The Home For Wayward Ladies (31 page)

He holds me in his strong arms and we run the pas de deux. I’m standing in for Vicki, just as I’ve done for the past several hours. The footwork is not all that complicated, (after all, it was choreographed to Vicki’s limited capabilities), but it still requires a certain precision that the stumps below my ankles forfeited around the stroke of one. What’s left of my breath is expended by counting in Nicholas’ ear. “1, 2, 3, 4; 2, 2, 3, 4”. He twirls me like he’s supposed to and I am grateful to lose sight of Eli in the spinning blur. Nicholas and I become the embodiment of perpetual motion. I lose myself to him and to the music. My fears are now my fuel. For the first time in forever, the art is all that matters. 

But not to Eli. Art is inconsequential when pitted against the prospect of punishing us for the crime of being born. Nicholas and I are gasping for breath when we hear him call, “Once more from the top. And put some fucking zip in it. Hunter, just because you’re standing in for Vicki doesn’t mean that you don’t have to try.”

I don’t have a chance to pull a razor blade from under my tongue before Nicholas releases his grip and collapses to the floor. This is likely a diversion, and obviously not one that’s been well considered. Frankly, it reeks of desperation. But seeing as how I don’t know a better way to bring an end to this abuse, I admire his effort. He lands with a delicate thump, catching himself with his palms to ensure he doesn’t bruise. After all, as Eli would happily remind us, it’s only mere moments before the local paper sends a spy.

“Eli,” Nicholas implores, still a puddle on the ground, “let us go to bed. If you put a gun to my head, I couldn’t take another step.” His face is mashed into the stage like an amoeba under a microscope slide. He doesn’t have the capacity to raise his head when he speaks so his teeth are left to drag across the floorboards. (Not that I’m surprised; he always did have a tendency to chew the scenery.) “Go on without me,” he wheezes. “Leave me in my own filth and mop me up in the morning. Please, Eli, just let me die. I give up. You win.”

“Alakazam,” Eli mutters, smiling his always sideways smile. Apparently, those were the magic words. I am summoned to the house for a conference to discuss our fate. Nicholas stays in character, so I proceed toward our oppressor with utmost caution. I kick Mandy’s chair when I walk by to wake her. The flashlight beam dances around the room like Tinkerbell as our stage manager snorts back to life. She quickly rises, which sends her binder crashing to the floor. Pages explode from the rings and hide themselves too far for Mandy’s legs to reach them. At this point, even the script is trying to run away.   

“What does everyone think?” Eli says, as if democracy were suddenly being given a trial run in Red China. “Shall we call it a day?”

Mandy points the light toward the mess her script has made. She attempts to reorganize its scattered pages within her scattered brain. “You’re the director. Whatever you want is, uh, what we…” With that, her train of thought has officially left the station.

“Good,” Eli says. “Then we keep moving.”

It’s then that I make my displeasure known. “Eli, be reasonable. Musical theater is not now, nor has it ever been, a life or death vocation.”

He takes a crumpled pack of smokes from his pants pocket. The way he’s been sitting has caused the cigarettes to bend. When he tries to flatten one, it almost snaps. “We need to keep working,” he says, tucking it behind his ear.

“We most certainly do not,” I say. “We have already covered everything up to the finale. Considering the circumstances, Nicholas will be just fine, which is more than I can say for you. Eli, you’re the last person on earth that should need to be reminded when it’s time to leave well enough alone.”

The chord I have struck appears to be quite resonant. Eli pulls the cigarette out from behind his ear and shoves past me toward the front of house. Mandy shifts the light to watch him go. She looks eager to follow before I tell her to stay put. “Make sure Nicholas doesn’t slip into a coma. It’s best that I handle Eli alone. As you may have noticed, this particular matter has become somewhat personal.”

I rush past the head shots in the lobby from the days of yore. Even without light, their eyes twinkle as I pass. By the time I make it out front, Eli is standing at the far edge of the parking lot. He can’t go any farther than where the gravel meets the trees. If it weren’t for his lighter being set to “torch”, I might not have even seen him there. For him to be surrounded by naught but darkness, he has a tendency to blend right in.

“You lied to me, Hunter,” he says, smoke billowing from his bilious nostrils like a cartoon bull.

“That’s not it,” I respond, “I did what I had to do. Nicholas is here to save the show. Even you must admit that he’s doing a wonderful job.”

“I didn’t come out here for a story, Hunter, so spare me your fucking fairy tale.” Cigarette ash flutters down on his Converse shoe like carcinogenic snow. “I know why Nick is here.”

I feign ignorance by forcing a giggle that starts in my shrill upper range and eventually lands with a sploosh. “Well, well, well,” I say, “Zoltar the Magnificent knows all. Why then do you suggest that Nicholas has been summoned thence?” 

He doesn’t have to answer; his unmistakably sad eyes say all. They are as brown as they ever were, still contained within the boundary of his tortoise-rimmed glasses. But when the veil of smoke washes over, I finally see the redness that I’ve caused in them. The darkness that’s surrounding us only grows still darker. “I want you to say it,” he replies.

“If you insist, Eli, I shall. I was scared. I didn’t want to go behind your back. I never wanted to betray you.”

“But you did,” he replies coolly.

“You gave me no choice.” Even though he can’t bring himself to look at me, I stand taller. It’s nice to be reminded every once in a while that I do, indeed, have a spine. “I’ve tried to be as honest with you as I am able, but it’s come to my attention that my version of the truth is never going to be enough. I want to help your tires to stop spinning in the mud. Hoping against hope, every time I find you stuck there, I give another push to set you free. But you never seem to budge. Rather, you only manage to find a way to sink in deeper.” I sigh, not wanting to say more, but I can tell that I must. “I know you love me, Eli. But you know not what you love.”

“How can you fucking say that?” He flicks his cigarette butt into the brush. If it hadn’t already been smoked down to the filter, it could have offered us mercy by setting the trees ablaze, chasing away the darkness for as long as the forest was willing to burn. But then where would we be? Still here undoubtedly; still stuck in the mud. “I know exactly what I love. You, Hunter. I love you. I love everything about you, even the things I’m not supposed to. I love how fast you can scurry despite carrying the weight of the world upon your shoulders. I love that you see good in people, even people like Nick - hell, even people like me. I love that you know how to make a joke as well as how to take one. I love that you believe in me. I love that nothing could change that. I love that nothing ever will.”

My face and hands go pins and needles and I feel my pulse beat in my gut. Either I’ve forgotten how to breathe or Eli’s finally managed to take my breath away. What I do know is that any love I deserve should not be unconditional. Yet, magically, I appear to him as if I have no faults. It makes me want to forget everything I’ve ever known and tell him how desperately I love him too. But I don’t. I can’t. That wouldn’t shut him up. Perhaps that’s why I kiss him instead.

37

ELI

Thus with a kiss I live.

My face grows flush as my arms wrap around Hunter’s waist in a knot. I pull him closer. Holding him there is my only insurance that this won’t be another ‘kiss and run.’ Eventually, he resigns. He stops his struggle and falls further into me. My soft stomach fills the ridges between his abs like grout on bathroom tile. He doesn’t seem to mind- or at least if he does, he’s kind enough to not resume his retching. Our lips stay pressed together; our nostrils fight over intake of the same muggy air. The smell of it is remarkable: his musk mixed with the endless sea of trees- like a dance belt dipped in Pine Sol or a urinal cake carved into a heart. 

From the tightly puckered expression on Hunter’s handsome face, I surmise my eyes are supposed to be closed too. That’s not possible. This moment needs to be seen to be believed. I peer at him through the fog that overtakes my glasses. If only he were kind enough to open his eyes, to see me there, then I would be more than just another somebody slurping at the tip of his tongue. To the contrary, I am the man who has persisted. I am the man who kept driving after he was told the bridge was out ahead. This kiss is what will carry me to the other side.

His Altoid-tasting tongue continues to explore my Marlboro mouth with the compliments of chocolate mixed with peanut butter. I suppress a quivering moan that trembles like the hand Hunter has placed around my neck. His sharp fingernails dig into the base of my skull. It’s ecstasy. I get a thrill when he tugs at my mat of dirty hair. But what reduces me to tapioca is how he lingers near my chin as if he would die if he were anywhere but here.

When he breaks free to gasp for air, the mixture of our pungent after-spittle stays pasted on my upper lip. A warm wind stings the surface of my skin. Still, I refuse to wipe my face clean. That dampness that can stay for as long as it is willing. For once, I can finally enjoy the moment because the moment is finally worth enjoying.

Without a word, he takes my hand and leads me toward the theater door. In a sickening flash, I am reminded why we are here as we are met by the building’s weathered façade. Neither one of us wants to go inside; I can tell by the hesitancy of his grip. But we have to. Our backs are toward the endless darkness of the trees as we approach whatever is still darker yet inside.

But the dark doesn’t last for long. “Look at that…” Hunter says, pointing to the light next to the door where Miss Ginny used to stand. “It’s flickering in Morse code.”

“Yet another sign this building has a mind of its own,” I reply. As we approach, the bulb stops pulsing and gives off a steady glow. It is far brighter than its wattage should allow.

“Eli, doesn’t it strike you as odd that none of the other lights are back on? Maybe Miss Ginny wants us back inside. Is that right, old girl?” he asks. “Is that what you want?”

Thankfully, our brush with the supernatural ends with a whimper. Well, a hiss to be exact. As I open the door, the light bulb sputters and dies. The darkness doesn’t hesitate to close in. It takes a gentle nudge to get the reluctant Hunter to step back inside.

Waiting for our eyes to adjust is the perfect opportunity to kiss him again. I lean in, but he rebuffs. Old habits die hard.

“Not here,” he whispers, his forearm barred against my deflated chest. 

“Why not?” I huff.

He gestures to the framed faces of dead celebrities that adorn the walls. “Not with all these people watching. Let’s wait until we get home.”

“Trust me,” I tell him, “none of them would mind.” As my puckered lips inch closer to claiming my prize, Hunter defiantly ducks out of their way.  

“Eli,” he demands, “I said no.”

My balance falters. I almost wind up lips first in the dust on Carol Channing. “If you would rather our union be witnessed by the living, then let’s go wake up Nick to show him how this story ends.”

A foreboding sign of consolation, Hunter’s clammy hand finds its way to the nape my neck. “Eli, darling, we both know that can’t happen. Nicholas can never know about this.”

He brushes past, eager to return to the safety of the group. “Then Nick doesn’t have to know,” I manage. “We can carry on behind his back, just as long as you’re willing to carry on. Let me prove I can be as good with secrets as the two of you.” He doesn’t respond. In fact, he can’t even bring himself to look my way. Rather, his eyes stare fixedly at his shoe, which is kicking the tattered corner of a hand-woven rug. I can appreciate that rug’s plight: after devoting its existence to being stepped on, it is finally worn out. He continues to stare in silence, first at the door and then back at me. I scoop his chin up to make him look at me. I aim to get him to subscribe to the notion that happiness can be found in my arms. He smiles.

“They say that even the longest journey starts with a single step,” I manage. He takes one away from me. And then another. I don’t stop him. Before I know it, he’s already walked through the lobby doors. As has been the case for so many years, I aimlessly follow.