Charlie. "There's no way I'll be able to look through everything."
"Dude, you gotta stop whining and concentrate, okay? This is a very important thing we're doing here."
"What do you mean,
we
?" Michael kicked one of the boxes and winced when the old carton
didn't give in. "I don't see you eating dust and sweating your balls off."
"But you know I'm there in spirit."
Michael crouched next to the box that didn't give in, opened it and gasped when he discovered a
small trunk under a musty blanket that was filled with pictures and old documents.
"This is what I'm talking about." He peeked inside, and there was no containing his excitement at
the sight of a face that could have been his own looking at him from almost every picture. "Finally!"
"What is it?" Charlie demanded. "What did you find?"
Michael couldn't answer. He was speechless. Torn between feeling happy over what could only be
classified as the most successful treasure hunt adventure of his life, or outraged over what his
grandma had done.
"Mike?"
Michael kept taking things out of the box. He found old notebooks, a few leather-bound
journals, two Oscar statues, a Tony Award, and a bunch of old letters.
"Hey, Mike!"
He heard his best friend calling, but he didn't answer. Some of the letters were from a Helen
Bancroft. Some others were from Richard Bancroft and the vast majority from a Helen Wallace, all
of them addressed to Grandma Elizabeth.
"Dude, are you there?"
"Yeah… Yeah, I'm here…"
There were several letters from a Manuel Guzman addressed to Richard Bancroft. He also found
an old baseball signed by the Guzman guy and some tickets to the 1966 World Series. There was
nothing from Grandpa George Spencer. Not a damn thing. "What's going on? Why are you so quiet? Did you find anything?"
"Hold on a second, Charlie."
"But—"
"Hold on!"
Michael put the house phone down on the attic's floor and inspected the letters. Many were
addressed to Mary Elizabeth Bancroft and sent to some place in Malibu, California. The ones
addressed to Richard Bancroft had been sent to the same place. Next he found a black and white
picture of two guys making out on the beach. The leaner one was lying on the sand, his arms resting
on his sides; his head on the bigger guy's lap. That guy was leaning over the smaller one, upside
down. Their eyes were closed, but Michael could have sworn he could see the passion between
them. Their lips weren't quite touching, but the intention was obvious. They were about to kiss
when the picture was taken.
"Son of a bitch…"
"What the hell's going on?" Charlie asked so loud that Michael had no problem hearing him. "I'm
dying here, asshole!"
Michael ignored the screaming coming from the phone and turned the picture around. "Florida
Keys, Summer of '64," he whispered. "Jesus…"
"Mike! Get on the phone right now!"
This time Michael grabbed the phone.
"Yeah… I'm here…"
He could not stop staring at the picture.
"What the hell's wrong with you? For a moment there I thought you'd gotten caught! Are you
trying to give me a heart attack?" Charlie yelled. "Why did you leave me hanging like that? Did you
find anything?" Michael wasn't surprised at his friend's spiel. Charlie always talked a mile a minute when he was
nervous or excited.
"Are you still in the attic? Get out, dude. Now," he ordered. "You've been there for like an hour.
They're bound to be back any minute now."
"I need you to look up a few addresses for me on the Internet. Service here sucks, and I can't use
my laptop." Michael knew Charlie wouldn't hesitate to do as asked. They had been best friends for
years and had each others' back. Not to mention, Charlie was the only person in the world with
whom Michael had shared his suspicions, and he knew the guy would do whatever he could to help
Michael discover the truth. "Find out who's living in those houses as soon as you can, okay?"
"You
found
something. What is it?"
"Letters to a Mary Elizabeth Bancroft from Helen and Richard Bancroft," Michael said, smiling
at Charlie's excitement. "I'm pretty sure Mary Elizabeth is my grandma. I have something from a
Helen Wallace, too. Maybe Helen Bancroft got married. There are also some letters from a Manuel
Guzman to Richard. A signed baseball by Guzman and a picture… like a porn picture… Well, not
really porn but they're naked… I think it's them. One of the guys is definitely Richard, and I'm
pretty sure the other guy is Guzman. He looks Latino."
"You found a signed baseball by Manuel Guzman?" Charlie shrieked. "Gold Glove Award
winner, three-time MVP, hall of famer, got his number retired because he's so fucking good Manuel
Guzman?
That
Manuel Guzman?"
Michael chuckled. "I guess?" Sports were so not his forte.
"Do you have any idea how much that ball would sell for?"
Leave it to Charlie to not bat an eye at the news that some ball player from the past who seemed
to be famous had also been gay. Lord, he loved his friend so much.
"Millions, Mike. Millions! I can't believe your gran—" "Can we discuss this later?" Michael interrupted him. "Grab a pen and paper and write down this
information."
Michael disconnected the call the second he was done giving Charlie some instructions. A quick
look through some of the documents told him he had all the proof he would ever need, so he didn't
waste time searching for anything else. Instead he put mostly everything back where he had found it,
then grabbed a bag and filled it with tangible evidence of what he now knew were years of deceit on
Grandma Elizabeth's part.
By the time his family returned home, the bag was safely hidden in Michael's room and he was
lounging on the relatively private rooftop, making his way through page after page of what looked
like the not so happy story of a man whose disappearance was one of Hollywood's biggest mysteries of all time.
Chapter Two
Mr. Thompson was Michael's drama club director, and such a huge fan of Richard Bancroft that
he didn't seem to be able to stop talking about him. As a result, it had taken Michael one afternoon
to learn that the actor had done films, television and Broadway shows; that every single one of his
performances was outstanding; that he had been nominated for three Oscars —winning two of
them—and that he would have been the world's biggest legend had he not suddenly disappeared
from the limelight after only six successful years in the entertainment business.
Nobody knew what had really happened to the guy, but even though decades had passed, there
was still speculation and plenty of rumors. Some claimed facial disfigurement as a consequence of a
car accident had put an end to Bancroft's career. Some others said it was a torrid affair with the wife
of a powerful Hollywood producer what ultimately had forced him to retire. The craziest theory said
a producer paid someone to kill him and dispose of the body. But it was all speculation as nothing
had ever been documented, and that included Richard's possible death.
But now Michael knew the guy had been bisexual at the very least. He couldn't wait to find out if
Bancroft's sexuality had played a role in his disappearance, and whether his grandma had been
involved in it. He decided to read the letters from Manuel to Richard first, and did so in no particular order.
There were twelve in total, postmarked from several cities all over the country. And they were
extremely brief, too, giving Michael the impression the author wasn't into writing. There was a note
thanking Richard "for coming to the game, too bad we lost"; another one "for the tickets, I really
enjoyed the movie" and a third one "for giving me the best birthday cake ever. I never had frosting
served to me in such a way, and I can't wait to have it again."
"Oh, Richard, you naughty boy," Michael mused, giggling at the flirtatious message. "Where did
you put that frosting, hmm?"
Going by Manuel's tone, there was no doubt it had been a rather interesting place. Or should he
say pleasurable? Then he realized he was talking about a man that most likely was related to him, and
the ick factor put a halt to his curiosity.
"Yuck."
Another envelope contained a formal invitation to the final home game of the 1966 World Series
in Los Angeles. Michael assumed the tickets he found in the attic had been included with the
invitation. It was pretty innocent stuff. Nothing one friend wouldn't send to another.
The next letter, though; that was a completely different story…
June 11, 1965
Dear Richard,
The last time we were together you said we needed to slow down. That if we continued to see each other so much
and so often both our careers would be in jeopardy. You said that my time away with the team would help to put a stop
to suspicions people might have had. You said we couldn't really trust anyone outside our small group and that it was
in our best interest to not write or call one another for the time being. You said, right before you left, that you needed to
think about all this and decide how to proceed. Stupid that I am I believed you meant you were going to try to find a way for us to be together without having to worry about what other people think or say. I thought we're going to find a
way to make things right for us.
I've been back for a month now and haven't heard from you. No calls, no letters, no messages of any type. You
never replied to mine either. I asked Benjamin every single day what's going on. I asked if you were busy with a new
movie. I asked if you were sick, or maybe out of town, but he never answered. I was so goddamn worried about you
that I couldn't see the meaning of it all. Truth is you took the cowards way out and left me high and dry. And then
you made sure to do everything you could to show me you have no desire of seeing me again; to make it clear that you
have moved on. And today I found out why. But not through you, as you didn't have the cojones to be upfront about
this and tell me to my face.
I know you won't be happy when you get home and find correspondence from me. You were probably hoping I
would be gracious enough to accept all this without a fight. But I am not gracious and I'm not an asshole. I mean,
what kind of candyass do you think I am? I wish I could, don't get me wrong. I am so hacked at you right now I
really wish I could tell you to go fuck yourself for what you've done to me and be done with you. One second I want to
tell you that I'll be fine and I wish you the best, but then I close my eyes and see that picture of you and her together on
the newspaper and want to slug you as hard as I can. To put a goddamn wedding announcement on the news without
saying anything to me first was low. How could you do this to me? To us?
Why the hell are you doing this? What is it going to take for you to understand this is not the solution? How far
are you willing to go in order to hide who you are? Have you been with her? Gone all the way with her? I hope not.
You're mine, and I told you I'm not sharing you. Not with other men and definitely not with a woman. Marrying
Mary won't change a thing, and you barely know her, Richard. You certainly don't love her. You love me! And I love
you and you are fucking killing me. Breaking my heart into so many pieces I doubt I will ever be able to patch it up.
I wish times were different and we were free to be together. I wish people would understand that we are not the
mental cases they make our kind out to be, but they don't and that's something we have to deal with. Maybe someday
in the future men like us will be able to be open about who we love, but I can't wait that long. I can't be without you for however long is going to take people to get their heads out of their asses. I'd rather hide with you than lose you
forever. I need to see you. This desire I feel for you is consuming me, and I can't conceal my yearning for you any longer.
I need you in my life and you need me in yours and that's all that matters. People can take their opinions and go to
hell.
Don't marry her, Richard. I'm begging you. Please don't marry her. Let's leave. Me and you, together. We can
leave all this behind. Pack some bags and burn rubber out of this town. We can find a way… work things out… we
will be discreet, but we'll be together. We can drive until the road ends; get a pad among strangers that won't recognize
us and be happy forever. Just, don't marry her. Please, please don't marry her. Let's talk about this. Will you meet
me so that we can talk about it? You've got to. A week from today at my house should work for you. I know you're in
town. Please. I'll be waiting for you, seven o'clock. Please.
Yours always,
Manny
"Holy… shit…" Michael put the letter down and raked his fingers through his blond hair. "
Holy
shit
." He got up from his chair and started pacing around the roof, trying to wrap his mind around
everything he had just learned.
