How Long Has This Been Going On (16 page)

"It's never the time," said Frank, quietly.

His father went on cleaning the honey jar.

So the very next thing that Frank said to Larken was "What do you say we set up a moving business? You and me."

"Moving?"

"Why not? The two of us managing it, with a small fleet of vans and some guys to... you know."

Larken, grinning, said, "What happened to law enforcement?"

"Too much quicksand everywhere you look."

"Huh?"

Lightly punching on Larken's arm, Frank said, "At least this way you couldn't be fired. And we'd be our own bosses."

"You're serious?"

Frank nodded.

"We moved one person's things across town and suddenly... You're not turning joe on me, are you, Frank? I mean, surely you realize that gay men aren't usually movers."

Frank was standing there, holding Larken by the shoulders, looking at him.

Larken might have asked, What, Frank?, but he read the answer in Frank's eyes, and they held each other close then, and Larken whispered, "Please move in with me."

Frank immediately broke the embrace. "What?"

"I want us to live together, Frank. Like real..."

"Boy friends."

"Gay
lovers,
Frank. You and me, from dawn to... star time...."

"I
told
you, I have to stick by my folks. I couldn't duck out on them now that... It's my
mother,
Lark."

"Well, let me ask you this one thing. What about after? I mean, after she..."

"I know what you mean."

"Well, could we live together then?"

"I guess so."

"Gee, what enthusiasm."

"It's just—"

"I know what it's just. One day your father will call and I'll answer. And he'll say, 'Frank, who is that guy?' Is that it?"

"Right," said Frank, quite promptly.

"That's it."

"Yeah," said Frank. "Because I don't know how far...
out...
I'm ready to go, you know? I'm not as brave as you."

Larken gave him a look. "Frank, I'm the world's biggest coward."

"No, you're not. Being so open about yourself, and so unapologetic to the world. You're
honest.
You're like a... maybe a warrior of some kind."

"You think that, Frank?"

"No, Lark. I know it."

Frank took Larken's hand, wrapped his own hands around it, then pulled Larken close. "You sort of inspire me," Frank told him.

"When you talk like that," Larken replied, "I just don't care about anything else in my life. I mean, you praising me like that. Respecting me for what I am."

"Well... I guess you're going to have to forge the way, kiddo. For both of us."

"The trick," said Larken, "is just to be as honest as you can."

* * *

Frank quit the force, pooled some money with Larken (and with Lois and Elaine, their sole investors), and bought a very used moving van. Add in a dolly, cushion pads, a huge supply of flat cardboard boxes, the legal papers, print and radio ads, Alfred (from Larken's Meetings, to assist on the big jobs), and Move For Your Life was in business. After five hauls, the van broke down and they had to replace it. Nine hauls after that, Alfred quit and they hired Jake. Twelve hauls after
that,
Frank's mother died, and Frank's father burrowed so deeply into that death, and the life that had preceded it, and the sharing absolutism of their marriage, that he was no longer listening to anything at all that was said to him. A world that could live on, when his companion had passed beyond, had nothing to tell this man.

Nevertheless, Frank decided to inform his father that he was no longer in law enforcement—and on the day of the funeral, too. But all that Frank's father said was "That's not true, Frank. So let's skip it."

They had just come back from the funeral home, still in their dark suits and armbands, sitting at the kitchen table while Frank's father sipped at a glass of whiskey.

"Dad, listen, I just don't feel righteous about it any more. I know it was always this sacred thing between us...." His father was looking at him with something between irritation and loathing. "Dad, what can you possibly mean by 'It's not true'? Obviously, it's true if I'm—"

"Frank, it just isn't true, and it
isn't,
so why go on with it?"

"Dad—"

"Enough,
Frank."

Suddenly tense, Frank said, "No, it is
not
enough!"

"You talk to me like this?" Leaping up, Frank's father tried to loom magnificently, but he was weaving too much to pull it off. "With your mother's body warm in the ground?"

Frank quietly said, "You've been using her as a weapon against me for years."

Wham!,
as the glass of whiskey flew past Frank's ear to shatter on the wall.

"Oh, a
weapon,
you say?" Frank's father was screaming. "That sainted woman in her pain, and all our loss—"

"Why," Frank virtually whispered, "are you never listening when I talk? I always listened to you."

"Get out, then!
Out of this
house
with you and we'll
see
who
listens!"'

Surprised but realizing that he was ready to take this step, Frank slowly got up, went to his room, packed a valise of essentials, took one final look around him at the place of the Frank that had been, walked out of the house past his father, who had poured a fresh drink and did not look up to answer Frank's "Good-bye, Dad," and drove to Larken's. Because that is where Frank could go to be listened to, and that is what builds friendship: more than looks, charm, and laughter. These matter, but what matters most is: Listen to me. Comprehend me. Share my discoveries and delight and sorrow.

Larken wasn't home, so Frank made himself a drink and sat down to wait, with the valise standing very noticeably in the center of the living room. Frank hoped that Larken would see it, figure it out, and jump for joy.

Larken didn't show up at first, but Todd dropped in. Crazy Todd.

"Look, my mother has died," said Frank. "Finally. I mean... she was in a lot of pain and it's... Where's Larken, do you know?"

"Calm, Frank," said Todd, coming up and putting his hands on him. "Calm. Watch."

"No, don't—"

"Sit, Frank. Easy."

"No, Todd, because I don't need anyone giving me instructions right now.... Okay, okay."

Todd's grip was reasonable, compassionate, and Frank let Todd guide him to the couch like a kindergarten teacher soothing a crybaby.

"You're upset, Frank. Something has happened."

"Well, of course something has happened! I told you, my—"

"Now, calm, man, gently does it... see?"

Todd was rubbing Frank's neck rhythmically, humming along with the motion, sneaking in pacifying adverbs. Nicely. Softly. Uhm, lovingly, Frank.

"You have a wonderful touch," Frank told him. "But please don't keep saying my name."

"I do this professionally, you know. Massage. Sure. To relax guys like you, who are tense and brooding."

"Look, I'm not brooding, right? As a matter of fact, I feel free for the first time in... Skip it."

Some moments passed as Frank responded to the pressure of Todd's fingers.

"Come with me, Frank," Todd said. "Let me put you on my rubbing table."

Todd was pulling him out of the apartment, and Frank was letting him. The moment they got into Todd's place they were both so hot they didn't even bother to pretend that this was anything about a massage.

Derek Archer reasoned that since most people didn't know where you lived but everyone knew what you showed up in, he could move into a little duplex and retain the Duesenberg. It was a little like going barefoot to keep your shoes snazzy, but it saved a fortune in rent.

For the first time since his modest rise as a modest star had begun, Derek was, as the term quaintly visualized it, "strapped." Like so many of his colleagues, he had overspent to appear prosperous, therefore successful.

I'm all the go, he had told himself. I do
seem
to be the thing.

But
Broadway Lullaby
had finally come out and exploded like a sodden bomb. Derek blames the writers, the director, those hurdy-gurdy songs, and, somewhat, himself for agreeing to do a musical in the first place. But Hollywood blames a flop on the star, and Derek's in trouble.

Tommy, Derek's new boy, is reading the Sunday comics while Derek chain-smokes and thinks it through. The Paramount western he's doing on loan-out—action parts never hurt a man's image. The Regency-rakes costume bio he's up for—Derek's right for it, and though it's only a supporting role it's solid romantic stuff with no-fail potential. The pizza restaurant he has a chance to invest in—vulgar as it sounds, the sponsors swear they can make their nut back within three months, and from then on it's a free ride.

Tommy is looking at Derek. He has just said something, and Derek wasn't listening.

"Sorry, Tommy."

"I said, this
Alice in Wonderland
comic isn't funny. It's just the story of the Disney cartoon. So why is it in the funnies?"

Derek never knew what to say to Tommy. Sometimes they're just
too
young, or too unlettered, or... something. Curse me for the pederast that I am. Why isn't my type George Cukor?

"It's like
Prince Valiant,"
Tommy went on. "That isn't funny, either. No one even talks in it."

Live-in boys like Tommy were rather thin on the ground when Derek first hit L.A. But those nights at the Y! Sauntering down the hall from your room, an unknown with no reputation to imperil, into the showers and gazing about one. A long look. Someone nods: Yes. Then the two of you racing back down the hall to your room. Cops were everywhere, of course, but the aficionado plumed himself on being able to tell the cop from the all-American boy, the pure, unhaunted wonder kind of—

"What are we doing today?" asked Tommy, gathering the papers into a neat pile, each section squared off and facing up. Derek preferred a boy who didn't care how the papers looked. A lazy, unconcerned boy. They always turned human at length, though. There was always some concern.

"We're entertaining," Derek told Tommy. "Someone I'd love you to meet."

"Okay."

They listened to records till they heard the car pull up, and Tommy leaned out of a window to watch Derek greeting the Kid, just back from his first professional jaunt out of town, to San Francisco.

The chauffeur—Derek's only servant now—started off, but the Kid grabbed his arm.

"Stay handy," he stage-murmured, "and keep the Campho-Phenique on ice."

"To hold you," said Derek, as they embraced. "Yes. My Johnny boy." Then: "Now. How was it?"

"Oh, Derek, I wish you'd been there. They really bought it, dressing up and all! They bought Bombasta, the Contessa, Transvesto…"

The Kid saw Tommy looking down at them.

"You baby-sitting Margaret O'Brien's kid brother?" he asked Derek.

"That's Tommy." Whispering, Derek added, "You won't be rough on him? He's so raw and tender."

"Oh no, Derek. I'm elegant now. I transcend. No more crying around the pool when beauties confront me." They headed inside, Derek waving at the still-watching Tommy. "Besides," the Kid went on, "I've had a very heady time up north. I'm in demand, Derek. Everybody wants this body!"

"Because you're so handsome, jailbait."

"Because I'm in
drag.
Those evil queens want to fuck pussy, my friend. Like, what
is
this heterosexual fantasy that impels so many of our more fashionable studs? You ought to know...."

Coming upstairs, Derek and the Kid met Tommy, corning down.

Derek introduced them. Tommy, Johnny.

"No," the Kid said. "I'm Jerrett Troy now, Teller of Tales, Master of Truths, and Cupbearer to Transvesto, god of all that is taboo and beautiful in the secret world. It's a D cup, by the way."

"Hi," said Tommy.

The Kid paused, turned to Derek, and said, "I was never this dumb."

''Go gently, Johnny."

"I've played Broadway!" the Kid cried, racing up to the landing, then parading downstairs in a spoof of Old-Time Theatrical Entrances.

"San Francisco," Derek told Tommy.

"Well, they call it Broadway," Johnny told them. "And Tommy is very nice-looking but I'm not going to get peeved about it."

"That's my good Johnny."

"I'm not anyone's good Johnny, Derek. I'm trenchant and reckless, dancing on a tightrope, and so I always mean to be."

"I don't follow a lot of this," said Tommy.

"Will we see you back at Thriller Jill's immediately," Derek asked the Kid as he steered the youths upstairs, "or will you take a holiday to gloat on your triumph?"

"Jill's will seem pretty dead after San, but a boy has got to live."

"Johnny the Star!" said Derek, leading them to his room.

What was the Kid's status with Derek, now that Tommy was the official boy friend? As so often happens in these younger man-older man relationships spooled on a thread of money, gifts, or favors, after the first few dates it wasn't clear to either of the participants precisely how they were joined. Tommy was now the Boy on Call as well as resident in the house: but that did not preclude the Kid's reassuming a pride of place—nor was it certain that Derek and the Kid had lapsed into a strictly platonic association, or that Derek would never again tip the Kid for a showy evening.

Certainly, Derek was as demonstrative with the Kid as with Tommy, ruffling hair and sneaking hugs from behind with both the boys like a scampy fay prancing through a high-school locker room.

"I would love to come upon you two boys in the showers at the Y," Derek purred, taking a cigarette out of a silver case, tapping it, and lighting up.

"Ugh, that awful smoke of his," said Tommy.

"It's part of his act," said the Kid. "Everybody's got an act, and mine is the best act of all."

"The two of you would be so busy staring at each other," Derek went on, rapt in his fantasy, "that you wouldn't notice me. I would watch you lathering up... mechanically, dreamily... the soapy water running down your splendid skin as you become so engrossed that you move toward each other as if you were... you were..."