him at the time. That made no difference to Jimmy now (or then, for that matter). The two men were today just shy of being best chums; if distance and a too-often exhausting work pace hadn't so effectively separated them, they probably would have been.

"I doubt it will come to that, but believe me, I'll keep your offer in mind. I really can't afford to give up my advance. I've spent about a third of it already."

"Tell me about it," said Max. "If I were a _belle-lettriste_ like you, Ced, I'd probably be out on the street, or begging Aaron to let us come mooch off of him in Evanston."

Aaron was their 46-year-old son, a tenured professor of Romance Languages at the University of Chicago. "It's only being a certified hack that saves my skin—our skin, I guess." He gave Julie a squeeze. She patted his thigh, smiling that beautiful warm smile of hers. "My favorite hack," she said.

A siren wailed in the distance, under the frigid, moonless sky. I felt I wanted Max and Julie never to leave. Often I wondered how common, or how rare, friendships such as ours might be. I poured more tea and put on one of the LP's of Serkin and Casals performing the Beethoven cello sonatas.

Max had once come _this_ close to taking up a musical career, and he was still no slouch as a pianist. I happened to know that he had, long ago, played this sonata with Gregor Piatigorsky, a sheer spur-of-the-moment performance at a party in New York. The great cellist was going straight from the party to the airport, and had his cello with him.

Most of the party-goers were professional musicians. Copland was there, and Samuel Barber, along with several members of the New York Philharmonic. After the final notes, there had been a long moment of stunned silence followed by exuberant cheers and applause. Lenny Bernstein, not yet in his forties, proposed a toast to the two of them.

Now as the lovely old recording played I could see tears in Max's ocean-green eyes. Finally he had to take out his handkerchief and dab at them. "Would you like me to stop it?" I asked, afraid the memory was making my friend uncomfortable.

"No, no!" he said, whispering in order not to insult the music. "It's wonderful. It's wonderful. Thank you." He leaned over and pressed my knee with his hand. Julie was rapt, eyes closed and head back against one of the large throw pillows I keep on the sofa. Her right hand oscillated ever so slightly, in step with the music; the large star sapphire ring she always wore, a gift from Max on their twenty-fifth wedding anniversary, shimmered in the soft lamplight.

When the music ended, there was a silence, just as there had been all those years ago at the party high above the incandescence of Manhattan. Only this time it was broken by no applause. There was only the patient, repetitive whish and thud of the phonograph stylus in the lead-out groove as the great gift Beethoven had left us almost exactly two centuries ago echoed on in our consciousness.

# 

# Chapter 2

_Christmas_ _was_ only two weeks away.

One afternoon I was working on updating my plot to 1953 Ohio, following Julie's suggestion, writing longhand on my lap, half stretched-out on the sofa. I was painstakingly transforming one troubadour character into a nascent rock star when the phone rang.

I reached lazily behind me at the risk of dislocating my shoulder and picked it up. It was Julie. Aaron had just phoned to tell them he was flying down from Evanston for a week or so, arriving on the 21st. It was quite a surprise, as he'd never been a frequent visitor and in fact had not seen his parents for at least the last two years.

As incredible as it might sound, I'd never met the man. By sheer coincidence, I'd been away, once or twice to Europe, once in Mexico, and another time on an extended stay at a writers' conference in Pennsylvania, during some of his rare visits. Two or three times, he'd only been passing through and it had been impractical to schedule any kind of meeting.

I knew Aaron only from one fading Ektachrome photograph, taken when he was only twenty-two, on a trip he'd made with Max and Julie to Cairo.

All three of them finally came down with dysentery, which practically confined them to their spacious but uncomfortable hotel rooms for all but two or three days of their last weeks in the city. In the photo they were still disease-free, though, and looking right into the camera held by their Egyptian guide, the great Sphinx crouching aloof in the near distance. As far as I could tell from the disintegrating print, Aaron had been quite handsome, even beguiling. He looked like a ladies' man in the movies, only an intelligent, albeit very young one.

Still, he was the only one in the photo not smiling.

Max still had the beard he'd worn from the 60s on through the 90s. He looked positively dashing. Julie was her always ravishing self, her appearance reminiscent in those days of Vanessa Redgrave.

In addition to the three Ventnors, there was a young Egyptian man, a struggling university student Max told me he had met at the Cairo museum and whom he and Julie had practically adopted during their stay.

Yousef was slender, about 20, and looked shy, good-natured, perhaps a bit naïve, as well as very handsome, you might even say beautiful. He was wearing casual Western clothes—I suspected the Ventnors were responsible for his Levi's 501's—and held a book. Max had his arm around Yousef rather than around either his son or Julie.

I wondered if Aaron at 46 would look much as he had in Cairo in '87. His parents were the epitome of graceful aging, so if genetics held sway he might be even more handsome now. It seemed odd he'd come to see Max and Julie so few times, odd that chance had consistently denied me the pleasure—I assumed it would have been a pleasure—of making his acquaintance, and odd also that he had not at least sent along a more recent photograph of himself since way back then.

But life has a way of turning out odder than even novels. Few of us have not experienced events in our lives that, if served up as fiction, would seem very poor fiction indeed, because so improbable.

Aaron made it plain he did not want to inconvenience his parents by staying with them. Though they had seven rooms, they'd never got around to making one into a guest bedroom, and indeed they still possessed only one bed. The "spare" rooms were in use as Max's studio for writing; Julie's for weaving with its big shuttle loom and walls hung with dozens of hanks and spools of subtly colored yarns; a kind of informal gym where they both exercised daily; and a catchall for two lifetimes' worth of miscellany: the kind of things you know you'll never need or use again, but cannot bring yourself to part with.

Aaron planned to take a room in a downtown hotel if one was still available with Christmas around the corner. And while there probably would be one, Julie had asked him not to make his reservation just yet but to let her call him back in a few minutes. That's when she called me.

Max, Julie, and I stood on no formalities, ever. Julie asked me outright if I would be willing to put their son up in my spare bedroom. It would not only be more comfortable, it would save Aaron and his parents a lot of annoying and time-consuming commuting, as I lived only five blocks from my friends.

It was years since I'd used my spare bedroom for more than storage. Getting it ready for a guest, though, should be the work of only a few moments, and without hesitation I said I'd be happy to do it. She said she'd call Aaron right away with the news.

I already felt excited as I hung up the phone. My eagerness to put up a guest served to underscore the humdrum nature of the rut I'd sunk into years ago when Stewart and I finally parted ways, and had never bothered to climb out of. Apart from visits with Max and Julie and with a couple of other local writers, my social life was effectively zero. Getting ready for a guest was, then, a big deal for me, and I immediately jumped on the project. It also served as a convenient rationalization for abandoning, at least for a couple of hours, the perplexed tinkering I'd been engaged in with my novel since mid-morning.

By evening, I had crisp, fresh bedding on the guest-room's double bed, the floor and rugs vacuumed, the desk and its swivel chair, the night stands and chest of drawers that comprised the rest of the room's furniture not only dusted but sprayed with Pledge for that extra shine, and had hunted up an appropriate vase to put some flowers in that I would purchase the morning of Aaron's arrival. I'd even dusted the blinds.

Aaron's visit was still eight days away. Those eight days passed with me in a brighter mood than I'd experienced in ages. I realized that the prospect of having a guest to fuss over was working better than any antidepressant I'd ever been on—and I'd tried just about all of them.

I found myself actually humming or whistling as I tidied the rest of the apartment—not knocking myself out, but doing an adequate job. The nicer it looked, the cheerier I became, up to a certain point. I only hoped Aaron would be comfortable and enjoy his stay with me, as well as his daily visits with his parents down the street.

The night before Aaron's scheduled arrival by plane on the morning of the twenty-first, Max, Julie, and I dined at our favorite tiny Italian restaurant. It had got bitterly cold and there was half a foot of snow on the ground, but inside La Fiorella it was cozy, intimate, and cheerful. We had a grand evening, dining leisurely while talking over some of the old times as well as about work in progress—and Aaron's impending visit. I asked if their son had any special needs or preferences I should know about. They weren't aware of any. As far as they knew, it was clear sailing as to diet and everything else.

"He was always so easy to please as a youngster and even all the way through college," said Julie.

It seems they had started losing contact—regular, frequent contact—with their son when he entered graduate school. This would have been just after the Cairo trip. Of his personal life they no longer heard anything. They noticed on the two or three occasions they did get to see him that he seemed uncharacteristically distracted and melancholy.

One day they found out he'd been admitted to the university hospital for depression. He made a point of asking Max and Julie not to come see him. He apologized for "being a burden" though he'd never been anything of the sort. Within a couple of weeks, assisted by a little outpatient cognitive-behavioral therapy, he was his old self again, or so it seemed.

Max and Julie had the impression that Aaron really loved teaching. He'd made it plain early on that the scholarly, research-heavy side of professorship was and always would be anathema to him. It was teaching itself that he loved— dealing with his students, watching their progress, sharing their enthusiasms and offering to provide comfort and support in time of distress. He said teaching kept him young.

Maybe this was not surprising. His father also had detested the formal, political, and scholarly side of academic life, and relished teaching. Max had never felt he could reconcile the imbalance between the ossified world of bureaucracy, political maneuvering, and meaningless "publish or perish" scholarship on the one hand, and teaching on the other. Finally he had made the decision in '81 to devote himself to writing full-time.

He had never, he told me, been sorry about his decision. His sole regret was that he no longer got to associate with his students, to whose lives he hoped he'd made some meaningful and useful contribution over the years.

On the morning of the 21st, I woke early despite having hardly slept. I wasn't sure if I was nervous about entertaining a house guest after being so long out of practice, or if I was excited at the prospect of Aaron's arrival. Finally I decided I was both. I was aware of having dreamed when I'd fallen asleep briefly now and then despite all, but I couldn't recall any of the dreams. My impression was that they'd been been unusually troubling.

I made coffee as usual and drank it and ate a bagel with raspberry preserves while I scanned news headlines online. As usual, I wished afterwards I hadn't looked at them.

By the time I was ready to go out, I knew the florist's shop over on Versailles Avenue would be open. I decided to walk rather than drive, as it looked nice out. It was well below freezing, but the sun was brilliant and it was one of those days when the damp streets and sidewalks yield a strange and invigorating smell.

I bought dyed carnations and some big chrysanthemums, and a cute little green glass frog figurine I couldn't resist. It was for keeping me company at my desk—though since starting to write on a laptop I found myself less and less often using the desk, and more and more slouching on the sofa. Its top was now so cluttered with papers: bills, abandoned story drafts, research notes, old pizza-delivery receipts, and other stuff, that if I did actually want to write at it, I'd have to clear room for the laptop first. Well, I thought, seeing the little frog there will encourage me to actually write at my desk again. In any event, I should straighten up the desktop some before Aaron got there.

I did that after placing the flowers in water using the Mexican vase I'd found and set out the first day in Aaron's room. There was a small off-white chip in its rim, but I just turned that side to face the wall.

By now it was 10:30. Aaron was due to arrive by plane from Chicago O'Hare at eleven. I thought it would be better if Max and Julie met him without me, in case he might feel odd having to confront a stranger under the circumstances.

At 11:45, Max, Julie, and Aaron showed up at my door.

The first thing I saw was that Aaron was extraordinarily handsome. But more than that, he emanated some quality that, the instant I saw him, made me literally weak in the knees. I don't know if they noticed, but I had to catch myself with one hand on the door frame.

Perhaps an inch shorter than me, Aaron had close-cropped, raven black hair, with the faintest touch of gray at the temples. He shared his father's green eyes and Julie's playful smile. He appeared, with his erect yet relaxed bearing and bright-eyed looks, a good deal younger than his 46 years—maybe it was true that, as he'd said, teaching kept him young. Had I not known his age, I would have guessed 35 at the most, or maybe even thirty. He had one of those beards that are more like three days of stubble. It looked really sexy.

But none of that began to explain the overwhelming effect his presence had worked on me.

We shook hands warmly as Max introduced us. I noticed Aaron never once took his eyes away from mine. And, to my sudden dismay, I discovered I didn't want to take mine from his. It was then that I realized I was blushing.

We somehow got his suitcase, supple nylon carrier bag, and old badly worn leather briefcase put in his bedroom, and made plans to go have lunch at 1:30. Max and Julie and Aaron would pick me up.

Then the three of them left for The Grandjean.

Several minutes after they left, my phone rang. I was surprised and delighted to hear Aaron's voice, which I'd already committed to memory: It was as lively and energetic as his appearance. He asked me to go into his room and open the carrier bag, where I'd find a parcel inside addressed to me, and to go ahead and open it. He said he looked forward to lunch. And that was all.

I followed his instructions and found a little gift-wrapped box bearing a card with my name on it. He'd said to open it, so I did.

Inside was an exquisite old Czechoslovakian inlaid wooden box, about 3.5 x 5 x 1.75 inches in dimension. I recognized it as a real collector's item and an expensive one at that. Inside the box lay another card, which read:

_Many_ _thanks,_ _Cedric,_ _for_ _your_ _offer_ _to_ _put_ _me_ _up._ _I_ _promise_ _to_ _try_ _to_ _be_ _as_ _little_ _trouble_ _as_ _possible._ _Thanks_ _also_ _for_ _your_ _friendship_ _with_ _my_ _parents_ _all_ _these_ _years._ _You_ _'_ _ve_ _been_ _a_ _far_ _better_ _son_ _than_ _I!_ _I_ _look_ _forward_ _to_ _our_ _time_ _together._

It was signed "Aaron."

I was, naturally, more than pleased by both the little box and the sentiments so nicely tendered on the card, but I couldn't help wondering why Aaron had not chosen to hand it to me himself, later in the day. I wondered if that was an indication of shyness Julie and Max had never told me about. I was to learn why that evening.

The Ventnors arrived right on time. I was waiting at the curb. Max and Julie were seated in the front of their reliable old Saab, and I got into the back with their son. I wasn't sure if I should mention the extravagant but welcome gift or if—in keeping with my conjecture about shyness—to do so might embarrass Aaron. So I managed to speak almost in a whisper to him, as soon as Max and Julie began discussing the way to take to the restaurant. Despite the onset of winter, road work started in early autumn continued to make changes in familiar routes necessary, and there was no improvement in sight.

"Aaron, what a lovely surprise—that little Czech box. I will treasure it. Thanks so much."

For answer he placed his hand on mine and said, also in a near-whisper, "You're welcome. I can't tell you how grateful I am to you. More tonight."

That sounded mysterious. I tried to conceal my curiosity. I just placed my other hand on his briefly. He didn't remove his hand for several seconds, maybe even half a minute. I thought I was probably blushing again.

I was definitely aroused.

# 

# Chapter 3

_Eventually,_ after a couple of wrong detours and a fair amount of colorful language from Max, we reached the Vietnamese restaurant near the riverfront where we had reservations for lunch. There was little conversation on the way there, in part because it was necessary to pay unusually close attention to the road due to all the re-routes. But also in part, I sensed, owing to some indefinable uneasiness hovering between Aaron and his parents. I finally decided to put that down to my imagination.

Lunch was wonderful, as always at Saigon Hideaway. A big gilt statue of Bo-Dai, the chubby "Laughing Buddha," sat on a shelf near the cash register. Framed ink drawings hung on the walls with their gold brocade coverings. The place was always filled to capacity, often with a waiting line out the door, and usually the diners numbered about half members of the local Vietnamese community, and half non-Vietnamese college students, teachers, and professional people.

The plump, sweating restaurant owner, Pham Van Thuon, as always present and serving his customers alongside his employees, had long recognized Max, Julie, and myself, and I always looked forward to his warm friendliness. In his late middle age, Mr. Pham bore an uncanny resemblance to old Bo-Dai, and wore a jade-beaded Buddhist rosary around his left wrist. He guessed that Aaron was the Ventnors' son, and in his broken English wanted to know where he lived, his occupation, how many children he had, and so forth. He responded to every answer with vigorous nods of his bald head and contagious laughter. Mr. Pham's childlike enthusiasm was always winning, and we spent three or four minutes chatting with the man before taking our leave. I noted with gratitude that he'd even succeeded in putting Aaron, who had been appearing increasingly on edge, at ease. He struck the charge for Aaron's meal off the bill.

One advantage of Vietnamese cuisine was that none of us got sleepy after eating. Aaron wanted to see a traveling exhibit of pre-Columbian statuary that he knew was at one of our museums, so we took advantage of its nearness to go visit it. The exhibition was free, despite being a traveling one, with no tickets necessary. We were able to get right in.

As usual when I went along to the museum in Max's company, he seemed better as a tour guide than, probably, all the volunteer docents put together. I always suspected a certain amount of improvisational bravado in these performances, but his commentary was so thought-provoking and entertaining that strict accuracy seemed beside the point. Besides, he really did possess an encyclopedic knowledge of all the arts.

We visited a couple of the regular permanent collection rooms while we were at the museum. I noticed that throughout our visit Aaron stuck close to my side, and I got the feeling he was trying to avoid his parents. I didn't know what to make of it, and hoped it didn't seem rude or feel hurtful to the elder Ventnors. In any event, I was enjoying Aaron's constant attentiveness, and even just standing near him—often so close we could feel each other's warmth—or walking alongside him. He seemed hardly willing to take his eyes off me. I felt flattered and excited.

After the museum, we went for a little shopping downtown. Max and Julie had already taken care of what little Christmas buying they needed to do, so we had no particular agenda. We asked Aaron if he had any last-minute gift buying to take care of (which in retrospect was kind of silly, as anything he might purchase would have been for us, after all) and he said no, that he'd got his holiday chores out of the way, too. That left me. I'd picked up the week before a couple of books and some food items for Max and Julie, and a few utilitarian trinkets for writer friends. I suggested we just browse here and there.

Then I realized with a jolt that I might be expected to give Aaron some little thing as well, but it hadn't entered my mind till that minute. I couldn't very well purchase anything for him while he was present and practically attaching himself to me, as he was now, so I made a mental note to shop for my new friend during the next couple of days while he was busy with his parents.

We looked in at the one remaining bookstore besides the used-book ones; at a men's clothing store where I watched to see if Aaron was especially drawn to anything (he wasn't); and at a kitchen-goods store where everything cost as least twice what it should. (Even so, I craved a certain teapot I saw there, and resolved to buy it for myself when I went shopping for Aaron.)

Finally we dropped by the box office of the city ballet company to see if any good seats were left for _Giselle,_ which was being danced with revised choreography that had attracted reviewers from _The_ _New_ _York_ _Times_ and _The_ _Boston_ _Globe_. They'd praised it; the _Times_ reviewer even said our company should now be reckoned one of the premier troupes in the nation.

There were four good box seats, for the night of the 22nd, the next day. They were outlandishly expensive, but I knew we all four loved ballet, and insisted on treating us to that performance. So we walked away with a hefty chunk gnawed out of my Visa credit but with tickets to one of the masterpieces of dance.

Aaron then offered to stand us dinner before the ballet. He used his cell phone to call a restaurant he knew by reliable word-of-mouth and which enjoyed a high Zagat rating, but was ridiculously outside the limits of my or even his parents' eating-out budgets, and booked a table for four.

I knew that Max was accustomed to an afternoon nap, and it was now almost three p.m., so I suggested calling it a day at least for downtown, and returning home. We got back about 3:30; I got out in front of my place and Aaron said he'd call when he knew more about his evening plans. He kept looking out his side window at me, and he waved as the Saab drove off.

Back in my apartment, I sagged into my easy chair and thought over the day so far. I couldn't recall when I'd last felt pleasure as visceral and exciting as Aaron's presence had given me. But it worried me that I might be enjoying my pleasure at the expense of Max's and Julie's feelings. Aaron's uneasiness and reluctance to associate with them had bothered me perhaps more than I'd realized.

Suddenly I felt depressed. I made myself some coffee instead of napping, which was too often the way I attempted to cope with the onset of depression. I looked over some of my notes for the change in my novel as suggested by Julie. I glanced at some newspapers online. I read a couple of poems of Robert Herrick and then some by James Schuyler. Schuyler won.

I cradled carefully the little Czech box. I turned it in all directions and examined it. I sniffed at it. It was old and the wood had long ago lost all its scent. But I liked knowing that Aaron had touched it and held it in his hands.

I re-read his note five or six times, memorized the look of his loose-jointed but legible handwriting. He'd used a fountain pen and blue-black ink. I read the note over one more time. Then I carefully refolded it and closed it up in the box again.

I was visited by a brief temptation to rummage through his luggage, and immediately felt deeply ashamed. I drank more coffee.

For the first time in eight days, I was unhappy.

Despite the coffee, I must have dozed off. It was so dark I had trouble finding the switch for the table lamp beside my chair. I was relieved, once the light came on, to see I had not let my cup fall from my hands as I had done once or twice before. It was sitting safely there on the table, half empty.

The blinking light on my answering machine caught my attention. I realized I'd had the ringer off while working on my novel notes, and neglected to turn it back on. So I hadn't heard the phone ring when Aaron called. It was now 6:30. The machine told me he'd called at five till six. I heard his recorded voice say, "Cedric, hi, this is Aaron. I imagine you're out somewhere. Will you call my cell phone when you get the chance? It's...kind of important. Thanks. Talk to you later." He had included his cell-phone number, and I dialed it, but only after replaying the message twice just to hear his voice again.

"Hello?" he answered after only one ring. He spoke softly, the way you speak trying not to wake someone, or when others are carrying on a conversation nearby.

"Hey, Aaron, this is Cedric. Sorry I missed your call. I was asleep."

"Oh, no—I hope I didn't wake you."

"You didn't. Are you enjoying yourself?" It seemed an asinine query as soon as it left my mouth, but there was no recalling it. If Aaron thought it was amiss, he gave no indication.

"Oh...well, we've been chatting a little and have had the TV rattling on for an hour now and—actually, if you want the truth I'm already really, really tired of it." I could hear him attempt to chuckle and fail.

"I'm sorry," I said. "I know it can't be easy resuming contact after an absence. And...well, I remember I always had a pretty tough time establishing common ground with my own parents, especially at holiday times. These are just damned stressful days anyway you look at them, aren't they?"

"I think you're right." He sounded distracted. I sensed he wanted to say something but either was unsure of how to go about it, or was afraid to say it. The continued silence from his end strengthened my suspicion. I said finally, "Listen, Aaron, is something wrong? I realize we don't actually know each other yet, but I promise you I can be discreet, and if I can somehow help, I'd like to."

"Cedric, would you mind terribly if I came over right now?"

"Of course not. But what about your parents?"

"I'll think of something. What if I see you in about fifteen or twenty minutes?"

"I'll be looking for you," I said.

At about 6:50 Aaron knocked at my door. I'd started a fresh pot of coffee brewing in the meantime.

He looked tired and discouraged. Even so, standing beside him again made my heart almost stop. It was annoying, but it also felt wonderful.

I could tell that something was indeed wrong.

"Thanks for having me," he said. "I know you didn't expect me this early, but—well, I just didn't want to be with... _them_ any more, at least for a while. I said I was going out for a walk and then to bed, and I'd see them in the morning. They know I've always liked long walks."

I brought us coffee and we sat on the sofa where we could use the coffee table. With the help of the big pillows we were able to sit comfortably, facing each other at an angle.

"Do you want to tell me what went wrong?" I said.

"I've just never got along all that well with my parents," he said. "It's a long unhappy story and one I hoped I wouldn't have to get into. But there may be no avoiding it. For now though—will you be offended if I don't try to explain? For one thing, I'm not sure I have the energy or...or the guts right now."

This was sounding worse than I expected. But of course I would not mind his remaining silent, and I told him so.

"Thanks," he said. His eyes met mine briefly as he said it, and I again felt something tug inside me.

"How about some music?" I suggested, more to avoid awkward silence or making Aaron feel more uncomfortable than he already was, than for any other reason.

"That would be wonderful," said Aaron.

I put on a CD of some Renaissance dances and other music played by the Julian Bream Consort.

"Ah, that's so good," said Aaron, as though a burden had been lifted from him by the sound of the graceful music. "You can't know how glad I am to be here with you."

I wanted to tell him the same thing, but thought better of it. The last thing I needed to do was to make him think I was in any way trying to pursue him.

We listened without a word for several minutes. After about five minutes, Aaron rested his hand just above my knee and left it there. I can't say I was stunned, but I was surprised and didn't know how to respond. Finally I shifted positions so that I could sit beside him and put my arm around his shoulders. But then he surprised me again by resting his head on my shoulder.

None of this displeased me—in fact very much the opposite—yet at the same time I had no idea how to proceed. I decided to stay put till he did or said something. I was pretty sure it was my over-zealous imagination at work again, and nothing more. Maybe he just needed comforting for whatever reason.

I couldn't help wondering what Julie or Max might have told him about me. Surely not much, given their limited opportunities through the years for conversation with their son—but maybe enough. I thought of something to say that struck me as fairly innocuous yet friendly.

"We seem to be getting along really well for having just met, don't we," I said. I gave his shoulder a little squeeze; that was what my father used to do sometimes.

"For sure," said Aaron, not moving.

There was a long pause. Really long. Julian Bream's gracious, meticulous music played on.

I got up to bring more coffee.

I'd taken two steps towards the kitchen when Aaron said, "Cedric, I've fallen for you. There. I hope you'll forgive me for being blunt. And I hope it doesn't sound like I'm crazy."

I couldn't think of an immediate response, so there was another pause, but I didn't keep walking, either.

"And if you want me to, I'll leave."

"Hey, Aaron, it's okay. And no, you don't sound at all crazy. And I most certainly don't want you to leave unless you want to. Let me get us some more coffee. I'll be right back."

# 

# Chapter 4

_My_ _mind_ was spinning like a snapped clock spring as I continued into the kitchen. I knew one thing: If he was crazy, then I was too.

I poured coffee into an insulated carafe, and as an after-thought opened the cookie jar and stacked some oatmeal cookies on a little plate. I grabbed a couple of paper napkins, too. I felt relieved I was able to move at all, let alone perform these everyday actions, but I could not begin to think what I was going to say when I returned to the living room.

Seated again, I poured coffee and handed Aaron his mug. He held it in both hands and pretended to study it. Without looking up, he said, "I've been wanting to say what I said just now since this morning and searching for a way. I was afraid to, but I wanted to so much.

"That's why I phoned and asked you to open that little present. I just couldn't wait to try to please you, to see if I could touch your heart somehow. If that sounds corny, I can't help it. Damn it, I was simply head over heels. I still am.

"I feel ashamed," he said. Then, "This is no way to treat my host. Please forgive me."

"There's nothing to forgive, Aaron," I said. To my surprise, words came naturally now where a few moments before I'd felt panicky. Being beside Aaron had the opposite effect of what I would have expected: It was calming to me. It was one of those situations where you're suddenly calm because you realize there are no alternatives, and that you're in the grip of the inevitable.

"I couldn't fail to notice how you stuck close to me every minute today. I'm only sorry we didn't get a chance to talk. But maybe it was too early, anyway. Maybe it's better this way."

I put my arm around his shoulders again. I wanted to make certain, if I could, that he understood I was not rejecting him. I could feel his heart still beating too rapidly, and a faint shiver running through him. I wished I could relieve his anxiety. I knew he was suffering. I'd experienced the same thing, years ago, more than once.

"It's funny we never met before, in all these years, isn't it," I said. It was a rhetorical question, of course.

"Yes," said Aaron. "I've heard so much about you, I felt almost as if I knew you already."

"I only knew you from a photograph. The colors are all going blue or red with age now, the way some of those photos do. I imagine you remember Cairo, 1987?"

An odd look passed over Aaron's face. It was gone in an instant but it was unmistakable. It was a look of alarm and—to my astonishment—revulsion. But surely this _was_ my imagination gone haywire. Why should he react that way?

"Oh, yes, I remember Cairo, all right. It's pretty well...unforgettable."

"Well, you looked great. And if anything, you look even better now, but I think I would have recognized you if it had been me meeting you at the airport, even so."

"I wish it had been you, and I wish we could have just got on another plane and flown away together," said Aaron. Then, "Sorry, that's a silly, inconsiderate thing to say."

"Well, it may be silly, but it's still a compliment, and one I doubt that I deserve," I said. "Aaron, you wanted to touch my heart, as you put it. Well, you certainly have. But for God's sake, you're so much younger than me, and...and we've only known each other for a few hours: This is preposterous."

Once again I knew too late I'd said the wrong thing—and this time, maybe a very wrong thing. "I'm sorry," I said. "Look who's being inconsiderate now. I didn't exactly mean what I said. I—"

"I know," he said. "But give me some credit, Cedric. I think I'm old enough to recognize infatuation, and that's not what this is. Believe me. If you knew more about my life—I mean, when you do—"

"Okay," I said, "I admit there's such a thing as love at first sight. I've experienced it. It's more common than a lot of people think. And since you're being honest, I ought to be, too, and— the fact is I had the same reaction you did today. You haven't been out of my mind for one second since I first set eyes on you. Except when I was asleep, of course."

He laughed. "See? Now you know why we should just fly off together."

"Try to be rational," I said. "Regardless of how you and I feel, how can pursuing this lead to anything but hardship? Let's call it a transient mutual infatuation even if that's not what it is. It's the only reasonable way to go. Isn't it?"

He said, so quietly I could barely make out the words, "You know better than that."

And he was right. I did.

The CD just then finished playing. I didn't have the remote handy, so I couldn't make it play again from the sofa. I walked over to the CD shelves.

"What would you like to hear next?" I said. The question sounded ludicrously out of place. My mind was starting to race again.

"Well, since we're being honest with each other, I guess what I'd most like to hear is, 'I love you, Aaron.' Do you have that one handy?"

I laughed this time. "You're hopeless. This is turning into an evening to remember, if nothing else.

"Yes, I could play that one, but what good would it do? For pity's sake, Aaron, try to be pragmatic. I'm impressed by your honesty as well as by your—well, your good looks, and your ardor, and everything else I've observed so far. And by something I don't even have a name for. And yes, it gets into the territory you're talking about. But, my God, it's—it's—"

"Shh." Aaron held a finger to his lips. "Enough. Since you didn't fulfill my first request, do you at least have some Schubert?"

We heard _all_ the Schubert piano sonatas and a couple of the quartets while we debated pointlessly about loving each other.

I was no stranger to love. I'd had two long-term partners; the first had died with AIDS, the second had left by friendly mutual agreement, and we even still corresponded now and then. With both men, it had been love at first sight, on both sides. Instantaneous, potentially enduring. Yes, it happens. The French refer to it as the _coup_ _de_ _foudre_ —the lightning strike. A good name for it.

But the present situation, even though I knew now, and, really, from the first instant, that it was the real thing, seemed none the less completely untenable. I tried to get this across to Aaron but he kept shushing me or, worse yet, countering with some unassailable argument of his own. He should have taught, not Italian, but law.

Finally, during the last movement of the "Death and the Maiden" quartet, we somehow found ourselves sitting there in each other's arms, weeping without letup. I couldn't tell if it was from happiness, fear, or frustration. I know I was feeling all three. Maybe he was, too.

By now it was past midnight, and we had evening engagements, so, unable to agree on how to sort out our feelings and future action using words, we simply agreed it was time to go to bed. We held each other a little longer while all kinds of thoughts raced through my head, and no doubt his as well. Then we got up, hand in hand, to re-enter the world of the mundane.

He nuzzled up against me and would not let go of me. I finally broke away as tactfully as I knew how.

"It's ironic," said Aaron as I turned out lights and switched off the stereo and checked the lock on the hallway door. "If this weren't so serious, we'd probably sleep together tonight. As it is..."

I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to contradict him and agree to sleeping together. And of course a part of me did want to do that. But I knew somehow that it could, and probably would, be disastrous. And so, I suspect, did he, on a deeper level.

I walked over, stood behind him, and put my arms around his chest. He reached behind him in an awkward, backwards embrace. My chin was on his shoulder. I managed to stand so he wouldn't feel my erection. We rocked softly side to side.

"Well, as you said, it's serious. It's damned serious, Aaron. Please be sure you recognize that. I think the best thing to do right now is to sleep on it, separately." I had to chuckle. "And yes, it's fucking ironic. You got that right."

We started down the hallway that leads to the two bedrooms with the bath between them. Aaron had effectively taken the lead in our lengthy discussion, as well as having been the first to broach the issue of what we both now acknowledged to be the love we shared. But it might just as easily have been me that had done it.

He was walking ahead of me. I reached out and stopped him with both hands on his shoulders. He turned to face me. I drew him to me and kissed him on the lips and refused to let him go.

He responded by fairly melting in my arms. If I'd been permeable, I think he would have dissolved into my flesh. I'd felt surrender before, but this was way beyond anything I'd ever imagined.

If there remained the slightest doubt about his sincerity—or his sanity—it got dispelled in that embrace. And if there had been any uncertainty about the bond that now existed between us, that, too, was laid to rest.

The kiss must have lasted at least a minute, and after that we remained embraced for what seemed like an hour: I have no idea how long it really was. We just stood there, wordless, motionless, in each other's arms. It was a long, long moment and for me it was a revelation. I briefly reflected, "Now I know what those enlightenment experiences feel like that you keep reading about in Buddhist books." I understood now what they meant by comparing the experience of awakening to a homecoming.

Finally Aaron and I stepped slowly apart as though by mutual accord, and without a word—since words were no longer needed—got ready for bed, lay down in our separate bedrooms, and even slept a little.

# Chapter 5

_I_ _hadn_ _'_ _t_ _felt_ such certainty in years, in fact since Anthony and I met for the first time by pure chance in a Chinese restaurant, and walked away, after sharing our first dinner, sharing also the certainty that we'd be together at least till one of us died. We'd laughed as we threw away our fortune cookies, unbroken. We didn't need them.

I was so excited and happy about Aaron that I knew I wouldn't sleep. I felt unsure I could believe in the reality of what was happening. I knew I was awake and not dreaming, but otherwise I was so disoriented that nothing seemed quite real.

Somehow, though, I did fall asleep; I think it was around 1:30. The last thing I remember was hearing faint snores from the other bedroom. Well, that was nothing I couldn't live with.

I woke and looked at the bedside clock. It said 5:30. I knew I could not go back to sleep, but I didn't know how light a sleeper Aaron might be—I probably should have asked—and didn't want to wake him by being up and about, grinding coffee, perhaps swearing at my laptop if it failed to boot correctly, as had been happening lately. I was glad I didn't have a dog.

Every now and then I thought of getting a cat, though. I'd had three of them and they'd all succumbed to cat diseases, but only after long lives. Even with all that experience, I still couldn't make up my mind if a cat was more nuisance or blessing. I hadn't lived with one for five years now. I would have to ask Aaron if—

Oh, come on, I thought. I'm already manufacturing domestic scenes with the guy, when we haven't even known each other for twenty-four hours.

It's not that I was having second thoughts. The certainty was still firmly in place. But I was sobering up a bit and getting a little more realistic about how to deal with the ramifications of what had happened.

The next thing I knew, something was shaking my shoulder. With difficulty I opened my eyes and immediately had to shut them again against brilliant sunlight. Shading my eyes with a hand, I saw a form standing over me and then I recognized it as Aaron's. He was wearing a bathrobe and holding a steaming cup of coffee in his other hand, the one that was not shaking my shoulder. He put the cup down on the bedside table. He knelt beside the bed to be on eye-level with me. I looked at the clock for the third time that morning: Now it said 9:10.

Nine-ten! I felt a momentary panic. Was I supposed to be somewhere? Should I be dressed already and pretending to be alert? I tried hard to think of my agenda, if I had one. Then I remembered that my only engagement— _our_ only engagement—was for dinner and the ballet in the evening. I was saved.

Still I felt foolish having to be wakened by my guest, even if we were in love. It must be a breach of hospitality, though I'd never seen it specifically condemned in any etiquette book or advice column. Were there examples in literature? I couldn't think of any there, either; but, then, I hadn't had my coffee yet. I made a mental note to see later if Jane Austen had pondered the subject.

"I brought you coffee," said Aaron, as though he'd read my mind. The mere sight of him made my heart behave like milk chocolate in the noonday sun.

"Oh, God, Aaron, I feel foolish. You shouldn't have had to wake me like this. I apologize for oversleeping. Thanks for the coffee, though. That's really sweet of you. Have you been up long? "

"It's my pleasure. Enjoy it. Nah, I've only been up since about eight. So you see, you didn't sleep that much longer." He didn't need to know that I'd hardly slept at all, for the second night running.

I managed to sit up just enough to sip the coffee. It was delicious. Why does it always taste better in bed? Maybe it was just because Aaron made it.

"I found one of your own books on your shelves, and started reading it. I like it a lot."

"Oh, which one?"

He named one of my earliest published works, _Orchestrators_ _of_ _Desire,_ not my best but not reprehensible, either. It had good reviews in its day. I'd almost forgotten about it. It had been responsible for my first and definitely my last brush with Hollywood. Needless to say, the movie never got made.

"I think I have a bunch of those in my storage locker in the basement. I'll dig one out and sign it for you if it's not too moldy. Don't let me forget."

"Hold on a minute," said Aaron. He padded off in bare feet down the hall and soon was back with his own coffee. "I seem to need, or want, at least a couple of these every morning before anything else," he said. "Well, before _almost_ anything else."

"Uh-huh," I said. "Have a seat. I suspect I'm moving slowly today."

He sat on the edge of the bed. We held hands, drank our coffee and discussed briefly our simple plans for the evening. He was going to his parents' for lunch, and I'd been invited, but didn't know if I should go. Perhaps it would be easier for him to attempt a _rapprochement_ with Max and Julie if it was just the three of them. I asked.

"You may be right," said Aaron. "In any case, if you don't go, it will probably spare you some uncomfortable moments, because frankly I don't see things getting better anytime soon with the three of us."

"I'm sorry to hear that," I said. "I don't want to push, but if you feel ready, anytime, to tell me something about your...difficulty with them, I'm ready to listen. I may not be able to do anything useful, but sometimes it does help just to talk to somebody."

"I know. And I'm really grateful for your willingness to listen. I'll be able to do it before I leave town, I feel sure." All of a sudden he looked downcast and turned half away.

"What's wrong?" I said, squeezing his hand.

"I'm not going to want to go back to Evanston, Ced. Damn it, I don't want to leave you. Not even for an hour."

"Now, that's nonsense," I said. "Please don't think like that. I'd be very much surprised if we didn't see each other often; I know I'll make every effort. Anyway, that's what airplanes are for, and the fare isn't so much that I can't afford to fly up to Chicago now and then. And sometimes I could drive. Remember, my time is pretty much my own, and as long as I have a pen and paper, and now and then my laptop, I'm good to work almost anywhere. And you must have weekends now and then when you could come down here, too."

"Yes, of course, you're right. But damn it..." He was on the verge of tears. I didn't know what to say. "Well, there's no use talking about it," he said finally. He still looked sad, disappointed, and a little angry. He was avoiding looking at me.

"Come here, guy," I said. He bent down and I put my arms around him. He put his head on my shoulder as he had the night before. I just held him for a while. "Aaron, I love you," I said. "And I'm not going to leave you. I swear it." I was learning that his insecurity issue was a real one. You would never have guessed from the man's confident, vigorous exterior that a frightened boy lived inside. And I had to wonder, why?

We were hugging each other tight now. It was something that, before last night, I hadn't done for so long that it had felt novel, and indescribably gratifying. Now, I felt as though I could hold him forever. He showed no sign of letting loose of me, either.

His body felt warm and firm and vital. I could feel his pulsing blood. His smell was so delicious it made me giddy. I was now fully aroused again, but I hoped he didn't know. But he probably was, too. His bathrobe, and my blanket, made pretty good camouflage. It was just as well, for the present.

"Aaron," I said, "what are we going to do about your parents? This—what's happened with you and me—is going to change your visit here. How do you think they'll receive the news?"

I knew Max and Julie about as well as anybody, I thought. But when it comes to very personal matters, and especially family matters—no outsider can ever lay claim to authority. I expected that the Ventnors would be surprised but not displeased to learn that their son had fallen in love with one of their oldest and closest friends—and vice-versa. They were worldly and God knows they'd lived long enough to have seen just about everything. They might not even be particularly surprised. I hoped they wouldn't, anyway. I hoped they would have seen it coming, somehow, and—if not rejoiced, at least approved. I knew without a doubt that the same-sex aspect meant nothing at all to them; but I was concerned about the age difference—and the fact that both their only son _and_ an old friend were involved. And I had no idea what they might think about the suddenness of it all. Would the situation seem too precarious for them to handle gracefully?

"Umm," said Aaron, as though he hadn't heard me. It was the sound you make when you're really enjoying close physical contact with somebody—the human equivalent of a cat's purr. That was all he said for quite a while. We were still hugging each other. I was ready to hold him for as long as he wanted to be held.

It didn't bother me that he had a problem with insecurity. I'd coped with a number of problems, both psychic and physical, with my two partners, and come through it all fairly unscathed. Anybody who expects a partnership to be free of difficulties had better never enter into one to start with.

He'd said he didn't want to leave me. What I had not said in response, because I knew it would only make him feel upset and more sad and probably guilty, too, was that I didn't want him to leave, either. I passionately wanted him to stay, and to be near him night and day. But as far as I was concerned, Aaron and I were already partners, and hence inseparable no matter what distance intervened.

It was the same way I'd felt about Anthony and Stewart in the beginning, and all the way to the end.

If it came to that, I'd simply move to Evanston. I'd already decided. But I had no intention of talking about that with him or anybody, unless it became necessary.

Eventually we reluctantly relaxed out of our hug, kissed, and rumpled each other's hair. He was smiling again, and as attractive as his smile, so much like his mother's, had been the day before, it was even more so now, as it took on a childlike quality that I don't think I'd ever seen on a man's face before. Aaron resembled a child who's found something that he thinks is a wonderful treasure. There was that pure concentration that means the rest of the world has ceased to exist for a few moments. And there was no question about it: It was me that he had found, and it was me that comprised his world for now. He was actually wide-eyed about _me_. I could still hardly believe it.

It made me feel honored and humbled. Though also, to be honest, a bit uneasy.

~~~

_Over_ _breakfast,_ which we ate on the sofa so we could reach out and touch each other whenever we felt like it, or when one of us simply needed confirmation that the other was real, we discussed scenarios that we might implement later in the day.

It was ten a.m., and Max and Julie weren't expecting us till one p.m. for lunch, so we didn't have to rush. Like the night before, though, it was hard to make any headway in our discussion. For every suggestion I made, Aaron thought of an objection, and for every one of his ideas, I had a reason not to put his plan into action. It was all completely amicable, but we found ourselves none the less in a quagmire of indecision.

It came down to whether Max and Julie should be told today or later about our suddenly falling in love and deciding to make a life together. One thing we did agree on was that it would not be wise to break the news that evening at the restaurant, at the ballet, or even on the trip home. What if the proclamation should provoke a violent reaction—or even something as relatively mild as sadness? No; it needed to be done either at Max and Julie's place, at mine, or in an uncrowded venue like the waterfront or at the zoo or in a park.

So we discussed those options.

I maintained that neither my place nor theirs was a valid choice, as I'd read, and agreed with, the opinion of psychologists that delicate or emotion-laden conversations should if possible take place in neutral surroundings. To use my place might give an unfair advantage to Aaron and myself, while doing it at Max and Julie's apartment would give them a similar advantage. Of course this was assuming the worst, or at least not the wished-for, reaction on their part.

We decided that since it was unlikely we could get the job done that day, we might as well discuss it some more when we got back from the ballet.

Then Aaron happened to think of something pretty obvious: We would hardly be able to hold hands or even embrace briefly at the ballet—or anywhere in his parents' presence—till we let them know we were now in fact a couple. And what if one of us impulsively, without stopping to think, did carry out a gesture of affection like that? It would be hard to explain; or, more accurately, it wouldn't even need explaining, but that would probably be even worse.

Maybe I should come along to lunch after all, and we could all four go for a walk afterwards and get it over with. But it was one thing for Aaron or me to go walking in half a foot of snow, and on sidewalks apt to be half covered with ice, and quite another to expect Max, with his precarious balance and need for a cane, to do that. So we scrubbed that idea.

I suggested cuddling on the sofa for awhile and letting our minds recover. That sounded good to Aaron, too. So, still in our bathrobes, we did that.

We kissed and caressed each other for over an hour. I had not experienced such—to call it bliss is not an exaggeration—in years, since Stewart had left. I felt transported.

Even with the unresolved issue with Max and Julie, these two days had been two of the happiest in my life. Finally I said so. Aaron said, "Mine, too."

We took a break from cuddling. With our minds a little rested we decided I should come to lunch after all. Not only was I invited, and probably expected, but just possibly—if we both sensed the time was right—we might be able to make our announcement to Max and Julie, location disadvantage or not. Then, probably, at the very worst they'd decline to go with us in the evening; at best, we'd all have a much better time than if Aaron and I were burdened with a secret that prevented us from holding hands or briefly embracing if we wanted to. Maybe we'd even all go out for drinks afterward!

I didn't know yet that our secret was not the only one I'd ultimately have to deal with.

Aaron and I got dressed to go to lunch.

He laughed at the peculiarities of my old shower. I was so used to the in's and out's of adjusting the water that I'd not stopped to think that a stranger to the antiquated plumbing might get quite a shock at discovering the taps were reversed and that the flow of the hot water, especially, was erratic in the extreme, requiring constant vigilance and attention to prevent scalding at one extreme, hypothermia at the other. He was quick-witted enough to cope with the shower's vagaries without serious injury, thank goodness.

I knew duck was on the menu, so I grabbed a nice bottle of Riesling on our way out.

We walked the five blocks—it was another perfect day for being outdoors, provided you kept moving at a fairly good clip. Aaron proposed a snowball fight, but I suggested we wait till the return trip in case our battle got serious and there was bloodshed. He insisted he would never think of putting rocks or other dangerous objects in _his_ snowballs.

"That's all very well," I said, "but what about mine?"

# Chapter 6

_The_ _elevator_ _ride_ was jerkier than the last time I'd visited, but the old apparatus got us up to the roof level, and that's all that mattered. As the ancient lift creaked rheumatically along, taking its own sweet time, I wondered idly if Max and Julie's shower was as temperamental as mine. Then I remembered they didn't have a shower, only a tub. But it was fitted with a curtain and a hand-held spray. That was just as good.

Whatever was cooking, presumably the duck among other things, smelled heavenly. Julie, I knew, had taken cooking lessons on an extended vacation that they'd made in Normandy several years ago. It paid off. She never made a big deal of her skills, but let the results speak for themselves, which they did eloquently.

If lunch was satisfying, dessert, a _tarte_ _aux_ _framboises,_ was out of this world. Though it would not be _quite_ as good the second day, it would still be better than anything from the bakery. Julie wrapped half for me to take back to my place. The only somewhat unsettling thing about lunch was Max's virtually total silence. He looked, not exactly unhappy, but displeased about something. I imagined he might be having some digestive problem, nothing more.

I wondered if Aaron might slip and refer to my apartment as "home," or even over-use the pronouns "us" and "we," but he was on guard against such solecisms. The novelty of our companionship made them easier to avoid.

Just before we judged it was time to leave—or rather for me to leave, since Aaron would no doubt stay on to visit with his parents—we exchanged, as though on cue, a kind of arched-eyebrow look and each of us knew what the other was thinking. I nodded. That was all it took for Aaron, appearing to summon courage along with a deep breath, to say, "Mom and dad, I've... I've got a kind of announcement."

"Oh?" said Max, unsmiling. He spoke in a tone I'd never heard him use, and sounded either sarcastic or skeptical, I was unsure which. Julie said nothing but did raise her eyebrows. There was a long moment of excruciating silence.

"Well," began Aaron, flushing, "I... I mean... "

Oh God, I thought. Please don't let him faint. I'm agnostic, but I always figure prayer is permitted even the most stubborn atheist under the right conditions, and if this didn't fit that description, I didn't know what would.

"Well, I really don't know where to start," said Aaron.

Did he expect me to jump in and save him from drowning in uncertainty? I was of course willing, but I'm not a good swimmer. Still, it was looking as though I'd have to say something if this kept up.

He turned to me in desperation.

"Should I just wait, maybe?"

It hurt me physically to see his embarrassment, chagrin, and downright fright. I'd sensed it wasn't going to be easy, but had I imagined it would turn into such an ordeal, I would have vetoed the idea before we ever set out from my place.

Finally I couldn't stand the dreadful silence. "Aaron," I said, "do you want me to..."

"Shit, I don't know what I want," said Aaron angrily. He fell silent, but to my astonishment I saw tears running down his cheeks.

I couldn't let this go on. Since neither of his parents had budged from their easy chairs, I moved over and sat beside him on the sofa.

I put an arm around him. "It's okay, Aaron, it's okay, I'm here," I said, hoping the Ventnors couldn't distinguish the words. I was utterly baffled by the family's dynamics, or lack of them, but one thing I knew: If his mother and father didn't care about their son's obvious suffering, I did, and I was going to help my new friend and partner. I held him close and he put an arm around me, still silently weeping and unwilling to look at anybody.

Both Max and Julie remained motionless as dolls. I was dumbfounded. Decades of friendship or not, I realized now I didn't care what I might say. Anger at Max and Julie's infuriating inactivity and silence vied with concern for Aaron's demeaning distress. He was clinging to me now. I began to stroke his head to try to calm him down. Though it must have been at least 70 degrees in the room, he was shivering.

"Max—Julie," I said, "I know this is awkward to say the least. But what Aaron was trying to tell you is that he and I have found out we love each other. In fact, we love each other so much that we're going to make a life together. I realize this has been sudden, but it's something we're absolutely sure about."

They both continued to look so impassive that I was beginning to get goose flesh.

Then I saw anger fill Max's eyes. Julie saw it, too, and her expression suddenly betrayed raw fear.

By now I wanted just to get the hell out of there. Instinct told me we'd better do just that.

"I think this must have been a kind of shock," I managed to say, while trying to think how we could quickly leave. "I believe we need to go now and let you be alone to think it over." Maybe that sounded off the mark, but I was grasping for words. Aaron was still holding onto me. I doubt he'd ever been so embarrassed or felt so helpless in his life, and I felt partially to blame. But what was done was done.

"Let's go, babe," I said to him quietly; I could only hope he heard me. I was relieved to see him nod. I rose, hauling him to his feet along with me.

Julie sat where she was, petrified. She didn't appear angry, but her patent fear was more disconcerting than if she'd shared Max's now obvious ire. Max's face had turned all crimson and he was scowling at us in a really threatening way.

I was beginning to fear physical violence, but instead, without a word, Max took up his cane, went into their bedroom, immediately returned with Aaron's and my coats, and tossed them contemptuously down on the sofa where we'd been sitting. He muttered something I couldn't make out. His strong hands were clenched into fists. Adrenaline was preparing me to defend myself and Aaron if it came to that.

Then he turned on his heel and left the room. I heard a door slam. I couldn't tell if it was his studio door, or the door to their bedroom. In any case I was glad he was at least momentarily out of the way.

"Julie," I said as I helped Aaron with his coat—though blinded by tears, he was able to cooperate in getting his arms into its sleeves.

"Julie—will you—I mean, are you going to be all right?" I said. She still looked very scared. All the color had drained from her face.

"I think so," she said. "Thank you, Cedric. But I really..." she hesitated. "Well, maybe you'd best go now."

And so we did.

~~~

_All_ _I_ _remember_ about the walk back to my building is that I had my arm around Aaron every icy step of the way. I halfway expected to see Max jump his Saab over the curb and try to run us down. I visualized him hobbling up behind us in the snow and thrashing us with his cane. As grim as things had become, this picture made me laugh.

I think Aaron was silent all the way.

Back in my—our—apartment, I put our things away and quickly put the kettle on for tea. I wanted to get back to Aaron in the living room without delay. I didn't know what he might try to do in the state he was in.

I found him sitting relatively calmly on the sofa, and I sat down beside him to wait for the kettle's whistle.

I put my hand on his back and inclined toward him. "Aaron, what can I do?" In response he leaned against me and put his arms loosely around me.

"I feel so damn foolish," he said, "Ced, can you forgive me? I wouldn't blame you if you told me to go fuck myself right now. I've been an idiot. No, worse." At least he wasn't crying anymore.

"Hey, Aaron, come back to reality. Do you imagine I would boot you out for being upset? Don't be silly. I don't know what the hell's going on, but whatever it is, it doesn't make one bit of difference to how I feel about you. I'm only sorry you had such a tough time of it. Come into the kitchen with me; I'm about to make some tea. That ought to make us both feel better."

I didn't want to leave him alone. I was still unsure what might happen.

In a few minutes we were at the kitchen table with tea and Amaretto flavored _biscotti_ from La Fiorella that I'd thought to pick up after dinner there with Max and Julie. We were both silent for a while. Then Aaron put his hand on mine, on the table.

"Ced, I'm so sorry, I just don't know what to say. I had no idea this was going to happen. It's been hard for me to face my parents for a long, long time, but nothing like how it was today. I finally reached the point of no return. I'm only sorry you had to be there.

"God. I still feel like such an asshole. Putting you through all that."

It looked like he was about to break into tears again. I got up and went around and started massaging his shoulders. "Calm down, calm down. Can't you get it through your lovely but surprisingly thick head that it doesn't make any difference?

"Aaron, I don't expect you to be some perfect, I don't know, man of steel, and I sure as hell hope you don't expect that of me. Maybe today was a one-off, but maybe it wasn't, and it'll be you having to wade through my shit next time. Think of it that way, buddy." I leaned down and interrupted the massage long enough to kiss him softly on the cheek. Sure enough, it was wet.

"Listen, Aaron," I said, taking up the massage where I'd left off, "we're in it together no matter what, through thick and thin, if I may resort to a threadbare metaphor. And if you can't look at it that way, and be ready to embrace the bad stuff right along with the good—well, then, tell me and we'll just be friends. That would be all right, even if it would disappoint me. But I hope you'll be willing to simply plod along day by day like me and realize that it's never going to be something perfect and totally wonderful. Life just doesn't work that way, kid. It's not Hollywood, after all."

"I know. I know. God, Cedric, I don't want to leave you. You know that. I was foolish. I'll try to do better. And yes, I want to tackle whatever comes along, right here beside you. That's all I want now. Please believe me."

"I do. Then that's that, okay? It's a done deal, and we'll, I dunno, live happily or unhappily forever after, I guess. It's about the best anybody can do in this pathetic melodrama they call life."

"God, Ced, I love you, I love you," he said.

"Same here, pal. Now your tea's got all cold. Mine too. How about warming them up?"

He did, and I took my seat again. He'd finished crying. But his face was red with embarrassment and I felt sorry for him.

It looked like Aaron was going to need to learn a few things about real life. But that was okay. I couldn't think of anybody, myself included, that didn't need to.

# 

# Chapter 7

_We_ _'_ _d_ _have_ _been_ certifiably insane to imagine Max and Julie coming along to dinner or the ballet after the trauma the four of us—or at least Aaron, Julie, and myself—had been subjected to after lunch. It didn't even need discussing.

Aaron hadn't brought any dress-up clothes with him from Evanston; and I have never been one to enjoy dolling myself up for anything. If I were invited to the White House, I'd ask the lord chamberlain, or whoever handles such matters there, if jeans were okay. If they weren't, I'd reluctantly move up to chinos. Beyond that—I had a couple of suits but they wouldn't fit anymore. I hadn't worn one since around 1990.

We both could wear presentable jeans and sports jackets, and look at least twice as fetching as in formal wear, and that's what we ended up doing. We _were_ gay, after all.

Then there was the matter of dinner. I truthfully had no desire to eat at the four-star (or was it five?or maybe six?) restaurant where Aaron had generously reserved places for four. At the risk of offending him, I suggested canceling if he could, and going to La Fiorella instead. He'd only been there once, on one of his visits home some years before largely breaking off contact with his parents right after the Cairo expedition, when he entered grad school. Max and Julie had taken him, and he'd mentioned to me that he'd always remembered it fondly; though he couldn't remember the name—just "that comfy little Italian place not far from here."

He wasn't offended. He was able easily to cancel the reservations. It wouldn't even hurt the restaurant's Zagat rating.

It was only four p.m. and curtain time at the ballet was seven-thirty. We'd go to dinner about five so we wouldn't be rushed. If we were early downtown, we could always window-shop or just stroll for a while. We had almost an hour to talk before taking my aging Toyota to La Fiorella and then downtown.

I didn't want to push for the mysterious reason Aaron was on such uneasy terms with his parents, and now most likely estranged from them indefinitely. I felt confident he would tell me in his own time. We might as well have an enjoyable evening. Hashing over familial troubles would not contribute to that end.

Aaron hadn't failed to notice the chrysanthemums and carnations in his room. He thanked me, saying it was a thoughtful touch he never would have thought of, if he had a guest. I told him about the floral shop on Versailles Avenue, a neighborhood fixture for at least half a century, and showed him the little green glass frog I'd found there, fallen in love with (though not as deeply as with Aaron, I hastened to clarify), and given a home on my desk in hopes he, the frog, would help me tidy up some of my sloppy work habits.

So far, it hadn't worked. I still wrote either on the laptop or with pen and paper slouched on the sofa in any of three or four unhealthful postures I'd perfected over the years. I felt encouraged by Aaron's obvious enjoyment of this depiction of my daily life.

Aaron described his apartment in Evanston. It sounded cozy, cluttered, and livable; nothing fancy. There was no dishwasher, the heating was temperamental, but his neighbors were generally quiet, and he enjoyed a fine view out the glass doors that opened onto a little balcony he used in warm weather. He entertained but rarely and at present had few friends apart from colleagues at the university.

He did happen to know one Chicago-based novelist, and when he named him, I realized I knew him, too, though not very well. We'd met at a couple of writers' conferences and visited some gay bars together in the hosting cities. The writer, Evan Gamble, had published a phenomenally successful series of spy novels. A couple had even been made into modestly profitable movies, and another film was apparently in the works when I'd known him. After meeting Evan, I'd picked up a couple of his books and enjoyed them a lot. They were more akin to what Max would write than to my stuff, but that could only be fortunate for Evan.

I asked Evan by email where on earth he'd obtained such esoteric knowledge of cryptography, poisons, diplomatic ruses and subterfuges, and the like, and he'd told me in reply, "Well...I make most of it up and nobody seems to notice. But I do get a few technical pointers from a friend at the CIA." I didn't know if he was kidding or not, and didn't ask.

"Oh, he really does know the CIA guy," said Aaron. "He asked if it'd be okay to bring him over for drinks, one time. The guy's real, all right."

"Wow, Aaron. What was your impression of this...I think 'spook' is the word?"

"Sloppy dresser, obviously alcoholic; a friendly, laid-back sort of guy. Not gay, but we can't all be perfect. He was wearing a Walther snub-nosed revolver in an ankle holster and he showed me his triple-encrypted Blackberry—like the president's. Frankly, I think Evan had the hots for him, but don't let on that I told you."

"I haven't talked to Evan in, let's see, at least three years now. I wouldn't even know how to contact him now except through his publisher or agent. He's nice, and a damned skillful writer, but he's not my type. You are, though."

I gave him a messy, lingering kiss that turned into a kissing session. By the time we broke that up, it was time to go to dinner. We readjusted our clothing and set out for La Fiorella.

The little _ristorante_ was crowded past its fire department-assigned capacity, probably on account of the holidays. But Carlo Fiorella spotted me even before the street door swung shut behind us, and I saw him make a broad swooping then finger-snapping gesture over his head to a gorgeous doe-eyed young waiter not far from us, his command to seat the two favored customers regardless.

We soon found ourselves settled in a booth at the rear of the dining area, not far from the always bustling kitchen. The candlelight, the crisp red-and-white checked tablecloth, the wicker basket full of fragrant garlicky bread sticks set in the middle of it, all made me feel right at home owing to my long association with the place. I suppose I must have eaten there, lunch or dinner, at least twice a week on average since moving to Parvenu Street. Aaron said he almost felt as though he were back in Italy. Just walking into the place had obviously boosted his mood considerably.

La Fiorella was situated about three blocks west of me, on tree-lined Grainger Avenue. Its neighbors included a used-book store where I often browsed, and had once found two or three of my earlier works for sale, remaindered, as well as one more recent one, that I was taken aback to find this in, written in cursive script with a ballpoint, on the verso side of the first flyleaf:

_Not_ _worth_ _reading_ _unless_ _you_ _seriously_ _like_ _stuffy_ _outdated_ _prose_ _about_ _implausible_ _characters_ _in_ _historically-botched_ _settings._ _This_ _guy_ _needs_ _to_ _learn_ _to_ _do_ _his_ _research._ _And_ _to_ _write._

I was tempted to purchase the book just to hide, or even destroy, the evidence. But a moment's reflection caused me to change my mind.

The nameless reader-critic was right. It _was_ a piece of plodding, sloppily conceived and insufficiently researched crap. I left the book on the shelf, but only after looking warily about to make sure nobody was watching, then taking out my robin's-egg blue Sheaffer's Imperial fountain pen and adding, below the damning assessment:

_He_ _or_ _she_ _is_ _right._ _It_ is _trash._

Then I signed my testimony with my real name, which is also the one on the book jacket and title page.

That encounter with brute reality inspired me to switch both agent and publisher.

I'd like to report that my books made a quantum leap in quality from there on out, but, alas, they stayed at the same mediocre or worse level, and I knew it. I didn't need a new agent or a new publisher. I needed a new me. Or at least some talent and discipline. But by then—it was only about four years ago—I was stuck in that rut I mentioned earlier, and my writing as well as my daily life showed it, all too clearly.

Aaron and I ordered _fettucine_ Alfredo as promising a nice high-calorie shield against the penetrating cold. It was only ten degrees out, and the thermometer hadn't stopped falling. I was glad I'd had my car tuned up, the antifreeze renewed, and all the winterizing my garage mechanic, Phil, could think of carried out only a few weeks earlier. I'd also had a new battery installed.

Phil was a young guy, then only 22 years old, who for God knows what reason had come to me in real distress one day; he'd looked me up in the phone book.

We'd met only once, in a bar downtown, but he'd taken a real shine to me and when his lover walked out on him after giving him a black eye and several bruises elsewhere, including where it _really_ hurts, Phil somehow imagined I could help, or advise, or at least comfort him. I think he only wanted to talk. But maybe he wanted more.

Anyway, he'd called me up; I was just putting the finishing touches on a chapter of _I_ _'_ _m_ _Not_ _DaVinci,_ and, reaching behind me as usual for the phone at the sofa's end, I actually managed to slide off onto the floor, bruising a hip and disabling the hard drive in my laptop in the process. Luckily I had several backups and didn't lose much. Not that there was that much to lose. It was not one of my better efforts, that book. You can't even find it in remainders anymore.

At first I had no idea who was calling. Phil sought a way to jog my memory.

"You know, it was at the Club Ro-Day-O and we talked for an hour, and you were drinking scotch and water, and you bought me a Coke. I had on real tight Levi's and my—"

"Oh, yes, _now_ I remember," I said. "Why don't you come on over then, Phil. Do you know how to get here? Or I could send a cab for you."

Well, without going into detail I'll just say that our counseling session seemed fairly successful. He even stayed for breakfast the next morning. I had been privileged to examine all his injuries very closely.

Okay, I'm making light of it, but in truth we did make love tenderly, and I got the impression tenderness was a new thing for Phil, and that he was astonished by it. I found out later I was right.

He didn't need the hospital, but I urged him to go to the police.

"Are you kidding? You think they give a rat's ass about a gay boy who's been kicked in the balls and dumped by his shithead of a boyfriend? They'd probably lock me up instead of taking a report."

I believed he was exaggerating, but I knew well how much a lot of gay men fear the cops, and didn't try to argue.

He'd started to cry, though, so I held him and rocked him for a long time.

I felt hopelessly sorry for him. He was basically a nice, gentle lad, plain but not awfully bad-looking, loads of fun in bed, and... Well, I've been having him do all my car maintenance ever since, though we never had any more extra-garage encounters.

He always manages to sneak in some extra work for free, unnoticed by his lout of a boss, whose extortionate rates made me judge this petty embezzlement to be more than justified. I just hoped he'd never get caught. So far, he hadn't.

I suspected he still fancied me, the way some very young men do go after older ones. I hadn't ruled out yielding again to his advances some day. Not till Aaron came along, that is.

_Signor_ Fiorella came around to our booth to make sure Aaron and I had been satisfied with our _fettucine_. His face really lit up when Aaron started talking to him in fluent Italian.

" _Dio_ _mio!_ _"_ he said to me after a couple of minutes of palavering in his native tongue. "Where did you find this _bellissimo_ _giovane_ _romano,_ Ced?" (We'd been on a first-name basis for years now.)

"Oh, he just showed up at my door one day, Carlo," I said. Carlo pretended not to understand, gesturing with eyebrows and outstretched palms to Aaron, who then translated.

"Ah!" said Carlo. "Cedric, you're one lucky sonofabitch."

I nodded in contented agreement.

# Chapter 8

_We_ _got_ _downtown_ at about 6:30, and since we were in possession of our tickets, there would be no need to wait in line at the box office. So we had forty-five minutes or thereabouts to spend window-shopping. The stores were for the most part closed, but that was just as well, as it removed the temptation to walk in and actually buy things.

Aaron dropped some money, I didn't see how much, in the kettle of a Salvation Army bell-ringer. He lusted over some laptops on display in the window of a store with a predominantly white decor, but I told him he could spend a lot less and get just as much use out of a machine like my latest little Acer one. (The computer I'd slipped off the sofa with had eventually bit the dust long ago.) I told him he could try it out when we got back home.

Home. It seemed strange to use that word along with "we."

It had been eight years since I'd parted ways amicably with Stewart, bless his heart, and since then, home had been strictly a "me" thing. It felt good to use the plural again. I felt I was ready for it. In fact, I knew I was. Well, anyway, I thought I was.

There was an almost-all-night newsstand at the corner of Grant and Penelope Streets, and we ducked in so I could buy a copy of the _New_ _York_ _Review_ _of_ _Books,_ in which, a fellow writer had told me, there was a review of my latest published book, _Creature_ _Discomforts._ One glance at the piece in question, and I was sorry I'd bought the damn thing. It was one of the most ferocious attacks on my work I'd seen yet. I envisioned walking into the used-book store next to La Fiorella and seeing shelf after shelf devoted to remaindered copies of my poor child.

I had thought it one of my best efforts, in fact it seemed to signal a long desired renaissance of my talent—a return to my brief days of glory in the '70s when my _Children_ _of_ _the_ _Flower_ _Children_ and _Rise_ _Up,_ _Yeah,_ _Right_ _On!_ had zoomed right through the roof of the bestseller lists and stayed there for month after month.

Some critics, okay, not in the biggest or best-known publications, but some critics nevertheless, had called me the New Kerouac and predicted that American literature would never be the same. Granted, there was also that one who enthused over me as the "New Flannery O'Connor," but even a critic, I think, is entitled to a mistake now and then.

Alas, it was not to be. After those months of glory and invitations galore to book-signings, cocktail parties, and the beds of not a few hunky agents and a couple of rather nelly editors, I seemed to become forgotten with the same meteoric speed that I'd climbed the charts. For a couple of years, although I was able to whip out three or four books (I've forgotten, but it was in that neighborhood), they went nowhere. I couldn't even find any reviews, and neither could my agent.

That was another time I changed publishers, but this time it was not my idea.

Eventually, in the late eighties and early nineties, I got noticed again, but it was different now. The reviews, though in sometimes prestigious publications, were about 60-40 against me. You don't build a successful career that way.

Ever since then, I'd made enough to get by on, and continued to produce novels and a couple of short-story collections with commendable regularity, but it just wasn't the same. No more invitations except ever so rarely. No bedding down with randy executives. No glamorous book-signings in Manhattan or San Francisco or Montréal.

When my sweet partner Anthony finally succumbed to AIDS-related opportunistic infections in 1990, I managed to wrench a book out of the experience that, by most accounts, people found moving and even fairly profound. I felt it was one last gift from Anthony, whom I'd loved more than life itself. It was, I think, only because of the preparation that Anthony himself was thoughtful and wise enough to give me in advance, knowing full well his time was running out faster and faster, that I was able to maintain my sanity, let alone produce _Remembering_ _to_ _Remember_. But that was a one-of-a-kind, written in a fever of mourning and leftover love.

We came upon another bell-ringer. Aaron dropped money in his kettle, too. A surprisingly young voice said, from behind the Santa Claus beard and mustache, "Thank you sir. And have a—Hey! Cedric, it's you!"

I had no idea who it might be, except that it was obviously somebody who knew me by name.

"It's me, Phil," said Santa. Artful padding and a ton of makeup and phony facial hair had erased any semblance to the Phil I'd known, and so intimately, too.

I introduced Santa to Aaron.

"Aaron and I are partners now, Phil," I said. Feeling generous, perhaps because of the holiday season, or perhaps because the _New_ _York_ _Review_ _of_ _Books_ disappointment just made me defiantly resolve to feel that way, I added, "If we have a little get-together while Aaron's in town, would you like to come over?"

"Oh, man. Sure!" said Phil. The way he said it made me want to cry. How could so much pathos, so much longing, and yet so much joy, be expressed in three syllables? He sounded practically ecstatic at my commonplace invitation, as though he were loneliness itself, yearning for human contact.

I couldn't help it. I gave Santa-Phil a big warm hug. Phil's a really decent, kind-hearted young man, in a sense an innocent, and, as I already knew, an often betrayed one. He'd allowed one so-called lover after another to take advantage of him and abuse him. He must have reached the point of aching for some simple human kindness. If I could supply that even for one evening, then, by God, it was going to happen.

"You're at the top of the list," I said. "I think I have your number at home. Just in case, though, give me a call, okay? It'll probably be..." I turned to Aaron. "When's a good time, Aaron?"

"How about this Wednesday?"

"Wednesday evening," I said to Phil. "Keep that date free."

"Don't worry," he said. "Man, I'm glad to see you and your fr—partner. Aaron, I'm happy to meet you. I hope you guys will be happy together for a long, long time. Cedric, you're...you're the greatest, man!" His voice still carried that intonation of excited gratitude that I'd heard in his "Sure" that had shaken me and still reverberated in my head.

We moved on, and I said to Aaron when we were a safe distance away, "I hope you weren't uncomfortable or mad or anything. Phil's a sweet, unlucky boy who's hardly had one decent break in his life."

"I liked him even in his impenetrable disguise," said Aaron. "No, it doesn't bother me at all." After a little pause, he added, in a darker tone, "I know something of what you're talking about. Believe me. I'd want to help him, too."

The way he said those few words caused something to suddenly click in my mind.

For just an instant, I saw that faded and discolored photo taken in front of the Sphinx when Aaron was twenty-two. I thought I was beginning to understand, or at least make a pretty good guess at, something, and it wasn't the least bit pretty. If what was occurring to me now was true—then it was no wonder Aaron had seized up as he had after lunch at the Ventnors'.

Of course, I could be wrong, too.

But I wasn't.

~~~

Giselle _was_ _a_ _marvel._ I could see why the big-city reviewers had been impressed. It was, to be truthful, a rare thing for me to feel much civic pride. But experiencing that evening in the theater, with the new choreography, the stunningly good playing of the orchestra, and above all the grace and passion of the dancers—every last one of them—actually made me feel good about living here, at least for an hour or so.

Aaron was practically bowled over by the performance.

"I've seen _Giselle_ at least three times here and there, and a couple of times on TV, and none of those came anywhere near tonight's performance. I'm so glad you thought to do this, Ced. Thanks." He punctuated that thought with a peck on my right cheek.

This was on our way out of the theater.

I noticed a vivacity in the crowd of spectators that exceeded anything I'd seen in an exiting audience, here or elsewhere. There was a hubbub of laughter and conversation, and smiles everywhere. Everybody was excited and buzzed by the performance. It was a nearly perfect evening, and being with Aaron made it all better than I could have hoped.

We'd had the whole box to ourselves since Max and Julie had, of course, not come. We held hands through the performance and even kissed now and then. It was a crazy kind of fun, doing that while Adolphe Adam's exciting high-energy score filled the big auditorium and the drama of thwarted, impossible love played out on the stage below us. It felt like being in an unpublished Tolstoy novel.

The bitter cold increased the effect; there was a draft from one of the emergency exits that made it seem more like being in Moscow or St. Petersburg than in our city. Neither of us would have been surprised had Anna Karenina or Kitty Shcherbatsky poked her head in and asked if she might join us. Or perhaps better yet, Count Vronsky. No, on second thought, Vronsky's such a jerk.

We walked over to the basement bar at the Catalonia Hotel for a drink after the ballet. We didn't feel any hurry, and nursed our drinks as we discussed the performance.

I also told Aaron a little about Phil's history. Aaron nodded as if in perfect understanding of what the poor guy had endured in his, so far, short and wretched life. He was clearly moved.

"I'm glad he has you as a friend, Ced," he said.

I told him about having a night of sex with Phil that time he'd sought my help after being beat up; Aaron wasn't bothered at all.

"Thank goodness he had at least one encounter with somebody who could be tender and considerate with him and not land him in the emergency room or worse," said Aaron. "And I'm happy you invited him to come over. That was a really thoughtful thing to do."

Just then I noticed a couple of slender figures entering the bar who looked familiar, but at first I couldn't place them. Then it dawned on me—it was the lithe and handsome _premier_ _danseur_ of the ballet company, Darin Swede, and, hand-in-hand with him, a young member of the company that I'd particularly admired, and not just for his dancing, either, during the performance.

I guessed Darin to be a little over 30, his companion 23 at the outside. They looked as elegant and sexy in well-worn jeans, Doc Martens boots, and heavy cable-knit sweaters as they had onstage in their leotards, flounced blouses, and satin flats. It was plain they were more than co-workers, and probably more than friends, too. I pointed them out to Aaron.

"Shall we have them over to our table?" he said. We'd taken a table in a comfortably dark, secluded nook.

"Why not," I said.

It seemed improbable they would accept our invitation—we were both of us, of course, even Aaron, eons older than they, and total strangers. But it should be interesting to see if they knew how to turn down an invitation gracefully, a skill any artist should practice carefully, because it will prove increasingly useful as one's career blossoms.

To my surprise, they were eager to join us. Darin introduced his much younger lover, Franco Geminiani, who turned out to be, in addition to heart-breakingly beautiful, one of the most socially adept and gracious young men I'd ever had the pleasure of meeting.

He had come over from Genoa only about a year ago, officially to dance in our company but also, and mainly, to rejoin and live with his love, Darin; they'd met in Spoletto two summers ago and had quickly found even momentary separation well nigh unendurable.

Darin whispered to me, half in jest, that the hundreds of love letters and emails they'd dispatched across the Atlantic could be turned into a bestseller—albeit one with an XXX rating.

Soon we four were having a great time discussing _Giselle_ and ballet in general, from both the professional and strictly amateur points of view. They both had a great sense of humor and were truly genial, warm-hearted, and down-to-earth — even with two older strangers like us.

While I was talking with Darin, Franco and Aaron were usually babbling away a mile a minute in Italian. Franco later told me that Aaron was the first fluent Italian speaker he'd met in America. I suspected he was getting a wee bit of a crush on Aaron. But the young man was far too civil and considerate to act on it. Besides, I could easily see that Darin and Franco practically worshiped each other.

I had a hunch, just from the energy I could feel pulsating between the two dancers.

"Darin," I said, while Aaron and Franco were discussing something in rapid-fire Italian again, "tell me you and Franco didn't fall in love at first sight—I mean literally, instantaneously."

"But we did," said Darin. "It's funny you should bring that up, Cedric. Franco and I have more than once wondered how common such a thing is.

"What happened with us is that we met purely by chance as we were each entering a restaurant in Spoletto, and even before we took a table together, we knew we were meant to be together as long as we were both alive. And we left the restaurant having already solemnly pledged our lives to each other. It was as serious, and as weird, as that. Can you imagine?"

Indeed I could. That was exactly how Anthony and I had met, in that Chinese restaurant in Chicago. I told Darin about that.

He was silent for a few moments.

"My God," he said quietly. "Isn't that something. Oh, wow."

I saw him struggling to control his emotion. He suddenly discovered he had something in his eye; in both of them, in fact. His cocktail napkin came to the rescue.

By the time we left the bar, where our two new dancer friends stayed behind, they'd accepted an informal invitation to our Wednesday get-together. I had no doubt they'd not show up, but thought it was sweet of them to humor us.

Aaron, on the other hand, was convinced that they would come to the party. So we ended up making a bet on it.

If Franco and Darin came after all, I would have to take my beloved to a movie. If I won, then he would do the same for me. Either way, we'd get to see a movie. I was willing to set the stakes higher, so convinced was I that the pair would express regrets (we'd left our phone number as well as the address and time and date). But Aaron said something about moderation—a concept I've always had to struggle with—and we left the wager as it was.

# 

# Chapter 9

_A_ _heavy_ _mist_ had started falling while we were at the hotel, and by the time we reached my car in one of the municipal parking garages near the theater, it was freezing fast to the roadways. Driving was treacherous. We made it home without incident, but it took much longer than usual, even without the infernal detours due to never-ending road work.

We had our impromptu party on our minds, and I ran by Aaron a couple of other potential attendees: Fr. Marcellus, the closeted gay parish priest of St. Catherine of Siena, just down the street from La Fiorella; and Carlo Fiorella himself, who though not gay, was an enthusiastic supporter of the local gay community and had even participated in a couple of protest rallies at City Hall in the last few years.

That made five altogether besides Aaron and me, and we felt that was about all my living space could comfortably handle. If some didn't show up, (and I felt certain Darin and Franco would phone their regrets), it didn't really matter. It was just to be a quiet informal gathering anyway, so intimacy would pose no obstacle to enjoyment.

I had enough left from my advance on the not-Tuscany, not-Provence book—which I still had not had the guts to discuss with Jimmy Marsden since changing the setting to Ohio, 1950s—to afford snacks and some decent wine without any hardship. Aaron wanted to pay for it himself but I wouldn't hear of it.

Eventually it was 3 a.m. and we still had not discussed anything touching on our lunchtime imbroglio. By then we weren't in the mood, either, so it would just have to wait.

We went to bed in our separate beds around 4. I found myself watching the luminescent bedside clock, watching each minute tick away.

Finally, at 4:15, I thought, What the hell. We're partners, we might as well act like it.

I got up and headed for Aaron's bedroom, only to meet him in the hallway. He'd had the same idea.

We settled on his bed after brief discussion. It had a newer mattress and far better springs.

Besides, the flowers smelled good.

When we finally woke around one p.m. — for I'm afraid we didn't get to sleep till after seven—I started a pot of coffee, and while it was brewing, I put that time to good use in bed with Aaron. I wondered if he was surprised that my stamina matched his. If he was, he'd soon enough get used to it, I reasoned.

We discovered early on in the night, or really morning, since it was 4:15 when we met in the hallway, that we were indeed suited for each other in every imaginable way. I'd had little doubt that we would be, but it's always a relief to confirm that you guessed right. I might have to ask Aaron to help me make absolutely certain later in the day, though. If he was up to it.

We started to have breakfast completely unclothed, just for the hell of it; but it was chilly in the apartment, so we put on our bathrobes after shivering a while without them. A window thermometer in the kitchen read the outdoor temperature as minus four degrees. It was about 68 in the apartment but felt colder because of drafts. I kicked up the heat a couple of notches and soon it was more comfortable.

After we ate, Aaron was quieter than I'd expect him to be after, well, anyway, a few hours' sleep—and a nutritionally deficient but yummy breakfast.

"Is something wrong?" I said finally. But I already had a pretty good idea of what he would say.

"I wonder how long it'll be till we hear from... _them,_ " he said. He was looking down, not at me. "Ced, do you think I should go over there, or should I maybe call them, or..."

"I can't tell you what to do, Aaron," I said. "But if it were me, well, in view of Max's behavior I think I'd just take a wait-and-see attitude. I'm not so sure about your mom, though. Do you think she would support Max, I mean doing what he did, and..." I just trailed off, because my thoughts at that point were beginning to resemble a ball of yarn after a twenty-pound kitten with ADHD had played with it for an hour.

"Ced, I'm halfway afraid even to call. No, make that three-quarters. I'm sorry. I know I must seem like a coward or a sissy to you in all this...mess. I'm sorry."

"Hey, pal," I said, "it's no big deal. I mean, well, yes, it's a big deal, obviously. To you and to both of us considering we're going to be living as one from now on. But maybe it's just as well it happened when it did, instead of down the line. Don't you think?"

"Yeah, Ced, you're right. It would've happened someday no matter what. Max—dad—is, uh, pretty touchy about some things."

I didn't want to ask why, or exactly what Max was touchy about. Rather, I did want to ask, but I thought I'd better not. I was afraid Aaron might go to pieces again.

God, I thought, what a swell way to start our life together. Then I thought: That's really unworthy, Ced. It sounds like you're bitching because things aren't just the way you want them to be. Surely you can do better than that. Think about Aaron, your partner, for chrissake. How must he be feeling?

I could see in Aaron's face—when he was still looking at me, that is—how he was feeling, and I felt it in his actions, or non-action. I think the last time he'd looked me in the eye was when he said the omelet I'd made him was the best he'd ever tasted. I could see he meant it.

Now, with him literally downcast, staring at my extra slippers on his feet, or maybe the pattern in the floor tiles (which needed either replacing or at least a good going over with whatever people use these days to make them shine)—I couldn't read his emotions, let alone his mind. But while the mind must remain a mystery, I was pretty sure even so about the emotions.

"Do you want me to call them?" I said, kneeling so I could put my arm around him and coincidentally try to get a glimpse of his face.

"No," said Aaron, "there's no reason for me to cause you any more grief over this than I already have. God. I almost wish I'd never flown down here."

That certainly gave me pause.

"Aaron. Think of what you just said, babe. Think what you just said."

He threw his arms around me and said nothing for a moment. I was prepared for him to break into sobs. I hoped he wouldn't, but if he did, that would be no problem. I'd been through it with Stewart and Anthony, and they'd been on the receiving end as well, the years we were together. If anything, those little snags had strengthened our relations, and our love as well. They'd certainly never hurt it.

But he didn't break down. He let go of me, straightened up, and I saw and heard him take a deep breath. I pulled up a chair and sat facing him, leaning forward so we might touch. He took my hand. I was glad.

"I'm making such an ass out of myself these days, Ced. I hope you can forgive me. You know I didn't mean I wished I hadn't met you. And I might never have, probably wouldn't, if I hadn't got on that plane. But I don't think you can begin to imagine the reservations I was feeling, more every minute, as I waited to board at O'Hare. Remember how I said I wished it had been you that met me at the airport and that we could have just got onto another plane and flown away together? I feel that way more strongly than ever, now."

"I think I can understand that," I said. "Give me some credit. After all, I'm a moderately unsuccessful novelist. It's my job to get inside heads, and sometimes hearts, too, even if they are usually imaginary ones."

He managed a feeble chuckle. He squeezed my hand briefly as if in acknowledgment. "Ced, I just don't deserve you."

"God damn it, Aaron," I said, "if anybody's undeserving it's me. I've had two great, loving, caring partners already, and now a third literally shows up on my doorstep—and I'm supposed to think it's no more than my due? Shit! You know that's absurd. But anyway, I don't think we're in any kind of contest. Forget about deserving, Aaron. Let's concentrate on standing together. Which doesn't preclude assuming other postures now and then, you understand." I playfully nipped at his—well, anyway, with my free hand.

He had to laugh then. He kissed me. "Ced. You're just too much. Okay, maybe I do deserve you. I'm not sure how that sounds now, though."

It was my turn to laugh. I lifted him by the hand I was already holding, first to a standing and then a walking position, and led him rapidly back to the bedroom. Our slippers sounded comical slapping against the tiles.

We shed our bathrobes and crawled back in bed. It was still chilly in the room, so we got under the comforter. We didn't make love. I hadn't even had it in mind; well, not at that moment anyhow. We just lay there in each other's arms and cuddled for a couple of hours. Yes, a couple of hours. There was nothing on our agenda. And I'd made sure to look at the clock.

I wasn't sure we shouldn't be doing _something_ about the odd situation the four of us had found ourselves in. But what? If I'd been writing a novel and my characters, God forbid, found themselves in this kind of mess, how could I gracefully get them out of it? What would the Medici have done? Of course, I didn't have any idea; that's why I'd had to give up on Tuscany. (Actually, I _did_ have a pretty good idea of what the Medici would do, but I didn't like to think about it.)

What would they do up in Ohio? I didn't know that, even. Have a prayer service, maybe? Hmm. No, that was not an option.

By now it was 5 p.m. and almost dark as night. I put some music on the stereo and suggested either going out to eat, or calling in an order for pizza. We opted for pizza.

In about 45 minutes The Leaning Tower had one of its delightful pizza boys on our doorstep with an extra-large Spicy Everything. The pizza guys were all college students and they invariably were dazzlingly cute, disarmingly friendly, and disconcertingly vulnerable, even naïve seeming. And just about worth the price of the pizza, all by themselves. A visit from the right one could keep me cheerful for days.

I didn't hold it against Aaron that he practically slobbered at the sight of the anonymous, bright-eyed, young angel of Italianate mercy bearing our 20,000 calories' worth of spicy, tangy, thin-crusted goodness. I tipped the lad $10 in part because it was the Christmas season, and in part because I was still in the habit of hoping one of these gorgeous youths would eventually ask for my phone number. Actually, it was printed right there on his copy of the receipt; but anyway.

Then I caught myself. I'd momentarily ignored the fact that I was now, in a real sense, even if not in the eyes of the law, no longer single. I slapped myself interiorly, but not too hard. I certainly wasn't asking for that tip back, either.

We ate about 2/3 of the thing while the _Gurrelieder_ played. I'd ascertained that my neighbors were _probably_ not at home, making it feasible to play Schoenberg's 400-piece orchestral orgy of _Sturm-und-Drang_ at the consciousness-nuking level it deserved. I'm not sure it was the very best choice for two mature, at least in the sense of being safely beyond puberty, men weathering an acute emotional crisis, but I figured there was one way to find out. We survived. And the neighbors hadn't called; or at least, if they did, we didn't hear the phone.

I then put on some Sousa marches, and we both breathed sighs of grateful relief. Sousa was so delicate and graceful and zephyr-like by comparison.

The other one-third of the pizza went into the refrigerator. In my now once again bygone single days, it would have served as my breakfast, or, more likely, as a one a.m. bolster against starvation while I racked my wits over the insanely counter-intuitive search-and-replace feature of my word-processing software. I'd got so I referred to it as "search and destroy," as a much more accurate description.

I wasn't sure what use it (the pizza, not the software) would get now. But it would have been wrong just to toss it out. (Again, the pizza—not the software.)

# Chapter 10

_The_ _next_ _day_ was Monday, and Christmas Eve. If I didn't get downtown and do my shopping, my love was going to be receiving nothing more exciting from me for Christmas than a moldy copy of _Orchestrators_ _of_ _Desire_. And I hadn't even ventured down to the basement to dig one of those out of my locker. Besides, I'd only been joking about giving him one of those. I wouldn't even want one, and I wrote the damn thing.

I debated whether I should invite Aaron to come shopping. He could surely find something downtown to amuse himself with while I went on my quest. It might be easier, though, just to mount a one-man expedition.

Still, I knew he was going to be flying back to Chicago before long; he had no choice. I hated to miss even one hour of his company unnecessarily, and I knew he felt, if anything, even more strongly that way about mine. So I ended up asking him along. He understood the need for me to shop secretly part of the time.

We set out about ten a.m., earlier than we might have wished, but I didn't know how many of the stores would be closing early, perhaps even as early as noon, to let employees start their holidays.

Once downtown and parked again in the same municipal garage as Saturday, we went our separate ways after agreeing to meet for lunch at Fliegermann's Department Store, where there was an excellent restaurant in the basement. Expensive, too; but I still had over half my advance to play with, even if doing that might be analogous to playing with fire in view of my continued pusillanimous reluctance to contact Jimmy about the shift from 15th-century Tuscany to Columbus, Ohio, 1953. Or rather, from the Provence of the Troubadours to Ohio and rock-'n-roll, since Jimmy was not supposed to know about the Medici thing. I thought, with, I believe, some justice, that this might seem a major change in announced intentions. I knew I couldn't put off the conversation forever, but I seemed determined to inch as close to that goal as possible.

On my way to Garvin's Luggage where I hoped I could find a nice new briefcase to replace or at least supplement Aaron's outworn one, I stopped in at the kitchen-goods store and picked up the little 3-cup teapot I'd fancied when we'd come downtown with the Ventnors, Sr. that first day. That took only a few minutes, as I didn't need it gift-wrapped.

At Garvin's I examined a briefcase I felt sure would please Aaron. It was made of soft but tough Argentinean cowhide in an appealing dark-chocolate color and featured solid brass hardware as well as useful interior pockets and dividers, all crafted out of the same leather. It was costly at $375, but it was hand-stitched and of top quality. I had it wrapped in dark blue paper tied with a dusky gold inch-wide ribbon. It was a relief to have that out of the way.

I met Aaron at the restaurant. He had with him a large oblong gift-wrapped box.

We'd just ordered and were waiting to be served when I heard from behind me, "Well! Hello again, Cedric, Aaron."

It was Darin and Franco. Our table seated four. At our invitation the two dancers joined us. We were happily chatting over apéritifs when a couple of plainly but neatly dressed women in their late middle age timidly approached and at first seemed too scared, or too much in awe, to speak.

Finally the short one—her companion was a regular bean-pole by comparison—summoned the courage to hold out a little book bound in blue imitation leather and a gel-writer pen and say, "Oh, Mr. Swede, we'd so much appreciate your autograph. We saw Saturday's performance and it was just thrilling!"

Darin signed the book with a little flourish and handed it back with the gel writer. The bean-pole was still so star-struck she could not speak. The little one was trembling now, probably from nerves; one of those people who feel they're unconscionably imposing on a celebrity by daring to approach one, when in truth most fine performers (and even some writers) are only too happy to oblige their fans. After all, it's good advertising and good politics. Besides, truly creative people tend simply to be generous. This is a little-known fact, and I've always wondered why.

I suddenly got an idea. It was Aaron's and my table, after all, but even if we'd joined our dancing friends and not the other way around, I knew by now that Darin and Franco were as friendly and down-to-earth as ever you might wish. So I said, "Ladies, I see a larger table right over there" (nodding towards it) "—would you care to join us for lunch?"

I thought they would both surely faint; luckily they retained consciousness and the autograph woman uttered a soft, matronly coo of acceptance, while nodding upward to her gangly sidekick. We moved over to the table for eight and occupied six of the places. I'd unobtrusively observed Franco and Darin during this transaction. As I'd expected, they were wholly accepting and also amused. Darin winked at me and gave me a quick thumbs-up as we shifted ourselves and our parcels to the larger table.

Franco held the chairs for both women. The expression on the women's faces was priceless. I was glad I'd thought of doing this minuscule kindness. The two would now have an exciting adventure to share with all their friends, more than likely women their age, later in the day or over the holidays.

Aaron, I could see, was enjoying the women's, and Darin's and his lover's, reactions as much as I. For the first time that season I actually felt in possession of a little of the old traditional Christmas spirit.

Darin introduced Franco to the women quite simply as "my dear life partner, Franco Geminiani. Franco comes from Genoa, and he's also my coworker at the Ballet." _Il_ _bellissimo_ Franco, seated next to Darin, beamed and gave his lover a quick shoulder hug.

The women's eyes grew wide, but not from dismay. One of the fairly few advantages of being a novelist is that you learn to read people's expressions and even to a certain extent their thoughts pretty accurately. Well, sometimes, anyway. No, indeed, they were delighted. And I must admit I was, well, relieved.

Darin then said, "And these are our good friends, Cedric Chalmers and..." He paused, tossing the ball momentarily into my court. All I had to do was nod ever so slightly as an okay sign. "...and Cedric's partner, Aaron Ventnor. Cedric is—well, I imagine you may have read some of his wonderful novels. Aaron is a professor at Chicago University. He teaches Romance languages."

The women were speechless. Two celebrities, or rather one celebrity and one novelist, and their extraordinarily handsome and talented lovers at the same table with them! Now I had to fear once more that they might swoon, but again they failed to.

"We're both so glad to meet you all! Thank you so much for inviting us," said the smaller woman. The bean-pole one had not yet uttered a word but looked as though she were in heaven.

"I'm Rosa Eldridge-Meyer, and this is—well, _my_ partner, Helena." She gazed up lovingly, even adoringly, at her lofty companion.

"Helena Schuster," said the other, finally gaining her tongue. Her voice was low and melodious. "This is, well, just such a pleasure. We were—"

"—frankly a bit, how shall I say... Helena?"

"Well, a bit dispirited, I'd say," said Helena. They apparently carried on or finished each other's sentences, like Donald Duck's nephews.

"Yes, that's it. Dispirited says it nicely. Not really at all in the..."

"...Christmas..."

"...spirit. No, we weren't and that's a fact. Our..."

"...shopping just seemed a chore this year. It was going nowhere. It just hardly..."

"...seemed worth it somehow."

"No, it surely didn't. And that's a fact." Helena looked morose even at the thought of it all.

"You see," said Rosa, scooting her chair up a bit closer to the table and lowering her voice while leaning in conspiratorially. Darin, Franco, Aaron, and I instinctively leaned forward a bit in response.

"...our sons—yes, Rosa and I each have a son by previous marriage. Our..."

"...dear husbands passed on some years ago," finished Rosa.

"Yes," said Helena. "Well, our sons and their wives decided they didn't want to come here for Christmas this year, and..."

"...it was the first time in thirteen—it was thirteen, was it not, dearest?"

"Actually twelve years, but you were very close, Rosa. The first time in twelve years that we hadn't been able to look forward to seeing them, and our five adorable grandchildren."

"Oh, I am sorry," said Darin. I was impressed by how readily this virile, even macho, dancer's heart could be touched. Like the time he wept on hearing my account of meeting Anthony in the Chinese restaurant. He reached over and patted Helena's hand on the table.

"It's not that we won't have a nice Christmas anyway..." said Helena.

"...but it just won't be the same. The children always made it so special. You know. They can be loud, and mischievous—"

"Lord knows," said Helena almost inaudibly.

"But they are such dears anyway. We'll miss them."

"We miss them already." Helena nodded, hanging her head.

"We surely do, and that's a fact."

"Did they give a reason?" I said.

"No, and I think that's what hurts the most," said Rosa. "If only we knew there was a good reason. But it's a mystery. And to compound the mystery, they live on opposite sides of the country. Ben and Grace live in Bridgeport—"

"Connecticut," supplied Helena.

"...and Tom and Kimberley live in Santa Rosa."

"That's in California," clarified Helena.

"It sounds almost like a—" I said.

"...conspiracy," said Aaron. It was the very word I was hesitant to use.

"I'm sorry," I said. "We probably shouldn't have said that, but we couldn't help thinking it."

"It was my fault," said Aaron. "I'm sorry, Ced."

"No, Aaron, it's what I was thinking too, I'm sorry to say. But why would they do that?"

I was genuinely intrigued, as well as feeling sorry for the two women who would have to miss seeing their grandchildren, if not their sons and their wives. It was my story-teller's instinct, but also, I hope, a human one. A glance around the table assured me that Franco, Darin, and Aaron also were sympathetic to the two; though I think Franco was having difficulty following the conversation, such as it was. Once or twice I'd noticed Darin whispering a translation to his lover, and Franco nodding acknowledgment.

"Well," said Helena, "we surely didn't—"

"...mean to weigh you four down with our petty complaints," said Rosa.

"With our silly little grievance," said Helena. "No; of course we'll _survive,_ it's not a question of that. It's just that..."

There was silence this time.

Although the subject matter was not happy, I could feel that a warm rapport had been established around the table as the result of these two likable, if unintentionally comic, women unburdening themselves as they'd done.

Franco nudged Darin and muttered a few words in lightning-fast Italian. Darin nodded. He reached into a jacket pocket and pulled out two little blue envelopes. He handed one to Helena, and one to Rosa. "Won't you please accept these from Franco and me?" he said. "It's just a little token at Christmas-time."

Clearly taken aback, the women were hesitant to break the seals. "It's all right," said Darin. "Go ahead and open them."

They did, and then both women gasped loudly at what they found inside.

"Here," said Darin, "we were going to give these to you, Cedric, Aaron, at your little get-together, but this is just as good a time." Then he handed similar blue envelopes to me and to Aaron.

Inside my envelope, and presumably inside the other three as well, was a special pass for the next _three_ seasons of ballet performances (as well as the remainder of the current one), bearing Darin's florid signature in red ink, and an embossed seal from the ballet company management.

"They don't allow me to give many of these," said Darin, "and that's understandable. But there is nobody I'd rather give them to than you four," he said, sweeping his gaze around the table. Franco looked so pleased, and Rosa and her partner so astonished and happy, I wished I had thought to use my phone to make a photograph of the moment. "Now, they aren't the best seats in the house, let me warn you in advance, but I think you'll find the view pretty good anyway."

"Oh, Mr. Swede," said Helena and Rosa simultaneously.

"Darin, please," said Darin.

"Darin, then, how lovely, how—well, we're just at a loss—," said Helena.

"...for words," said Rosa.

The waiters are very capable at Fliegermann's, as well they should be when you think of the prices. Now they brought all six of us our meals. The women had apparently ordered earlier, and come over from another table when they saw Darin and Franco arrive.

We had a good time talking and enjoying the excellent food. We even lingered for coffee, all six of us.

Then finally it was time to go. Darin shook the women's hands, and Franco kissed each tenderly on the cheek. They blushed.

We never saw them again, or found out why their children and their wives had abandoned a long-standing tradition without offering any explanation or apology.

The incident made me reflect that families can be very strange. Aaron seemed to have found that out years ago; but it was brought home to me all too clearly at the Ventnors' when Aaron tried to tell them about our partnership and met with stony silence, and then worse; and now Helena and Rosa had shared their dismay with four sympathetic strangers. I hope that, at least, our willingness to listen, as well as Darin's generous and unexpected gifts, helped assuage part of their disappointment, and, no doubt, feeling of loneliness, even though they of course had each other. And had sensitively avoided using the word "lonely."

Tolstoy had it right when he said, in _Anna_ _Karenina,_ "All happy families resemble one another. Each unhappy family is unhappy in its own way."

# 

# **Chapter** **11**

_I_ _asked_ _Darin_ what his and Franco's plans were for the rest of the afternoon. "I have a class to teach," said Darin, "and Franco's agreed to come along and help demonstrate for the students. I'm afraid the ballet school doesn't take holidays very seriously, only work." He laughed. "Have you seen that movie called _Tout pr_ è _s des_ É _toiles?_ You'd love it, I think. It's a realistic, yet optimistic, picture of the daily life of real students, and accomplished dancers, too, at the Paris Opera Ballet. The dancers' enthusiasm is, well, catching. I don't mind admitting I shed a few tears watching it. Such young idealism, yet such realism as well. You don't dance for long without finding out that our life...isn't exactly a bowl of cherries."

Franco looked to Aaron for help. Aaron told the young man, " _che_ _non_ è _niente_ _una_ _vita_ _facile_." Franco nodded vigorously.

I hadn't seen the film, and I told Darin I'd see if I could find it streaming, and if not, I'd rent the DVD while Aaron was still in town, and we'd enjoy it together.

I couldn't resist, just before Aaron and I separated from the dancers inside the municipal garage, where Darin had parked his alizarine crimson Lexus, asking a question that had lingered in my mind ever since the women had first arrived at our table.

"Darin, it was kind of you to refer to my 'wonderful' novels. It's a word I would never have thought to apply to them myself. But, honestly, have you actually read one of them?"

What he said next echoes in my mind to this day.

"Of course, I've read them all!" he said. "Otherwise, I wouldn't have known they were wonderful."

He was the first person, besides myself (and I didn't count) that I'd met, who had read all of the silly things. He must have the patience of—well, of a saint, I thought, unable to find a way to refresh the tired simile on the spur of the moment. Then I thought, Surely he's either kidding or lying.

"Oh, come on, now!" I said. "You're just being nice, aren't you."

"No, no! Come over and look at my bookshelves some day. You might be pleasantly surprised."

I told him I might just do that.

I hadn't bought a Christmas tree, and in fact the notion had never even bobbed up to the mirror-like surface of my mind. But since we were having people over on Wednesday, only the day after Christmas, I asked Aaron if he thought we should put up a simple one anyway.

He was enthusiastically in favor, and so we drove to a sales lot located just on the outskirts of so-called Rockville, a part of town you do not want to be stranded in, day or night.

Unfortunately, Phil lived in Rockville, though not by choice. It was all he could afford. Rockville had had a bad reputation for over a century and had now reached the point that the city had more or less abandoned it, afraid even to send sanitation workers in.

The Christmas-tree lot, however, was still on relatively safe turf, and it was still daylight, just barely, as Aaron and I scouted for the best small, almost table-size, tree we could find. It wasn't too hard, as most people had been buying the bigger ones. We felt almost as though we were rescuing a pet that wasn't cute enough to be wanted, from the animal shelter.

Soon we had the tree lashed to the top of my trusty Toyota, and were just driving off when the man operating the lot came running after us to ask if we had a stand for the tree. It would have been awkward, to say the least, to put up even a tiny tree without the right kind of container, one which enables you to adjust the angle it stands at. We bought one. The man refused the tip I offered in appreciation of his thoughtfulness.

We decided against lights, not because of the cost, which was negligible, but merely because it seemed a little over the top with such a small tree. It was not much more than 3 feet in height, but pretty, not at all sparse, and it was keeping its needles well, which probably indicated it was well hydrated. We did stop at a Family Dollar store where we picked up a couple of the very last packages of foil festoons, and a box of simple but colorful miniature glass balls with hangers.

I found the movie Darin had wept over, available for streaming, and after we'd set up the tree and decorated it, we sat down with carry-out from La Fiorella (Christmas Eve was the little _ristorante_ _'_ _s_ busiest day of the entire year) , and watched É _toiles._

Darin hadn't been exaggerating. Both Aaron and I had to mop up tears more than once as the earnest young students explained to the camera the routines they had to follow, the challenges they faced, and above all their almost incomprehensible dedication to their art.

I began to feel there must be a genetic reason that some people become dancers, for them to be so driven. A few older dancers also spoke, and their testimony was moving, too. As a bonus, you got to see details of the old Garnier opera house that no tourist would ever be privileged to view.

Soon it was time to go to bed. The Italian food had been wonderful, as La Fiorella's fare always was, but it also had a powerful soporific quality.

We didn't even make love, but we did fall asleep in each other's arms, murmuring nice things to each other.

Christmas morning arrived. We had a leisurely breakfast. Then I opened Aaron's present to me. There had been only two boxes under our little hastily improvised tree: one for me from Aaron, the big box I'd first seen at the restaurant; and one from me to him.

My present was a boxed set of _all_ the music of Mozart, on more than 20 CD's. I'd mentioned to Aaron that first night how nice I thought it would be to have that. But even though I live fairly comfortably—certainly never in want, so far—on my earnings from writing, luxuries like that were ordinarily beyond my reach. Nothing could have pleased me more, and I told him so. We put on a CD of some lesser-known works and as it played, Aaron opened his big blue package with the gold ribbon.

When he saw the elegant briefcase he sprang up from the floor where he'd been opening the package, and grabbed me and kissed me so passionately it made me dizzy. "Thank you so much, Ced! I've been putting off getting a new one because I know how expensive they are. And I could not have chosen one I'd like better. It's wonderful! This will always be reminder of you wherever I take it." He had to wipe his eyes. Then he just held me for several seconds.

After that we had second and third cups of coffee, which Aaron made for us. We listened to more of the Mozart, this time a couple of the well-known symphonies. As much as I like _Gurrelieder,_ despite the unkind things I implied earlier, Mozart is more to my taste. I even played Mozart while writing sometimes, though ordinarily I preferred silence for that. I'm scatter-brained enough without added distractions.

Around noon we realized we had still not heard from Max or Julie. We decided to leave it at that. If they wanted to contact Aaron, or us, they knew my number. And his, for that matter. It was up to them. After much thought, and some conversation with Aaron about it, I, and then Aaron too, had concluded that we'd done nothing wrong, and certainly nothing to provoke such odd and even alarming behavior. It was up to them to set things right, if they chose.

Aaron and I made love in the afternoon. It was still as wonderful as that first night together. I knew it would seem less wonderful as time went on; that's just the way it is. But, as with Anthony and Stewart, I felt certain that, as long as Aaron was happy with me, I'd be happy with, and devoted to, him as well, and lovemaking would enter that long and pleasant phase of expressing contentment more than excitement.

Or so I thought that day.

We had been soul mates, Anthony and I. Stewart, while I loved him dearly, and we still love each other, in a way, started to crave more excitement after a couple of years. I in no way blamed him; it was just a difference in personalities. We finally parted so he could go find excitement, and I could, as it turned out, get into that rut I've mentioned. That was nobody's fault but my own, and in no way was Stewart to blame.

He would even have stayed with me, out of loyalty, if I'd insisted on it; he made that clear right off the bat. But I loved him, and I wanted him to be satisfied and content, not just loyal. I wasn't happy to see him go, but I wished him well and hoped he could find what he wanted, though secretly, or not so secretly even, I felt that, with his expectation of constant excitement, he would never be satisfied, and that didn't bode well for the more distant future, if there was to be one.

He understood that too, and set off like an adventurer, or a mercenary, or, to use a kinder term, a knight errant, on his difficult but intriguing path.

We still corresponded at the rate of maybe a letter or email every couple of months. He hadn't, last I heard, found his excitement yet. But I could tell he'd preserved his optimism, and that was something.

# 

# Chapter 12

_In_ _the_ _evening_ , as most of the restaurants, including all my favorites, were closed, we meant to cook. I'd planned for it a couple of days earlier and made sure everything needed was on hand.

Well, you know how _that_ goes. Everything was on hand, all right, except for the steaks that were to be the main attraction. I'd forgotten completely about those, and none of the markets were open. Not one.

On the slim chance that they'd be open—and delivering—I called up Leaning Tower. To my delight, they were operating normal hours. Even though we'd had it only a couple of days earlier, Aaron and I were equally enthusiastic about pizza, and I ordered an extra large Super DeLuxe Mega-Combo. Deliveries were delayed by snow that had been falling all afternoon and was now making the roads pretty slick, but I was assured my order would be at my door within an hour.

And it was. I was looking down at my billfold to extract a $20 Christmas tip, and the hallway light had chosen Christmas Day to burn out on, naturally, so all I saw was a shadowy silhouette of the young delivery guy, and in peripheral vision at that. Even so, there was something vaguely familiar even about that dim outline. He hadn't said a word, but now he did.

"Ced, aren't you going to even say hello?"

The voice, I recognized immediately.

"Phil! For God's sake, how many jobs do you have, anyway?"

"Whatever I can get, Ced. It hasn't been real easy lately. Randy took off with most of my clothes."

"Oh, no!"

"I wish we hadn't been the same size, though it did make for... Uh, well, anyway, he took almost everything, including my billfold and money and secured credit card. I canceled that—they let me use the phone at Leaning Tower—but the other stuff I'll probably never see again. The Salvation Army helped me out. That was kind of funny, since I'd helped them out, too, as a bell ringer."

"Have you got time to come in and warm up a while, Phil?" I asked. I knew Aaron liked Phil, too, and would be happy to see him. And not disguised as Jolly Old St. Nick this time.

"Actually, this was my last delivery. I didn't have any cash payments this last trip, and so I don't even have to go back to the shop, necessarily. So, sure, I'd be glad to come in, if you're sure I won't be a bother."

"Phil, I can't imagine seeing you ever being a bother. Come in, darling." I set the big pizza box down on a nearby table and put my arm around his skinny shoulders. He wiped and stomped his feet, in husky leather boots about a size too big for him, on the mat I keep at the door for that, and soon Aaron, Phil, and myself were digging into the extraordinarily unhealthful but absolutely delicious pizza that Leaning Tower is justifiably famous for, locally.

I'd seen right away, as soon as he'd stepped into the living room from the darkened hallway, that Phil had another black eye.

"Did Randy do that to you, sweetheart?" I asked. I felt so sad inside I could hardly even recognize it as sadness. Phil could have been my son or even grandson. I would not have been happy to see my son treated like that. Did Phil _ever_ get a fair break with his boyfriends?

"Yeah. I don't know why. Hell, I never know why they do stuff. I seem to attract brutality somehow." He made an unsuccessful attempt at laughter.

"You've been so unlucky, Phil," I said. "I hope your luck changes, and really soon."

"Thanks, Ced."

Aaron headed for the kitchen to freshen up our Diet Cokes. He rumpled Phil's shaggy brown hair affectionately as he passed the boy.

"Are you sure Randy won't come back for a second helping?" I said.

"He's got all my stuff. I doubt he'll ever come back. I hope he doesn't. But..."

Something about the pause was not reassuring.

"But?" I echoed, when Phil didn't continue.

"But Vic's back in town."

Vic had sent Phil to the hospital—twice. The second time, they had to remove a ruptured spleen. Vic was about as bad as bad news can get. I shuddered involuntarily just at hearing the name, let alone the fact that the wicked bastard was back in town. I wondered if he'd be gunning for Phil—maybe even literally.

"Oh, Phil," I said, "that's terrible. Is there any way Aaron or I can help?"

"I don't see how you could," said Phil.

All of a sudden the tears just flowed. He had to set down his piece of pizza on the paper napkin I'd brought and wipe his eyes with his shirt sleeve.

I went over to where he was sitting in the smaller of my two easy chairs, knelt, and put my arms around the poor kid. Christmas Day, and he was experiencing this kind of treatment.

"Phil," I said, "wait just a minute, okay? I'll be right back."

I went hurriedly into the kitchen where Aaron was just about to return to the living room with our drinks.

I explained about Randy and then about Vic. Aaron looked appalled.

"That poor guy," he said. "Is there anything we can do?"

"I asked Phil that, and he couldn't think of anything. Aaron, what I'm afraid is that Vic is going to hunt Phil down and finish what he started some time ago. I don't think it's safe to let Phil go home. Would you mind putting him up here for a day or two? We have an extra bedroom now, after all."

"Ced, I think it would be wrong not to. I don't want to send him away any more than you do, especially under these circumstances. Yes, by all means, let's. He's a sweet kid; he just doesn't know how to pick his companions, or how to say 'No' to them."

So we returned to the living room. Phil was trying to stop crying without success. Sure, he was feeling sorry for himself. But, damn it, sometimes we have every right to do that.

"Phil, Aaron and I want you to stay here at least through tomorrow. I don't think it's safe for you to be at home with Vic around. Vic doesn't know about us, does he?"

"I don't think so. I don't see how he could."

"Then it's settled. We have an extra bedroom, and just about anything you might need, and we want you to be here with us. God damn it, if nothing else this is just a rotten way for you to have to spend Christmas. At least you can be halfway comfortable here, and you won't need to feel scared all the time."

Aaron put his hand on the back of Phil's neck and gave him a little neck rub. I kissed Phil on the cheek and hugged him. He started bawling. It was okay. What else could he do?

Finally when he could—barely—speak again, he said, "You guys are the greatest. You're right, it was a rotten Christmas. Now it's not, though. You've made it wonderful. Thank you so much, both of you."

We three sat talking happily till almost midnight.

I was able to catch Aaron alone in the kitchen at one point, and, with Phil out of earshot in the living room where the stereo was still playing, I said to Aaron, "We really ought to give Phil something. I'm certain he hasn't had a single Christmas present apart from that black eye. It isn't right."

Aaron nodded agreement. For a few moments, we both sat at the kitchen table, thinking what we might do for Phil. It was too late to go shopping, of course. Was there a graceful option aside from that?

I had an idea. The stores might all be closed, true, but the Internet never shuts down. I discussed my notion with Aaron, making sure that we spoke softly enough that Phil wouldn't overhear us.

I asked Phil, in the living room, if he'd excuse Aaron and me for a few minutes.

"Sure," said Phil, who was listening attentively to one of the Mozart CD's from the set Aaron had given me that morning.

I was surprised to learn that Phil was a lover of classical music, and indeed knew quite a lot about it. I'd jumped to the assumption long ago, as it's so easy to do, that, considering his age and social status, he would probably be into the music most non-exceptional high-school kids and young adults seem to favor, which is definitely not classical, and scarcely even music. Of course, with a little thought I realized there was no justifiable basis for that sort of stereotyping.

Aaron and I took my laptop and printer into my—no, ours, now—bedroom. Thanks to my wireless setup, we could use it anywhere in the apartment.

Within three minutes or less, we had printed out a gift certificate to Scourby's Menswear, one of the finest men's clothing stores in the city, yet one with a broad assortment ranging from jeans, and even some Western wear, on up through evening wear, with just about everything in between, in nothing but the best, not necessarily the most expensive, but the best, labels. Aaron and I had split the expense, $250 each. We returned to the living room, where Phil was still listening to the Mozart. He was so caught up in it that he at first didn't even see us standing there.

"Oh," he said. "I didn't even know you were back. This recording is just great. I don't get many chances to hear music like this."

"You can imagine how I felt receiving the whole big set this morning," I said. "I'm so glad you like it too, Phil. Maybe we can all go to some of the symphony concerts together. Would you like that?"

"Would I! Definitely. I can probably afford a ticket now and then. Don" (Phil's boss) "gave me a little bonus for Christmas." Probably fifteen cents an hour, I thought. If that much.

"We'll find a way, regardless," I said. "You can just count on it, then. And if Aaron can't be here, at least you and I can go. I often go by myself anyway." This was true.

"Why don't you give Phil that little item we had, er, laid back for him," said Aaron. "It's still Christmas for the next three minutes, so it's not too late."

Sure enough, my watch showed 11:57. "Phil," I said, "here's a little something from Aaron and me. I hope you'll enjoy using it."

He opened the envelope we'd put the cut-out gift certificate into, pulled it out, and his mouth and eyes both got wide. He dropped the paper on the floor in his amazement, bent, picked it up, and looked at it again as though he couldn't believe what it said.

"This is a joke, right?" he said. He looked genuinely confused.

"No, sweetheart, it's no joke. It's for you to use however you want, but we hope it will be all for you, and not for any of your...well, frankly less than wonderful friends."

He stood up and embraced us both at the same time, without a word. I could tell he was weeping silently.

We just stood there a while. I could see my watch, as I had my arm around Phil's neck (as did Aaron). It said midnight.

It had a been a good Christmas for Phil after all. And I think—no, I know—that it had been a much better than just good one for both Aaron and me.

And that was because Phil had shown up unexpectedly. Phil had made it not just good, but memorable.

# 

# Chapter 13

_By_ _one_ _a.m._ we were all in bed. My clothes fit Phil loosely but well enough that I was able to offer him a complete change as well as a pair of old pajamas. Aaron and I talked quietly in bed and eventually got in the mood to make love but didn't want to embarrass Phil in case we got to being our usual enthusiastically noisy selves. Not that it would necessarily have much embarrassed him, of course, considering his history (and for that matter his brief history with me, even), but we just didn't feel right about it. So we made love experimentally, trying to be as quiet as little lab mice. I'm not sure we succeeded. But we did try.

In the morning, Phil, dressed already because I'd run out of bathrobes and it was too chilly for just pyjamas, insisted on cooking breakfast for us. Just as his taste for classical music had surprised me, for no good reason I was surprised by his skill at cooking. In fact, he seemed unusually skillful. So I asked about that.

Well, I suppose I ought to have guessed the answer. Among the many jobs he'd held had been one in the Regency Hotel's kitchens, as an apprentice chef. He probably would have stayed there, and had opportunity for advancement, had the Regency not been sold to a nationwide chain that fired virtually all the staff and moved in its own employees from around the country. This had been about three years ago, when Phil was only twenty. It was then that he got his job at the garage, where he was still working, of course, when we met at the Ro-Day-O Bar.

Breakfast was wonderful. In fact, it was so good that it gave me an idea. I'd see what I could do with it when our little party took place that evening.

We needed, in fact, to start thinking about preparations for our little get-together, and Phil wanted to come along as we shopped for the things we thought we would need. We both welcomed the offer, as by now both Aaron and I were becoming aware that we were dealing with a young man a good deal more sophisticated than we ever might have guessed: It was that familiar stereotyping at work again.

Predictably, the stores were a madhouse of first-day gift returns, hurried shopping for forgotten presents, and the search for the first post-Christmas bargains. It was not the best day to shop for party supplies. But we had no choice.

Phil was a great help. A couple of times he asked us what we wanted to look for next, and then took it on himself to do the actual shopping while we amused ourselves otherwise. I'd lent Phil my cell phone, and when he was ready to check out, all he had to do was to call Aaron on his, and we joined him at the checkout line and did the actual paying with our credit cards. It was a system that saved Aaron and me frazzled nerves and ill temper.

I could tell that Phil was having the time of his life. I knew that he felt good about helping his friends, and I knew he was looking forward to our party. Had he ever even been invited to one, unless maybe to some gathering of "friends" intent on drug deals, drunkenness for the sake of drunkenness, and loveless sex? I had no way of knowing, but that would have been my surmise, and I don't think it would have been mere stereotyping this time, either. In fact, I wonder if before today he'd ever felt really wanted, as a friend, by his own friends before.

Finally we had all we could think of needing for the party, and we started out for home again.

About a third of the way through our trip home, Phil, riding in the back seat, said, "Uh, Ced, Aaron, I hate to say this, but...I think somebody's following us."

I'd seen people be followed lots of times in movies, of course, and had even made it happen a few times in a couple of my more exciting, or should I say more nearly exciting, stories. But I'd never actually _been_ followed, as far as I knew. It was a distinctly novel feeling, and already I didn't like it.

"Don't turn around to look," advised Phil. "Look in the rear-view mirror, but do it kind of, you know, nonchalantly if you can."

He sounded as though he'd had prior experience with this kind of thing, and that wouldn't have surprised me. Aaron was driving, and it would look more natural to anybody behind us if he checked the mirror.

"I see a midnight-blue Sakura," he said. "Is that who you mean, Phil?"

The car stood out; the Sakura hadn't been manufactured for something like a dozen years now. It had a terrible safety record.

"Yes." There was a pause that a cheap novelist might call "pregnant." I often called it that in my books, in fact. "And I know who it is."

"Who?" I said.

"I'm afraid it's Vic. In fact I know it is."

This didn't strike me as joyous news. I saw Aaron gulp; his Adam's apple was the giveaway.

"Er, Phil, should...should we try to 'shake' him, then?" I asked, trying hurriedly to recall all the pulp fiction I'd read over the years in which this kind of thing took place.

One or two of Max's novels had good following, or chase, scenes in them. I'd never felt confident, myself, to venture beyond the bald statement that a character was being followed, and then, in the next chapter, to report what the result had been; usually a flaming car crash or a vehicle hurtling over a cliff off a twisty rain-slicked road, that kind of thing.

"I don't think that works in real life, most of the time," said Phil. "It's okay in movies, of course."

"So," said Aaron, "I should just keep going, then, as if nothing were amiss?"

"No, that doesn't usually work, either," said Phil.

Clearly, he _had_ been in a similar situation.

"Can you pull up somewhere and stop, somewhere with quite a few people, but not a whole lot?"

Now he was sounding like an expert. Next I'd be wondering if he knew Evan's CIA buddy who wore that revolver on his ankle.

"How about near La Fiorella?" suggested Aaron. "I'm sure the restaurant will be busy today."

"That sounds great," said Phil. I could hear uncertainty in his voice, despite the words he uttered.

Aaron took a right on Grainger and pulled up about a quarter of a block north of the _ristorante_. The midnight-blue Sakura at first slowed down (I was watching the mirror myself by now) and then came back up to speed and drove on past us.

A downright evil-looking young man, the kind the word "hoodlum" was devised to describe, sat behind the wheel, and cast a venomous sidelong glance at us as he went by. I shuddered. There were beads of sweat on Aaron's forehead. I heard Phil muttering almost inaudibly, "Oh, God, oh, God." I think his wonderful Christmas time had suddenly ended for him.

"Phil, don't be worried," I said, instantly aware that I had no sound basis for offering such an implicit reassurance. None the less, I wanted to do what I could to calm our young friend, and I felt a renewed determination to do what I could to help him make his life better—and to keep him out of the emergency room. Or the morgue.

"I'm so sorry I got you into this," said Phil, close to tears again.

"Phil," I said, "don't say things like that. In the first place, you haven't got us into anything, and in the second, you know we love you and we don't want you to get beat up again or worse, and we'll do whatever we can to prevent that and to help you, now or anytime. So try to keep that in mind, okay? We're your friends, Phil."

"Thanks, guys," said Phil, sounding miserable. "You're being so good to me, and I really, really appreciate it, but if I get you in trouble, I'll... I dunno... I'll..."

"Now, Phil," said Aaron. "You're not going to get us into trouble. Don't start thinking like that."

"Thanks, Aaron," said Phil, dutifully.

I could tell he wasn't convinced.

After it became fairly evident the Sakura wasn't circling the block so that Vic could keep his evil eye on us, we started up again and Aaron drove us the rest of the way home. Our building lacks off-the-street parking, a non-feature I've never been impressed by, and today I was less fond of that lack than ever. I wasn't sure it was wise to remain parked in front of the place.

I voiced my concern. Both Phil and Aaron thought it might be a good idea to park a block or so away in back of the building, to try to conceal our whereabouts in case Vic was scouting the neighborhood. I also didn't want Aaron walking back unaccompanied—just in case. So we'd all three go.

After that, Aaron and I would go with Phil to repark his car in another more remote location, with the portable illuminated "Leaning Tower" pizza sign taken down off its roof and stored in the trunk.

Phil had given me back my cell phone. I would be ready to use it to call 911 if need be. Aaron, accustomed to going around alone on Chicago streets at night fairly frequently, probably already had thought of the same option, and he had his phone, of course.

We got my car parked on the opposite side of the block, to the south, and walked home unimpeded and without seeing any midnight-blue Sakuras. Then we parked Phil's old Chevy Caprice a couple of blocks north.

Once safely back in the apartment with the five or six big sacks of party purchases and other items, we felt positively joyous, and we shared a bottle of Chablis. Out of simple ingredients he found in the refrigerator, Phil whipped up a scrumptious cheese dip and brought it to Aaron and me in the living room along with thin crackers.

We listened to a few more Mozart pieces, early works this time, marveling that a pre-teen boy could write such music, even with the help of his talented father. Then we heard some Debussy piano music, and after that, a couple of the earlier albums of the group Oregon that I'd loved in the 70s and 80s on LP's, and still cherished in their CD incarnations. Phil had never heard of Oregon, though Aaron was familiar with all their recordings. He clearly enjoyed the, to him, new music. He suggested playing it at the party.

I wish I could say we forgot all about Vic, but that wasn't the kind of thing you were apt to simply push right out of your mind. However, we were determined not to let the incident spoil the rest of our day. We'd enjoyed the warmth of mutual friendship so far, and its strength exceeded any worry we had about Phil's unfortunate former paramour and assailant.

As for Randy, I thought Phil was probably right. Maybe it was just as well he'd absconded with Phil's things. It would probably serve to keep him out of sight, perhaps forever.

In inviting our guests, I'd suggested "seven-ish" as a good arrival time. At seven-ten Carlo Fiorella arrived, with a bottle of 2004 Valpolicella and a whole basketful of Italian appetizers and desserts. I knew the wine alone had been costly, and the food must have taken his kitchen staff, and probably himself, too, hours to prepare.

We introduced Carlo to Phil and I could see they took an immediate liking to each other. Well, I think it would be difficult for any goodhearted person not to like Phil. Phil's trouble was that he was _too_ kind and generous sometimes, with results ranging from humiliation and petty theft to surgery.

I was able to take Carlo aside in the kitchen as we set out some of his goodies on a couple of big trays I hadn't used since Anthony's time with me. In a few words I told Carlo Phil's story. I told him about Phil's cooking experience at the old Regency. And I told him about Phil's current job as a mechanic under a mostly unappreciative, boorish boss.

"Ced, send him around to me this week or next," said Carlo. "I'm at the _ristorante_ from 9 to 5 every day, and often in the evenings, as you should know." I couldn't even estimate how many dinners, solitary or otherwise, I'd enjoyed at La Fiorella. "There's no reason I couldn't let him try out in our kitchen, and if it worked for both of us, he'd be making, well, still not a lot to begin with, but I can guarantee a good deal more than he makes now. And he'd be doing something creative that he enjoyed and which held a future for him. He can check me out with the staff as he auditions, so to speak. I think he'll be pleased with what he hears."

I didn't promise to send Phil to see Carlo. I just dropped what I was doing and gave Carlo the biggest hug I'd given anybody but Aaron in a long, long time. Carlo is a small but tough and strong man, and when he released me from his side of the hug, I felt lucky not to have one or two cracked ribs.

Father Marcellus from St. Catherine of Siena arrived next, and within minutes we were all laughing at the droll anecdotes, almost all of them racy and audacious, that he seemed to possess an inexhaustible stock of, and always told with a perfectly straight face. They often cast himself in a pretty bad light, and _none_ of them would pass muster at the Vatican.

But beneath this almost buffoonish exterior, I knew from more than one source, there resided a heart of pure compassion and limitless charity. Some of the personal sacrifices Fr. Marcellus had made for total strangers who'd turned up at his door over the years convinced me that he should eventually be put up for sainthood. I wondered if that in fact might ever happen.

By the time he'd told two or three anecdotes, both Phil and Aaron were sitting cross-legged on the floor at his feet, transfixed except when they had to double over with laughter. I didn't mind their leaving the prepping up to Carlo and me. The kitchen's small in the first place.

By 7:45 everything was set out and ready. I began to think I might have invited three or four more, especially as I was still sure that Darin and Franco would be phoning with their regrets. I was a little surprised they hadn't already. But though it was, obviously, not a performance night, I knew they both were busy with work for the ballet school. In addition, Darin was now in constant demand for interviews. In fact, a week earlier a small crew from _CBS_ _Sunday_ _Morning_ had come to town to record a five- or six-minute segment that was to be aired sometime in January.

But Fr. Marcellus, Carlo, Aaron, Phil, and myself made a congenial and quiet company for enjoying good food (Phil and I had already prepared what the three of us shopped for, a couple of hours earlier), conversation, and music.

I'd put one of my new Mozart discs on the stereo, and we'd each taken only a couple of sips of Pinot Blanc (the Valpolicella was for later, with a hearty little signature roast-beef pastry Carlo had included in his bounty) when there came a rhythmic, Beethoven-ish "tap-tap-tap-TAP" at the door. At first I was puzzled. Then I realized who it might be.

Sure enough, it was Darin and Franco. I'd lost my bet.

# 

# Chapter 14

" _I_ _'_ _m_ _sorry_ we're late," said Darin. (Actually, they were only late by Midwest standards.) "First we were held up by a BBC correspondent on the phone. From California, not London. Then we were stuck in traffic for fifteen minutes, a terrible wreck at Fremont and...where, Franco?"

"Fremont and Masonic," said Franco. He did have a heavy accent. It came out "Freh-MOHNT and Mah-ZOH-neek."

"Yes. Well, at least we got here. We've been looking forward to it."

They'd brought a bottle of Côtes du Rhône and one of very expensive Amontillado. I wondered if the seven of us could manage three bottles of wine. I decided it should be no problem at all. The sherry was obviously meant for private use.

Aaron was able to do simultaneous translation of Fr. Marcellus's endless stories for Franco, who got great pleasure from them as well as, I could tell, from seeing Aaron again. I had been right; Franco was starry-eyed about Aaron, and once again I felt grateful that the young man was impeccably fair-minded and respected prior claims. Aaron, for his part, had told me that though he found Franco gorgeous and appealing, he was too much a kid for his taste. Aaron was, unsurprisingly, into older men.

Carlo and Franco were introduced, exchanged an accolade and then carried on in rapid-fire Italian for a minute or two. It was too fast and too colloquial for me, or possibly even Aaron, to understand. Throughout the evening, those two lovely men conversed in animated snatches of their native language, and I twice saw both of them blush as Franco, grinning, made the most subtle gesture of his head and eyes towards his lover. I wonder to this day what that was about; I developed a couple of ribald theories, which may both be correct. I knew from experience that Carlo, even on brief acquaintance, had a way of drawing out confidences.

I felt so glad to have befriended Franco and Darin—and to own the privilege of longtime association with Carlo Fiorella, Italian immigrant, formidable chef and businessman, and, though straight, a fierce champion of gay rights and human rights in general.

I thought of putting _Giselle_ on the stereo. That was when I realized I'd better taper off on my wine consumption. It would have been a terrible mistake. Darin and Franco, I'm certain, were heartily sick of even that extraordinary score after hearing it perhaps two hundred times or more in the past year, let alone dancing to it dozens of times and almost surely, at some point, sustaining at least a minor injury or two in the process.

Everybody was enthusiastic about the treats Carlo had brought (including Carlo himself). I began to worry that there might not be many leftovers. Yes, I know that's an unworthy, selfish thought, but I hope it was excusable.

At one point in the evening, I'd gone into the kitchen for something, I forget what now, and Darin followed me in there.

"I've got a question," he said. "In _Don_ _'_ _t_ _Remember_ _Me_ _Too_ _Long,_ you describe how Darla jumps to her death from the soon-to-be-foreclosed houseboat when Grace refuses her advances because Grace was already involved with both Monica and Ralph Porter and his nephew. Yet at the very first of the book, you mention that Darla had won an Olympic Bronze Medal in freestroke despite her deformed left arm. I've always wondered if there was a contradiction there, or if I just missed something."

"Ah," I said, "but Darin, that's not a question, it's a statement."

"Oh, come on," said Darin, punching me in the shoulder good-naturedly. "Cedric, you're dodging the issue! Seriously, I haven't lost any sleep over it, but every now and then I think about it and feel puzzled. It must be awfully hard for a champion swimmer to commit suicide by drowning."

"Well," I said, "if you must know... I never noticed that, and neither did my editor. I guess it's just one of those 'Oops!' things that crop up in books once in a while."

It was true, I had not known I'd contradicted myself like that. I hadn't liked the Darla character while I was writing _Don_ _'_ _t_ _Remember..._ and I had to keep looking up things like the color of lipstick she wore, her shoe size or Social Security Number, and so on, but I'd let that one slip by me.

"All right, then," said Darin. "It's a relief to know I didn't fail to understand some...subtle plot element or something."

"Darin, if there are any subtleties n my books, I assure you it's by accident. I was in that used-book store the other day, you know, the one next door to La Fiorella, and..."

I told him about finding the book with the harsh but 100% accurate criticism scrawled on the flyleaf, and about writing my own endorsement underneath it, with my signature.

"Nonsense!" said Darin, seeming genuinely shocked. "I _adore_ that book. I think it's one of your best, and far and away the best of what you've published in the last five or six years. Not that the rest wasn't great stuff, too."

I must have blushed past red into the infra-red, or the ultraviolet, or whatever's next to red. "Oh God, Darin," I said. "Keep talking, please!"

He laughed. "And you thought I hadn't read your books. Shame on you, Cedric!" We sipped our Pinot Blanc for a few moments, content just with each other's company.

Then Darin said, "I know! Quiz me."

"Quiz you?"

"Yes. Ask me _anything_ about _any_ book of yours. Go on. Ask."

I thought for a moment. Actually, I didn't know my own books that well. I tended to try to forget them as soon as possible after I got the wretched things off the press and into the warehouses where most of them would just end up again in a year or two anyway, with their covers ripped off, ready for pulping.

"Well," I said, "in _Bear_ _With_ _Me,_ _My_ _Frenzied_ _Love,_ what was the name of Clementine's cat, the first one, not the one that later bit Joseph and gave him rabies."

"Fedora!"

Just like that, Darin had known the correct answer. I was amazed.

"Right. My God. Hmm... Okay, Darin, how far was it from Hagia Sophia to the sordid little apartment in Istanbul where Greg and Hermione were joined by Tommy in a three-way that sweltering August afternoon, and Greg and Tommy ended up going off to Malta together and Hermione later jumped off the roof of the basilica?"

"A hundred and eight-seven meters," said Darin without batting an eye. He was right. I think.

"For heaven's sake, Darin, I don't know if this is miraculous or...or...pathological. Nobody in their right mind would have read all my books, let alone memorized stuff in them!"

"You see, Cedric, I really _am_ a big fan. I wish I'd brought a copy of _Good-Night,_ _You_ _Bastard_ along to have you sign. That's my very favorite of all."

That book had sold so poorly that only a handful of copies were known to survive _anywhere,_ and two of those were propping up the head of my bed to ease my occasional reflux problem. The length of the book had probably been one factor in its unpopularity. It ended up five inches thick, and that was on Bible paper. (It was my Proust period.)

"For pity's sake, I just don't believe this. I feel like going out and celebrating. And finding a psychiatrist for you, Darin."

He laughed delightedly and gave me a hug. Dancers are _strong_. Don't let anybody tell you otherwise.

"Hey, what are you two up to in here?" came a voice. It was Aaron, looking amused. "Is he giving you a hard time, Darin? You know he can talk all night and still have lots to say. Not that it's not worth listening to, because it always is, I think."

I gave Aaron a little peck on the cheek. "Darin's been displaying the most amazing, nay, scary knowledge of my _oeuvre,_ " I said. "I just can't believe it. He knows my books better than I do. It's almost tragic."

"Oh, come on," said Darin, laughing again. "Give yourself credit, man. You're a wonderful writer, you really are. Isn't he, Aaron?"

"I'll say," said Aaron, though he hadn't, to my knowledge ever read more of mine than a few tepid pages of _Orchestrators_ _of_ _Desire_. Still, maybe it had been enough to form an unwarranted opinion from. And I think Aaron, like me, was getting just a little tipsy, too.

"I tell you what," said Darin. "I'm going to work in a plug for your latest, or maybe your next, book in the next interview of any length I do. I know I can figure out a way, and free publicity never hurt anybody, did it?"

"Oh, Darin, please," I said. "I'd be so embarrassed. Please don't do that."

"But I want to. Still, if you really would be uncomfortable with it... Let me know if you change your mind, okay? I get on all the networks anymore, and I'm tired of interviews; I'd much rather dance and teach, you know. It would be kind of fun to do something different, and I do think you have nothing to lose."

"I'll think about it, but I'm sure I'll still not want you to. It's sweet of you to offer, but I really don't think I'm that good, in the first place."

"Is Cedric undergoing some kind of awful _crise_ _de_ _conscience?_ " Darin said to Aaron. Darin suddenly looked seriously concerned.

"It's possible," said Aaron. "Ced, you're your own worst critic, love. I've been meaning to talk to you about it. The time just never seemed light. Uh...right."

"I'll leave you two to hash this out," said Darin. "Ced, if you change your mind, you have our number. Call anytime. I do so want to work you into an interview. It would be such fun. And I'd love to help boost your sales if I could."

"Okay, Darin," I said, still blushing but now way beyond the visible spectrum. "Thanks. You've made me feel a little better about my books already. And yes, Aaron, I know I need to get over some of this self-criticism. It's not doing me one bit of good."

Darin had rejoined the others in the living room. Aaron kissed me tenderly and rubbed my back between the shoulder blades for a few moments. It felt so good, I made a note to myself to ask him to do it some more, later.

The next morning, we all three slept late. Phil was first up, and again busied himself in the kitchen. He had the day off from work at the garage. Maybe Don had realized the pay boost he'd given Phil was so paltry that he would do well to offer something else in addition. Though I wonder if his conscience could lead him that far.

Phil cleared up and cleaned up what little there was to take care of from the party, then cooked breakfast, using some ingredients he'd purchased on the sly while doing our shopping for us the day before. This breakfast even outshone the marvel we'd experienced at his hands the prior day. I felt sure Phil could have that job as apprentice with Carlo, if he wanted it.

Neither Phil nor Aaron knew about Carlo's offer. I told them both about it as we ate, and Phil became excited. "Oh, wow," he said. "That would be a dream come true. I would have stayed on at the Regency if things hadn't changed the way they did. What do you think would be a good time for me to go, Ced?"

"Might as well go tomorrow morning, Phil," I said. "The sooner you can get out of that garage, the better. What time do you normally start at the garage?"

"Eight," said Phil, looking suddenly glum.

"Hmm. Well, then, why don't you give it a try around 6 tomorrow afternoon. Carlo's almost sure to be there. I'm sure he'll be agreeable to your working evenings till you both know if it will work out."

"Yeah, that's what I'd better do," said Phil. "Boy, I can hardly wait. I don't know how to thank you."

"You're welcome, Phil," I said. "I want to see you in a job you like almost as much as you do. I hope it works."

We weren't feeling all that energetic after the party and our admittedly rather big breakfast. So we just kind of collapsed in the living room, Phil in an easy chair, Aaron and myself on the big sofa.

I hadn't written in two or three days and was feeling guilty about it, so I told Aaron and Phil that I'd have to go off into seclusion for a few hours today to try to come to some kind of terms with my conscience by writing at least a couple of thousand words. I wondered if I could come up with that many words about Ohio, and the early days of rock, but at least I had to try.

We turned on the news at nine-thirty and the first item was about the crash that Darin and Franco had told us about, at Fremont and Masonic the previous evening.

"The occupants of the other car escaped, amazingly, with no injury," said Bill, who co-anchored the morning news on WICN with Claudia. I never could remember their last names despite hearing them almost every morning at least twice, once at the beginning and again at the end of the program. I'm sure Claudia and Bill are nice people and perhaps even fun and interesting to know, but in the context of the news broadcast; well, they just didn't do much for me. And the set was the tackiest thing imaginable.

"Here is exclusive WICN video footage taken minutes after the fatal collision," said Claudia. Then the screen showed what the station cameraman had recorded on the scene of the accident. It seems a news cruiser had been only a block or so away, and the crew had actually heard the collision itself.

Phil gasped. One of the two cars had been virtually destroyed; that was the one the family had escaped from without injury. It really was amazing that they could do that.

Then they showed the other car. It was in flames inside and out. The station's editors had blurred out the area that had been visible to the camera through the driver's window. Obviously the driver was being incinerated at the moment of recording; firefighters had not been able to get close to the car, and in any event, as we learned later, it was already too late; the car had burst into flames upon impact.

"Oh, no!" said Phil. "I think that's..."

"Can it be?" said Aaron in astonished dismay.

The burning car looked very much like a midnight-blue Sakura.

"I'm afraid it might be," I said. "Shh, let's see what else they say."

Claudia continued her commentary; the video clip was over.

"Authorities had difficulty determining the identity of the driver of the vehicle that burned, but this morning they announced that the car was being driven by Victor Goins, of Milwaukee."

A photo of the victim appeared on the screen. There was a police mugshot number at the bottom of it. It was Vic, all right.

"There was apparently no next-of-kin. It's unknown what caused the crash, but there was ice on the roadway in a few places in that vicinity. The occupants of the other car were unable to confirm that ice was involved, as they were taken so unawares by the tragic event. In a disturbing footnote to the accident, police report finding a loaded handgun on the passenger seat of the burned vehicle."

"In other news," said Bill, "a homeless person apparently jumped to his—"

I clicked the TV off with the remote. Phil was in tears. He was completely silent and immobile, but tears were streaming down his face as I've seldom seen anywhere. Aaron went over to him and put an arm around him. "I know," said Aaron. "It must be hard. I'm so sorry you had to see that. And we're sorry about what happened to your...friend." I would have hesitated, too, before using that last word, but in all decency what else could you say under the circumstances?

"I didn't love him," said Phil. "I...I guess I even hated him. He never did anything good to me, he only wanted to hurt me. But I would never have wanted something like that to happen to him."

Aaron squeezed Phil tight and caressed his shaggy head to try to comfort him. Phil half turned and put his arms around Aaron. They just stayed that way a while, while Phil continued to cry, sobbing aloud now.

There was nothing I could do.

# Chapter 15

_Phil_ _was_ _unhappy_ and upset all the rest of the morning and early afternoon. We didn't make any attempt to cheer him up or to interfere with what amounted to grieving, even if it was for a man who'd landed him in the hospital and done who knows what atrocious things to him while they'd been together. Now and then Phil would start to cry again and if one of us happened to be near, we'd give him a little hug and then leave him alone again.

Towards one p.m., Phil asked if we'd excuse him for a while. Of course we said yes. We were pretty sure he wouldn't do anything foolish; he was too generous and trusting for his own good, but he was also quite sane, and he had a wonderful change in his life most likely opening up before him, thanks to Carlo's generous offer.

At three, Phil returned in markedly better spirits. He was even able to smile, though it was a sad smile. I kissed his cheek.

"Are you better now, sweetheart?" I said. "What a day this has been for you. I'm so sorry."

"Yeah, Ced, I think I'm okay now," said Phil.

I asked Phil and Aaron if tea sounded good and they said yes, so I made some tea. We went into the kitchen for it, and sat at the little table where we'd had breakfast.

"I went over to that church, what's it called, you know, where Father Mar—gosh, I can't even get his name right..."

"Marcellus," I said. "It's St. Catherine of Siena, over there by La Fiorella."

"Yeah. Thanks. I liked the guy so much last night and all those funny stories; he didn't sound religious at all, and I got the feeling he really knows a lot about, well, human nature I guess. So I thought I'd see what he thought about it all. I wanted to talk to somebody, and I didn't want to bother you guys."

Aaron said, "Oh, Phil, it wouldn't have been a bother at all. Don't think that. But you made a good decision. Fr. Marcellus obviously has a lot on the ball."

"I'll say," said Phil. "I didn't know if he'd be home or not, but he was, and we talked for almost two hours. His housekeeper brought us hot cocoa. He never once tried to push any religious stuff on me, there wasn't even one word of that kind of cra— I mean that kind of thing, all through what we said. But he helped me. Yeah, he helped me a lot. He's quite a guy. And thanks, Aaron, I'll remember you guys are willing to listen to me, too, if I need somebody.

"Hey, did you know he's gay?"

"Oh, yes," I said. "Fr. Marcellus and I go back a long way. He's completely closeted, I'm sorry to say, but I guess he has little choice. As far as I know he's never had a lover, either. But I think he loves all humanity, so maybe he doesn't need one. I'm glad I invited him. Otherwise you wouldn't have known to do that. You were smart to go see him. And I don't know, frankly, if I'd have thought to do it myself."

"Well, I'm sure glad I went. I'll be okay."

There was a long silence as we just drank our tea and munched on some Italian cookies that were among a whole lot of good things left over from Carlo's informal catering. La Fiorella doesn't cater, but we'd rated an exception from the boss himself.

I never learned what Fr. Marcellus told Phil, but whatever it was, it worked. And it wasn't religion. It was something to do with humanity, I imagine. That's what Fr. Marcellus is an expert at. That's his love.

I'd told Phil he could stay with us through Wednesday, the day of our party. It was now Thursday, and if Phil had wanted to stay—even indefinitely—I would have unhesitatingly said yes, and I'm sure Aaron would have agreed. But with Vic's awful demise, the biggest danger to Phil's well-being was now a thing of the past. He'd already told us, around noon, that he thought he'd better be on his way back to his little apartment in Rockville, that horrid place.

"I don't know how to repay you guys for being so kind and good to me, but I'm going to think of some way even if it takes a while to do it. You're just the greatest, Ced, Aaron. I don't know what I'd have done without you, except have a rotten Christmas for sure, and maybe get killed by...by... Oh, God, it's so awful what happened. Nobody should have to die that way. I don't care how bad they are."

I must say I had to agree with that. Even Vic probably had some good qualities, somewhere. And even if he hadn't—it was just unimaginably horrible what had happened to the young man. I was glad Phil was now safe from him, but safety came at a terrible, terrible price.

"Phil," I said, "now, you know, if you want to stay on, we'd be glad to have you. You don't have to go back home today, or tomorrow, or the next day. Are you sure you feel up to it, after...you know?"

"Yeah, Ced, I'm okay. I'll be sad for a while, and I wouldn't be surprised if I had bad dreams, too; but that would be the same here, except that I'd enjoy you guys' company. I need to get back home and try to get in some halfway normal routine, you know what I mean?"

"Well, just remember we're only a phone call away." Then I remembered something Phil had said, about being allowed to use the pizza store's phone to report his stolen credit card. "But you don't have a phone, do you," I said.

"No. I had a prepaid one but Randy took that, too. I don't know how much good it'll do him. I need to get another one, I guess."

"Let me do that for you," said Aaron. "I'd really like to."

"No, you guys have already done too much for me. I can handle it. But I'll tell you what you can do, if you want to..."

"By all means," I said.

"Come with me to that clothing store and help me pick out some things with some of the money you gave me. I'm still having a hard time believing that wasn't a dream! I'd really, really like you two to help me choose stuff. If you're not too busy."

We were only too happy to do what Phil asked. Soon we were in our respective cars headed for Scourby's. Phil was still wearing the clothes I'd lent him, and had the ones he'd delivered that pizza in, in a plastic bag. Being Phil, he'd probably feel guilty about hanging on to my clothes for another day or two. He needed to learn to be just a little less considerate, for his own good.

Phil wanted our opinion on every item of clothing he looked at, from belts, to socks, to shirts, even underwear. "Phil," I said, "when it comes to underwear, why don't you just kind of go crazy and pick whatever you fancy? Who's going to see it besides you?"

Of course I realized instantly that there was every likelihood that _somebody,_ hopefully a nice young man, but probably a not-so-nice one, would see the underwear before very long. Still, it was a personal choice, and our guidance had to stop somewhere.

He ended up picking some very cool underwear indeed. It met with Aaron's and my approval, and then some. But we pretended to be disinterested parties. Phil looked embarrassed, more by having not got our specific okay, than by the elegant, skimpy, very sexy briefs.

Phil was not remarkably good-looking in the conventional way; pleasant enough, but nothing special. Except that he himself was special. What made him enormously attractive, to the point that looks meant nothing, was his inner self. It was as though he didn't know how to be mean or selfish or in fact anything but _good_. That had worked to his disadvantage, certainly, time and again. But it was something that could not be faulted. His was simply a good soul, through and through. And that was his beauty as well as his potential downfall.

On the way back to our parking spots, we went into a cell-phone shop, where Phil purchased another simple prepaid phone, got it activated on the spot, and made sure we both had his number. He already had ours.

Then we said good-bye and he went home, and we did the same.

I was surprised, walking with Aaron back into my—I mean our—apartment, at how empty it seemed without Phil. I'd liked him ever since that day he'd called me out of the blue to ask if he could talk. He hadn't known who else to turn to, and had called me, a virtual stranger he'd met only once, in a bar. As I thought about that now, walking into the empty apartment with Aaron, I seized up inside and Aaron could see my distress. I explained to him what it was about.

"Phil's a remarkable guy," said Aaron. "I'm glad I met him, and I'm glad he has you to turn to if he needs someone. He's kind of a lost lamb, and I'm afraid he's going to stay that way till someday... Well, someday it will just be too late. I'm sorry, but it just seems inevitable, doesn't it?"

I had to agree.

I told Aaron I really needed to do some writing now, as I'd said earlier. He suggested that he go shop for something special for dinner while I wrote, and I told him that was a perfect idea.

It would leave me alone for awhile, and I suddenly felt I needed to be alone.

Aaron said he'd return around seven. We kissed good-bye and I walked over to my desk, not quite so cluttered as it had been before Aaron's arrival what seemed now like years ago, but was really only just less than one week.

Only instead of writing I sat there and wept for over an hour.

I didn't know I would miss Phil so much. I was completely unprepared for it, and it felt now like some disaster was happening. I just hoped not.

# 

# Chapter 16

It was 6:30. Aaron could return at any minute. I hadn't written one word, but I put my laptop on the desk, plugged in the power adapter, and turned it on so it would not be apparent I'd done nothing. Of course I hadn't done nothing. I'd cried for over an hour now and I had finally stopped but I felt like I might start in again at a moment's notice, or even without notice, as though anything, any reminder of Phil, especially, might rip into my soul.

I stood back and examined my handiwork. Yes. It was good. It would have fooled me, even. Aaron wouldn't suspect a thing.

Even as I thought that, I recognized the absurdity of what I was doing.

It was 6:35. I'd be taking a chance now, but I'd decided what I was going to do.

I went into the spare bedroom. The chrysanthemums and carnations had long been gone, of course. The vase stood empty and dry. Even Aaron's scent was gone. That wasn't surprising, as we'd slept together in my room since Tuesday, and anyway, the bedding had all been changed before that.

But Phil had slept in this bed Tuesday and Wednesday nights.

I walked over to the bed and touched it. Of course Phil had made it up neatly that morning; that was like him. He'd probably worried if it was neat enough.

I sat down on the quilted bedspread. I hadn't supplied any spare bedding. I carefully peeled back the bedspread, uncovering the two pillows and then the upper quarter of the expanse of sheet.

I buried my face in one of the pillows, then the other. The second held Phil's scent. I fought tears, though I suppose it would have been safe to cry; Aaron was unlikely to revisit this room and this bed.

I raised myself up, lifted up the top sheet and breathed in the reminder of Phil's body from the bottom sheet where he'd lain. I moved down to the middle and inhaled deeply there.

It had been too long since our one encounter all those months ago for me to remember all the sensory details. The scent I breathed, I would not have recognized, but I knew it was his. That was all I cared about now. Memory meant nothing. I just wanted this faint yet intoxicating scent he'd left behind. And I wanted the body that had left it there.

And all of a sudden I knew I didn't even care about Aaron.

It horrified me to notice this; why now? Why hadn't I known before? For I realized I hadn't cared about Aaron, not really, since Phil showed up with the pizza delivery.

When Aaron and I made love that first night that Phil stayed over, I now recognized with an interior feeling I didn't even have a name for, but that was akin to terror—I'd been thinking of Phil all the while, Phil who was just down the hall. It was Phil I wanted to be with me, not Aaron. Aaron was only a convenient, and, under the circumstances, unavoidable, substitute. It was Phil I'd wanted to be holding, to be inside of, to reach the height of pleasure with, and then descend together and laugh at our exhaustion.

I felt devastated but curiously I did not feel ashamed or guilty. I couldn't imagine why not.

I continued to breathe in the aroma of the body of the man I really loved and had loved all along without knowing it.

I considered just staying there and letting Aaron find me with my face buried where Phil's body had imprinted its scent on the bed, where all the parts of his body had been resting less than 24 hours ago. Why not; he'd have to find out sooner or later.

I thought about phoning Phil. I decided that wasn't a good idea.

I looked at my watch. It was 6:45. I didn't know how much time I might have left. I quickly made up the bed again to its neat self, to how Phil had left it that morning.

In the hamper in the shared bathroom was a towel I knew I'd left out for Phil. All the towels were different, and this one with the blue stripe was Phil's. It was still damp from his drying himself after showering. I pressed it to my face and breathed in every molecule I could possibly inhale and held my breath, and then I did it over and over till I was becoming faint, and the scent, heady and musky at first, was disappearing because I was consuming it all.

It was 6:50. I reluctantly put the towel back into the hamper. It had smelled so much stronger than the pillow or even the sheets. I tried to memorize the smell. It was not easy. I knew I'd probably fail.

Just as language fails when it comes to describing scent and taste, so our minds somehow lose hold so easily of those things.

But now and then a gust of air or walking into a stranger's house or standing in a clearing in the woods, can suddenly almost overpower us with an odor we'd forgotten we'd forgotten, even to where sometimes we may fear we're losing our minds to the flood of unexpected memory.

I didn't even remember much about my one night with Phil a year ago. The scents I'd just been greedily searching for didn't bring it back, either.

It had not seemed that remarkable at the time. It was pleasant, I recalled, it was fun, we were tender, that part I did remember well; indeed it was probably, I knew now, the first tenderness the young man had ever known. But otherwise it was not all that memorable.

Now I wished so that I could recall at least a few details of it.

I didn't even have a clear picture of his nakedness; all I could pull up in my mind was a generic picture—I might as well have been looking at a plate in an anatomy book. I remembered that his belly had been really flat, and that he was circumcised, and that was all I could remember.

I felt I'd cheated myself, now, by not paying better attention and by not rehearsing those moments in the time between then and now.

I could not remember the taste of his skin or of his semen. I felt like a failure.

I felt sure I'd never be able to recapture any of that: the sound of his voice at climax, for example. Gone. The touch of his fingers all over me, and mine all over him: also gone.

Damn. I'd let myself down. Why had I not realized how precious all that had been? What went wrong? How had I allowed myself to think something, anything, was more important than that?

And what had gone wrong with me and Aaron?

6:55 and Aaron was not back. He'd said seven.

I went back into the living room, to my desk. I stood there in indecision a few moments, looking down at the desk, some papers on it, the glowing laptop, the little green glass frog. The Czech box was sitting beside the frog. I picked it up and fondled it. It gave me no comfort. I knew the frog wouldn't, so I didn't even offer him the opportunity of disappointing me.

I put the Oregon album on that Phil had liked so well. I lay back on the sofa. I fell asleep.

I woke to the sound of sirens nearby. It was dark except for the glow from the laptop screen. I hadn't turned any of the room lights on, anywhere.

I went out onto the balcony, where it was both dark and cold, and rather damp. I could see the glow of a house fire visible four or five blocks up the street and fire trucks were arriving there and that was what had woke me up. The sickening smell of a house burning—there's nothing like it—was everywhere.

It matched what I was feeling inside me.

I looked at my watch. The dial glowed. It said ten p.m.

As far as I knew, Aaron had not come home yet. If he had, it was mighty strange that he hadn't woken me, or at least turned on a light somewhere. And the apartment was perfectly still; I sensed I was the only one in it.

It was too cold, though the air felt good in a bracing way. I was barefoot, a habit of mine when I come home, and the cement floor of the balcony was damp and uncomfortable underfoot.

I went back in. I checked the rooms, and sure enough Aaron was not there. I looked at my answering machine. No messages. I looked at my cell phone. Nothing. No, wait... There was one message, but it was not from Aaron's cell nor from any number I recognized. Then it occurred to me that it was probably a message from Phil's new phone. I hadn't committed its number to memory yet. I should do that. Probably.

I played the voicemail.

"Ced, this is Phil. I just wanted to try out my phone and to thank you for such a great time. You and Aaron...well, I just don't have words for it. You will never know how much your kindness means to me. I mean it. I love you guys. Talk to you later, bye."

The time stamp said 8:45. An hour and a quarter ago. If I returned the call Phil might be asleep. Besides, I didn't know what I could say. "Come back, I want you?" Hardly. "Come back, Phil, I need you?" Even worse. I knew, moreover, that I didn't need him, any more than I needed Aaron, or a stiff drink, or more CD's. I hadn't lost all my sense of reality, yet.

But I wanted him. How I wanted him. I was aching for him, that's how much I wanted him.

And I realized I not only didn't care about Aaron, I wanted him out of the way.

~~~

I could not have guessed such self-deception to be possible. But as surely as I knew I was standing there in my bare feet on the threadbare throw rug by the sofa, I knew that from the very first I'd been making a fool of myself, that I never had loved Aaron. I simply had no idea what I'd been thinking, or how I could have been so stupid. I didn't just feel foolish, I felt imperiled. If I could deceive myself that convincingly, then were there any limits at all?

That stiff drink actually sounded like a pretty good idea. I found a bottle of Scotch I'd stowed away a couple of years ago. Generally I served wine to what little company I had. I had a taste for Scotch, but that was just the trouble. I had quite a taste for the stuff. But I'd managed to play it cool for several years now. Well, maybe it was time to turn over a new leaf.

Four drinks later I was feeling better. I had sense enough to keep the volume way down, but I played some of the Mozart. I began to wonder if I should give the CD's back first, and then tell Aaron to go back to Evanston, or tell him to go and then at the last moment hand him the heavy box of CD's. I spent several minutes pondering this issue, slouched on the sofa with my fifth Scotch and water, easy on the water.

I went to my desk and actually wrote some stuff. I wrote about loving Phil and wanting him and how I longed to hold him in my arms again and for us to make love like a year ago, and this time I promised myself to pay attention and learn all I could about his shape and scent, his flavors, the sounds he made, the rhythms of his beating heart.

I bolded the text and increased the type size till what I'd written exactly filled the screen. I made the background yellow so it would really draw attention. That's why they make lots of road signs black on yellow: "Slippery When Wet." "RR Xing." "Dead End." But not, for some odd reason, "Stop." That's white on red. Isn't that curious?

I left my big writing up on the screen in case Aaron might like to read and comment on it.

I laughed. It all seemed so funny now. I laughed all the way through my seventh Scotch. I'd run out of water, unfortunately, so I was having to drink the stuff straight. But it tasted even better that way.

I woke to brilliant sunlight flooding the spare bedroom, where I found myself for some reason lying sprawled naked atop the bed Phil had slept in and then so neatly made up. I looked at my watch, which was thoughtful enough to show me the date and day as well as the time. It was the next day, that's what it was. Yes.

And it was nine a.m.

I went to the bathroom and then I stood for a while braced against the sink and staring into the mirror making sure I could recognize myself. I passed that test. I'd forgotten to flush the toilet, but I took care of that now. I felt I was doing pretty well, considering.

I stumbled into the kitchen and somehow managed to make a pot of coffee. I wasn't hungry, but I was thirsty. I drank a couple of glasses of water while the coffee brewed. I didn't even think to check the answering machine or my cell phone till after my second cup of coffee, which was damn good coffee in my very favorite cup. I felt proud of having located the cup all by myself, in the cupboard where I customarily kept it. I'd always suspected that it would pay off, some day, to have accustomed places to put things. I poured myself a third cup and found my way to the sofa.

The answering machine was blank, but my cell phone there on the coffee table had one message on it, from Aaron's cell.

I played back the message....

And suddenly I felt as sober as if I hadn't taken a drink.

# 

# Chapter 17

I'd only been inside police headquarters once, when I'd bailed out a friend at a bonding office and then gone to headquarters, where the city jail is, to meet him and take him home. That was years ago. The place hadn't changed, as far as I could tell. There were more modern computer terminals now and more of them, and flat-screen monitors instead of bulky, radiation-oozing CRT's, but otherwise it looked much as I remembered. On the other hand, I'd spent some time, not too many hours earlier, learning how deceptive, or at least how deficient, memory can be.

I found out after being referred to three different desks that Aaron was with Detective Banning in Banning's office on the third floor. At that point I had to submit to another metal detection; I passed, and was allowed on the elevator.

As the elevator crept upward I was feeling a little relief, because I already knew Banning, though rather casually. Single, nearing middle age, he was easy going, considerate, and likable. Aaron could have done worse.

After a little indecision I decided the office was to my right so I walked down a very long corridor till I discovered it had really been to my left. So then I walked all the way back and then beyond the elevators and finally I found a door with a neat brass plate attached to it that said "Det. Jim Banning." I rapped twice softly and then opened the door and went in.

Aaron was sitting with Banning on a small sofa in Jim's cramped office with its filing cabinets, a cluttered desk, an old-fashioned radiator emitting mournful radiator noises and occasional gusts of steam from the pop-off valve. The city was in dire straits and replacing aged heating systems was not even a low priority. Neither, apparently, was renovation of detectives' offices.

Aaron looked like shit.

Jim Banning stood to greet me with a handshake.

I sat down beside Aaron without a word. Banning sat on the other side. Aaron put his hand on mine. He looked at me like a condemned criminal begging for mercy, although as far as anybody knew he hadn't done anything wrong.

His message on my cell phone had been brief but cogent. On the spur of the moment, after the shopping for dinner he'd set out to do in order to allow me to write the evening before, he'd stopped by the Grandjean to check up on Max and Julie, since we had heard nothing from them since Saturday, and it was now Friday. He was half scared to even try to see them, but he felt a duty. Maybe that was too bad; who can say. The Saab was there; they didn't answer the door.

He found the building superintendent, showed ID, and the super let him into the penthouse.

There he found them both dead. He called 911.

The police were of the opinion, at this point at least, that there had been some kind of suicide pact. They were both in the bathroom, Max in their old tub full of water, red water that had no doubt been warm at the time, but was now ice-cold; Julie, on the floor beside it, probably poisoned; forensic results, I found out later, confirmed that. Max had done a really good job of slitting his wrists, using an old-fashioned "cutthroat" razor, which I believe, from crime stories I've read, including, perhaps significantly, a couple of Max's own, is the preferred implement for that kind of thing.

They'd apparently turned the heat off in their apartment first, and since it is located on the roof of The Grandjean, it was below freezing inside. At least that made the crime scene a little more bearable, which may in fact be why the heat had been shut down. Max and Julie were always considerate. Well, almost always.

I felt, despite all, an immense and overwhelming sorrow and pity for Aaron.

Pity is an emotion that people scoff at and say is inferior to any number of others: compassion, the urge to assist, probably a score of others, some even nameless. I don't know why pity gets singled out for such bad press. Phil had felt sorry for himself and cried because of it, in front of Aaron and me. But why the hell shouldn't he feel sorry for himself? And why shouldn't somebody feel sorry for another who's in a pitiable state?

Maybe what people should scoff at, is people who belittle others when they're down.

There are lots of things that even an old-hand novelist doesn't understand, and we're supposed to be up on all the emotions and that sort of stuff. Well, pity is one thing I do understand; but it's scoffing at it that I don't.

I put my arm around Aaron and held him close, his cheek against mine.

Banning was looking at Aaron with what I can only call pure compassion. I don't know how many cops are like him; probably not many, considering the crap they have to put up with day after day. But I wish there were more.

"Ced," Banning said to me, "there's nothing to keep Aaron here any longer. If he wants to go, that's fine, we may have some more routine questions later, but I want to stress that they're routine. We are convinced this was a double suicide, whatever the reason may have been. I just wanted you to be here in case, well, what I mean is, I think it would be better if Aaron were not alone for a while. Okay? That's why I asked him to call you this morning."

"Sure," I said. "I'll see to it, Jim. I appreciate your concern. I'm glad you're on this case."

"I'm glad if I can help," said Banning. "This was a terrible thing and I take it that it was unexpected. But at their age...well, things get unpredictable sometimes. Even young minds can snap for no apparent reason, we all know that. When you're over eighty, there are stresses that you and I can't imagine. It's a wonder there aren't more episodes like this. I'm only sorry Aaron had to be the one to discover...the scene. There's no way that can be a good thing for anybody to go through."

"I know," I said. "I'll take care of Aaron. And I'll keep in touch with you, if you don't mind."

"I was going to ask you to, Ced. In case my number's changed since last time we talked, here's the good one." He took one of his cards from a little holder on the desk, and scribbled his private cell-phone number on it. "Call anytime, day or night. I don't mind, I want to make sure you know that."

"I know. And thanks. I guess we can go now?"

"Sure. Aaron," he said, "take care, buddy. I'm more sorry than I can say about all this." We stood, and Banning embraced Aaron and held him close.

"Thanks," said Aaron.

"Aaron, you too, call me if I can help with anything. That's what we're here for."

I thought, That's hardly the public perception. But I was glad to hear Banning say it anyway.

It seemed incongruous, though: this gentle, thoughtful man wearing a big 9-mm Glock in an old worn shoulder holster. He looked tired and sad.

We drove homeward in silence. As I was letting him out at the Grandjean, where he'd left his own car, I said, "God, Aaron, what an awful thing. I'm so sorry you had to go through that. I can't begin to say." And I meant it, despite everything.

He rejoined me at my place about five minutes later; we had a simple little lunch at the kitchen table.

Afterwards, Aaron filled me in on some details of what he'd been through, and he told me what he thought had happened. Here is what he told me.

"Ced," he began, "I know you've been wondering why I fell apart so thoroughly that day at mom and dad's, and why I was alienated from them, not completely but, well, it might just as well have been, for so many years.

"Remember when you asked if I remembered Cairo?"

I nodded.

"And I said it was pretty much unforgettable. Well, it was, and it is.

"It wasn't dad who met Yousef at the museum in Cairo. I know he told you that, but it wasn't true. It was me.

"I met Yousef purely by accident; I had permission to search some of their records, their archives, for a friend of mine back at the university, a professor heavily involved with antiquities, including Egyptian ones. I'd been his research assistant in my junior year. He knew I was going to Cairo with mom and dad the summer after I graduated, as part of a kind of graduation present, and he asked if I'd mind trying to find a really obscure piece of information for him. Of course I didn't mind. He managed to get me access to the archives there.

"Yousef was doing similar work for a professor of his at the university in Cairo. I happened to sit down at a table in the archives right across from him, and we hit it off immediately. In fact... Well, in fact, it was love at first sight, for both of us.

"Yousef was a kind, gentle, vulnerable boy of 19; I was twenty-two. I think we would have got married that afternoon if such a thing had been possible, that's how close we were immediately, I mean instantly. It was actually scary.

"I couldn't wait to introduce him to mom and dad. We went to the hotel together—this was before we came down with dysentery, mom and dad and me—and mom was delighted with Yousef, his flawless manners, his bright conversation in pretty good English, his selfless nature which was apparent to everybody. In short, Yousef was...well just about out of this world. His being beautiful didn't hurt, of course, but it was his soul, his spirit that shone and that seized mine and held it fast. I know that sounds stupid, poetic, sentimental, but it's true, and I can't help how it sounds.

"So things were just great. That is, till dad stumbled in from an afternoon's heavy drinking at a clandestine English bar down the street where expatriate writers hung out. Hemingway used to go there.

"Dad was often drunk, but it never really caused any great trouble. This time it did.

"To say he latched onto Yousef is a major understatement. He seized him — oh, not physically—not at first—but as an act, I dunno, of piracy I guess. Emotional piracy? Is there such a thing? Dad just effortlessly took Yousef away from me. I don't know to this day how he did it. It was like some kind of magic, really bad magic. I've actually wondered if dad had some kind of evil spirit in him. You yourself saw him the other day. I ask you, is that normal, such hatred?

"Dad was handsome, witty, and charming in those days, even drunk. Yousef was magnetized by him, mesmerized, captivated. I don't think he looked at me more than once or twice the rest of the day. He absolutely only cared about dad from then on. I thought I'd lose my mind.

"Yousef soon found out life was not going to be simple with us. He'd ruled me out of his life. I was sad, even despondent, about that, it goes without saying. But then something happened.

"I don't think dad actually raped Yousef. That would be putting it too strongly, even though in a way I'd like to think that, God help me. He spent the night with Yousef in his bed. Mom had a separate bedroom. I think she heard a lot of things. I spent the night wandering the streets of Cairo. I couldn't bear to be at the hotel or even near it. I kind of wish now I had been there. But I wasn't.

"Yousef managed to get me alone for a few moments the next day. He was afraid of what dad would do to him if he found him near me, let alone speaking to me. But it was urgent. He told me that he had had sex with dad all night long, he'd lost count of how many times dad had...well, Yousef was not used to that, he'd never even been penetrated before. He was not opposed to the idea on principle, but his attraction to dad had been a romantic one; he'd imagined tenderness and maybe, well, something like mutual masturbation, I guess, but nothing like what he found himself subjected to, repeatedly, that night.

"I only had time to ask if he wanted to go to a hospital. He was obviously in considerable pain, but he said no.

"I had no idea if he'd actually been seriously injured; I only hope not. But he was psychologically injured, that I can vouch for.

"He was afraid to go back to his family, for pretty obvious reasons. He was afraid to go to school. He was afraid of dad but he didn't know where to go, and at least at the hotel he had a roof over his head for as long as we were there. When we got sick, dad even procured a separate room for Yousef, probably the one and only generous thing he ever did for the poor guy. Well, he did also buy him those tight 501's you saw in the photo. He wanted to show off Yousef to best advantage, you see.

"The photo was taken the next day, out by the great pyramids with the Sphinx looking on disdainfully.

"And now you know why I wasn't smiling."

I listened, not in disbelief, but in amazement. Something like what Aaron was telling me had been formulating itself deep down in my mind ever since I saw his unsmiling face in the old Ektachrome photo, and Max's arm around Yousef, and not around Aaron, not around Julie. I knew subconsciously right away what was wrong. I just hadn't wanted to believe it.

"My God, Aaron," I said. He was pale just from the memory of all that, maybe from the memory added onto the death scene he'd discovered around 7:30 the night before. He threw his arms around me and clung onto me. At first I didn't reciprocate. But then I held him, too. What else could I do?

"So..." I began, tentatively, "Max..."

"...was afraid he was finally going to be found out and, I don't know, prosecuted after all these years for whatever... I mean, it's completely unrealistic, but I think his mind had been slipping for a number of years now, only it just wasn't usually noticeable. Mom had been suspecting something, that I know. But she was afraid to do anything, in part because she knew how violent dad could be, and in part because, she, too, was afraid that the force of the law was going to come down on both of them, even though that was so improbable, after all this time, that it amounted to zero probability. They couldn't see that.

"If I were living nearby, with you, and we started to share our life stories as any couple naturally will do —

"Had there even been, technically, any crime? Probably not, as horrifying as that sounds.

"A guilty conscience can be a powerful thing."

I said nothing at this point. I thought a few things, uneasy things, but said nothing.

"And Yousef...?" I ventured finally. Aaron took a step away, turning his back to me.

He was quiet for a while, and I could tell he was struggling not to cry.

"Committed suicide, a month or so after we left Egypt. End of that story."

There was another long silence. We just sat there thinking our terrible thoughts, each of us.

"I was up all night, Ced," Aaron said at last. "I've got to get some sleep. I'm about to pass out. I'm sorry."

"Let me help you," I said. I walked him into the bedroom and undressed him myself and lay him down in my—our—bed. I tucked him in with a lightweight but warm comforter, a goose-down one. He was asleep before I even got him all tucked in. But not before, half asleep already, he'd taken my hand and said, "Damn it, Ced, I still love him just like on that first day. Yousef. I always will."

# 

# **Chapter** **18**

I sat in the living room without music, without a drink—well, I think I remember getting a diet cola at some point. Otherwise...

I still longed for Phil. Aaron, I knew now, longed for Yousef, long dead. It was pretty well over between us, then, for several reasons.

But I couldn't very well tell Aaron to go home. I didn't know if I ever could, now. How would it be possible, after what he'd endured, and what he'd told me, and the trust he'd placed in me, and...

Damn it, I thought, I just don't know what to do. I don't have the faintest idea of what to do.

He flew back to Chicago a couple of days later. He was not interested in going to Max and Julie's funeral. An uncle from Cincinnati was taking charge of that, and had in fact been named executor of their wills long ago anyway. I did learn months later that Max had left everything, every last penny and every least asset, to Aaron. Several million dollars. It surprised even me.

Yes, a guilty conscience is a powerful thing. Aaron was right about that.

We'd checked with Jim Banning first to make sure that it was all right for Aaron to leave. He said there was no reason for Aaron to stick around unless he wanted to.

Aaron's life, for the moment at least, was still in Evanston and at the University, and he couldn't just up and walk away from that. It isn't that easy. Besides, I felt pretty sure he wouldn't want to, now.

As for me, I didn't know if I wanted him to come back or not. By now I wasn't even sure if I wanted to contact Phil, or if I dared.

Then about a week later Phil called. He'd met a young man, on the kitchen staff at La Fiorella, where Phil was indeed soon to be taken on as an apprentice chef—Carlo was pleased beyond words by Phil's skill and dedication and personality.

The young man, Teddy, was actually kind and intelligent and thoughtful and gentle and... In short, everything Phil had never experienced, let alone expected, from a lover. He was sure they'd become partners, and probably pretty soon, too, after Teddy discussed it with his parents in Tulsa, who had told him repeatedly they hoped he'd find the right man some day, anyway.

Phil had no parents. He never told me what had happened to them, and I never asked.

Then about a week after that, Aaron called at 9 p.m. on a Saturday to say that we needed to talk.

"I'm listening," I said without enthusiasm.

I was not particularly happy. I'd been pretty down ever since Phil's announcement about Teddy, even though I was glad that Phil had finally found somebody that might be deserving of him. It was about time. If it made me jealous, that was my problem. And it wasn't like I was a stranger to that.

"Ced, I don't think I'll be coming back. I'm sorry to say it that way, but I don't know how to put it otherwise. You know I was pretty shaken up about the...the suicide thing. You were great, and I can't thank you ever enough for your help after that. But at the same time I noticed that... Well, you just didn't seem the same, and I don't mean it unkindly, but... You just didn't seem the same, that's all. It worried me, and it still does. I've thought about it, and about how sudden our involvement was and everything, and..."

"Hey, Aaron. Don't try to explain things. There are things that can't be explained. And there are things that just shouldn't be explained. Maybe this is one of them. It's your life, Aaron. I don't want to force you into something you're not sure about. Maybe you're doing the wisest thing. And maybe next year, or the year after that, you'll see it differently, and — "

"Ced, you're being tactful, and that's fine. But I know what you really want to say. You can say it if you want to. Honestly, I don't mind. I'll still love you. I just..."

"Yeah. Okay. Okay, Aaron, let's just say we're on indefinite hold, and we're free to...to think things over, or not, and free to forget the whole thing, you know... Whatever seems right either now or later. Let's not put any strings on it at all. Okay?"

"Ced, I think I've got a better idea. Why don't we just say good-bye right now and go on with whatever it is we want to go on with, or need to go on with. Wouldn't that be simpler?"

I had to admit he had a point.

"Aaron, you're probably right. I never would have thought it was a mistake, but I guess it was. In fact I know it was. I'm sorry if I led you on or..."

"Ced, you didn't lead me on, and I didn't lead you on. We just got carried away, that's all. It's stupid, isn't it? I mean we thought we were onto something wonderful, almost miraculous. I don't know how two people can make such a mistake, but it looks like we succeeded in doing just that."

I had to laugh, and it wasn't even a bitter laugh. In part, I felt relieved. In part, I felt like slitting my own wrists. But I knew I wouldn't. Not over Aaron, and not even over Phil.

We said good-bye in that same phone conversation. I haven't heard from Aaron since, and I haven't sent him an email or written or anything. I finally took his phone number out of my contact lists.

I keep Phil's in there just in case, though.

~~~

Now it's December, almost a full year later. Nothing much has happened in the meantime, with me. I still eat at La Fiorella pretty often, and Phil always comes out of the kitchen if he's there, and says hello, and Carlo doesn't mind if he sits down with me and spends the whole time of my meal with me. I'm always glad to see him. I still long for him but naturally I don't tell him that; I hope I would never tell him that, and I hope he never guesses.

Teddy is a really sweet boy. Phil was finally lucky. I'm happy for them. I guess.

No, I am, really. I just don't always feel that way.

I probably ought to toss this Czechoslovakian box out, and maybe the green glass frog as well. Neither one of them has done me any good. I still write, when I write, slouched on the sofa with pen and paper or my laptop. My desk is even more cluttered than a year ago, before Aaron came. The frog has not had one bit of luck making me more disciplined. I'm less, instead. A good deal less. I worry about it sometimes. Not too much, though. My royalties are enough to live on, as long as they don't raise the rent too much each year.

Yeah, I sit here at my cluttered-up desk and stare out at the dirty snow and the almost complete lack of traffic, and fiddle with the damn little box that Aaron gave me. It's too pretty to throw out. Besides, I like to read the note inside it now and then. I guess it brings back some kind of happy memory, kind of. I'm not so sure about that.

I ought to get over all this. I know.

I miss Max and Julie, but not as much as if I hadn't heard what happened in Cairo in '87. After halfway guessing something like that, myself.

Eventually I hope to have Phil and Teddy over. Just because I still want Phil—I'm not going to lie about that—doesn't mean I don't like him or wish him well. I do. There's nobody I'd rather see happy, not even me. Phil is genuinely good. Teddy's a lucky guy. But so, now, is Phil, at last. He even looks better, a lot better, healthier. I think it's from La Fiorella, and from love.

What the hell: Maybe I'm lucky, too. Maybe I just don't quite know how to see it yet.

I imagine there may still be time for that.

—The End—
About the author:

Jon lives in the Midwest USA. Not in the nameless, fictional city where Cedric lives, but close.

