The Sea of Light (25 page)

Me, Liz, Kenny—the three of us knew. It was like our little secret. But the way it ended felt like punishment. All alone, it wasn’t normal any more but something to keep inside because there was no one left to share it with; I couldn’t sustain it on my own, and I gave up trying.

Not that Liz and Kenny turned out to be perfect sharing partners.

See: everybody fucked everybody over eventually. Puerto Rico. Hot. Hair. Palm trees. Melting pavement. Smelled of shampoo. Sweating. Blue pool, gray ocean water, and the light.

Nice, my animals. When you see it, you know you’re doing righteously: white light, light of pain and of power. My animals. My warriors. So swim right into it. Into and through the light.

Strip down to quivering muscle. Blood and bone. See what you’re made of. And then dig deeper.

Animal power.

He is nuts, Lizzy.

Sure, she smiled. But a great coach.

Oh, God. He knows about us.

So what? Don’t freak out on me, Babe. You like it, don’t you? I mean, we can do what we want—right? America’s finest. Future Olympic heroes. And no one, I mean
no one,
is going to risk that precious gold. Least of all Mr. Asshole. So stop being so uptight.
We
are in control here.
We
are the fucking gods.

But it was the gods who betrayed me in the end.

And I betrayed them, too. By surviving.

“Here, have some more coffee.” Mike Canelli pours it, black and lukewarm, into the stained, chipped cup. “Tell me, how’s the great comeback?”

“Comeback?”

“Yeah. I mean, it’s pretty fucked up, isn’t it? At sixteen, they said, I was making
my
comeback.”

Weight of it crushed him, too, maybe, somewhere along the line. I hear myself laugh. Not out of amusement but out of recognition, sympathy, pity. He laughs with me and his face crinkles near the eyes, nose turns up a little.

“You know what
I
said? Fuck
you,
I said. I mean, my daddy’s rich, and my momma’s good-looking, and I am both. So I
refuse
to suffer! Let the bozos do
this
shit—personally, I’m going to have a life: count the money, blow some dope, get laid.”

I laugh again, but it’s not real this time. Stop listening to what he’s saying, and concentrate on keeping him in my mind’s eye: suitable material, for the normal kind of fantasy. There’s the smell of him, mix of showered-clean sour and sweet—not unpleasant, really. Does nothing inside me, but with patience, who knows? Heavy neck, arms, shoulders. Broad chest. If I saw him naked, without the sweatshirt and jacket? Would it work for me then? With practice? Some great new mystery be revealed? Anyway, there’s nothing wrong with trying. I mean, get back into this much-praised normality that I never was part of in the first place. Nothing special about you now, and nothing particularly godlike, Delgado, so at least
try
to fit in.

“Well, you’re pretty quiet. What are you—the deep, dark, silent type?”

I don’t know, I tell him, How many types are there?

“A few.” He grins, almost defiantly.

“So what type are you?”

“Try me.”

And there’s nothing inside me, not much, anyway—or maybe just the faintest dying little trail of a thing—that makes me want to try at all. What about it? he’s saying. What about dinner? And I think: No way, forget it.

“Fine,” I tell him.

“Seven. Okay? Where do you live?”

“Around.”

“Weird address.”

“Um, look. I’ll meet you somewhere.”

“Um, okay,” he mocks. And smiles, tells me where we can meet. And I don’t like him much, but on the other hand I sort of do; he’s all right, bright and funny in this cruddy kind of way, his body’s big, well-formed—an okay swimmer probably; face strong, calculating, handsome; and aside from that, there is something he might show me.

Watch, Liz. You’re not the only one who can be—what did you call it?—
versatile.

I know then that I’ll do it: Dark rooms and beds, foreign tongue, a hard chest against mine.

Step into it, Delgado, step into the room, take off your shoes like you are stepping into something sacred. Step into it and try it and go through with it this time—and figure out, finally, what all the hoopla is about.

*

The thing with lots of guys—it was true sometimes with Kenny, too—is that they can keep talking about themselves for hours, never let you get a word in edgewise, never ask you a single question about yourself, and end the evening thinking that they’ve just participated in a great conversation. As Liz used to say, the difference between dialogue and monologue sort of eludes them.

What’s good about this is that you yourself are basically absolved of all responsibility. You can adjust to the fact that there’s a voice droning away in your face, make yourself nod or smile once in a while like you are interested, or understand, and set your own mind on automatic pilot. Think about all the things you really
want
to think about. Do a little introspection.

It’s relaxing, really. Like meditating in the middle of a hard day’s work.

You can’t drift off completely, though. If there’s a pause in the monologue, you have to fill it up with a short, giggly laugh. Even if what he just said wasn’t comical.

Then, if he looks perplexed, and leans across the table and says something like, “Hey, what’s so funny?” you give a sort of goofy, little-girl grin, and reply:

“I don’t know! I mean, you’re just so—intense!”

Anyway, I do all these things over dinner with Mike Canelli at the Donut Hole. Which, Ellie says, is where all the kids on scholarship or work-study go because they can afford it, and all the rich kids go because they think it’s cool to hang out with the poor—or, as she insists on calling them, “the working class,” which is what she calls herself, because her parents are retired and basically don’t have any money, and her father, who back in Europe was this very educated guy, had to come to this country and make his living driving a cab. I do all these surefire things, both of us eating the Donut Hole’s special of the day—some kind of pasta—and I imagine him naked and it feels sort of unreal, unconnected, but I think: Okay. Why not?

He pays. Cash. Though he makes a big deal of flashing all his plastic-covered credit cards. I am not impressed. My dad got me a whole slew of those before I went to college; obviously, Mike Canelli’s dad did too. And back when I was sixteen, some company that makes competitive swimwear sent me a Gold Card.

“Look,” he says, “I’ll walk you home.”

I try to come up with some reason for him not to. Even though I’m curious. I mean, what would really happen? But this anxious chill goes through me, I remember Ellie, and dinner at her place, and I’m already late.

I tell him no, but thanks, some other time, right now I’ve got to see a friend off campus.

“Ellie Marks?” He rolls his eyes. “Watch out for
that
one.”

“Why?”

“Never mind.” He grins. “Only, just don’t get
too
buddy-buddy with her—okay? She might develop the wrong impression.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, rumor has it that she’s one of those girls who, like, doesn’t date boys. If you know what I mean. And if you want my opinion, your lady coach falls right into the same category—so watch it.”

Like it is some shocking piece of news. Some phenomenon I have never even heard of before. Like he expects me to puke, or faint, or turn to him sweetly and earnestly and say, Gee Mike, you’re kidding! Thanks for the warning! I never would have guessed!

What I think of saying is: Oh,
gag
me. I mean, grow
up.
I didn’t exactly fall off some cabbage truck into the world of sport, you know. All the pools, showers, saunas, weight rooms, Jacuzzis, massage tables—all the damp nakedness, the hints and whispers, the sight and the feel of bodies touching, by mistake, or on purpose. Get on the clue train, pal. Physical people may inevitably do a wide variety of physical things. It’s how they express themselves—in winning, in losing, in love.

What I say instead is: “Don’t worry, okay? I mean, I don’t exactly feel en
dan
gered.”

“Yeah? Well, I’ve seen some things in locker rooms. That guys do, I mean. Makes me want to barf.” Standing there, helping me on with my coat, he wrinkles his nose, fakes vomiting sounds.

“Gee, Mike. That’s pretty small-town of you.”

“I’m a small-town kind of guy, Babe. Basic values. Narrow mind, big heart.” He hands over my bookbag. “And a thing for big strong dark beautiful females. But maybe you can enlighten me. Tell me all about the major leagues and the world’s great cities. Make me more sophisticated.”

I blush, I can feel it. He grins, more or less triumphantly. It pisses me off a little. But at the same time there’s something pleasant about all of his unpleasantness. Something genuinely hopeful and affectionate in his face, his eyes. So what can I say?

“Friday night, Babe. There’s this concert in town. The Deadly Meatheads.”

“Who are The Deadly Meatheads?”

“Local band. But they’re pretty good, and they’ve got this great drummer. A bunch of us are going. I’ll call you.”

Okay, I tell him. Then I’m immediately disgusted with myself. But part of me feels glad.

This part of me hopes that he does call, will hurt if he does not. Thinks he is conceited, even nasty, intolerant, intolerable; but also, somehow, adorable.

* * *

I’m later showing up at Ellie’s than I thought I would be. It’s one of those old run-down sagging student slum houses that are all over the place near campus. But walking up the porch steps, seeing some old couch there covered with a tarpaulin for winter, and a rusty watering can; ringing the doorbell, hearing feet on wooden floors, the creak of a shutter, something inside me starts to feel like I wish the place was mine, like I’ve been homesick for it, or for something like it.

Then the door starts opening, I can feel light flood my face and the sweat start on me even though it’s cold. I stare at her, beyond her to the old messy comfortable unfamiliar yellow-lit place, torn furniture, books and clothes thrown everywhere, smoke billowing from the kitchen. And something about stepping out like this, alone, at night, to actually visit someone, seems overwhelming. Too much to deal with. My throat chokes, and I’m afraid.

Then, too, there is all this unspoken emotional
stuff
to get through. I don’t know how to even describe it. She seems sad, like she did after morning practice—heavily, wearily sad, but unwilling to explain it. I don’t want her to be this way; I want her to be sunny and joking like always, goading me in fun.

Otherwise this so-called dinner will turn into a major bummer.

But I feel like such an inept jerk. There’s the familiar sensation, that returns to me as if it never left: of being a big, fat, sweaty freak, sticking out of my surroundings like a sore, sore thumb.

Ellie tries to pretend she’s cool, doesn’t care. But it’s all a sham: she’s embarrassed about things not being right, food burned, dessert ruined, the place a mess. I want her to know it’s no big deal that the fish caught on fire and the ice cream melted—I mean, I don’t eat fish, and won’t eat dessert. I want her to look me in the eyes—which lately she has been avoiding—and mock me, and smile, and tell me to chill, seriously chill Delgado, everything will be all right.

But there’s been something lost between this morning and now. Neither one of us is saying anything about it. I wish I knew what it was; it’s in the air, almost, between her and me—like we just suddenly stopped being friends, and neither of us wanted that, but neither of us could do anything about it.

“I’m queer,” she blurts.

I have only known this all along.

Out of consideration for her, though, I do my slightly bewildered-but-well-intentioned fumbling jock routine.

I swallow hard, try to muster a look of surprise-but-not-horror.

“You’re kidding.”

“No, Delgado, I am distinctly
not
kidding.”

She’s freaked, I can tell—whenever she’s freaked, she gets this oh-so-tough tone to her voice. I rush in with some stupid words, like I’m trying to comfort her. “Oh, um, look, I mean, it’s okay with me, Ellie. You know. Whatever. I myself have—I have known plenty of gay people. I mean, people generally don’t think about it, but there are
plenty
of gays and, like, lesbians, in sport—right? I mean—um, well, it’s really okay with me.”

“Gee whiz
Babe,
gosh,
um, thanks.” She crosses her eyes in jest, but sounds bitter. “I mean, God forbid that it should
not
be okay with
you.”

Blank-faced, I blink like a moron and let that one slide.

“Listen,” she says, “just forget it, okay? Please? Just forget I said anything. And
don’t
tell anyone else
.
Especially anyone on the team.”

Just then the smoke alarm sounds off and she races into the kitchen. I follow, find her twisting around there like a maniac, smashing at the high-pitched-drilling little wall box with the stick end of a broom. When she’s exhausted herself, dripping sweat, and the alarm’s still ringing, I cross over and reach up and pull it off the wall.