Michael Nava - Goldenboy

“Mrs. Mandel?”

“Yes,” she said, her forehead worried.

“Is Josh here?”

“No,” she lied. “Who are you?”

I’m his friend,” I said. “Please, I have to see him.” “Really,” she began, but a hand appeared on the edge of the door above her head and pulled the door back. Josh was wearing his red sweater.

“It’s okay, Mom,” he said. “This is just my friend, Henry.” “Can I talk to you Josh?”

“Come on in,” Josh said.

He led me back to a big, well-lit room that smelled of furniture polish and rosewood. A pot of yellow chrysanthemums matched the blaze in the fireplace. The television was tuned to a football game and there was a bowl of popcorn on the seat of the armchair from which Josh had been watching the game. Mrs. Mandel had followed us into the room.

“Mom, we need to talk alone.”

“Joshua, who is this man?”

“I told you, he’s my friend. He’s here to help me. Right, Henry?”

“Yes.” I looked at Mrs. Mandel. “I’m a lawyer, Mrs. Mandel. I’m working on the Jim Pears case. Are you familiar with it?”

“That was the boy at the restaurant.”

“I’m his lawyer. I need to ask Josh a few questions.”

She looked back and forth at us. “I’ll make you some tea,” she said, decisively.

“Thank you.”

She fluttered out of the room, closing the door behind her.

“She seems nice,” I told Josh.

“She is,” he replied and looked at me stonily. “How did you find me?”

“This is the third house I’ve been to,” I replied. “There are a lot of Mandels in Sherman Oaks.”

He tried not to smile.

“Why didn’t you go meet Freeman?”

“You think I killed Brian, don’t you?”

I drew a deep silent breath and asked, “Did you?”

There was a lot working on Josh’s face. I was relieved to see that most of it was anger. “No,” he snapped.

“I believe you, Josh.”

“To hell with what you believe, Henry.”

It was only when he dropped into an armchair that I realized we’d both been standing. I sat down on the sofa. He stuck his hand into the cushions and brought up a grungy pack of Winstons. He lit one.

“Tell me where you were the night Brian was killed.”

He blew a shaky smoke ring with all the nonchalance of a ten-year-old and said, “I was with someone.”

“Am I supposed to remember all their names?”

“Stop it, Josh. I know you’re not like that.”

“Doug,” he said. “He lives in a split-level condo on King’s Road and he has a hot tub on his deck. We sat in the hot tub and drank a bottle of wine and then he fucked me.” He glared at me.

“Is that the terrible secret you wouldn’t tell me the other night?”

“Don’t talk down to me,” he said, his fingers quivering. “And no, that’s not the terrible secret. Does it really matter to you?” This time I knew the right answer. “Yes,” I said.

He put the cigarette out and all the hardness slipped from his face. “Three months ago I got this little rash at the base of my — penis,” he said. “I panicked. I was sure it was AIDS, so I ran out and took the antibody test. The rash was just a rash — going too long without wearing shorts or something. But the test came back positive.”

“You know that test isn’t completely accurate,” I said, to cover the sudden pounding in my ears. “And anyway it only means you’ve been exposed to the virus, not that you’ll get AIDS.” My heart slowed down. “Half the gay men in California test positive.”

“Did you take the test?” Josh asked, glaring at me.

“Yes.”

“Did you test positive?”

“No,” I said, but added, “There are false negatives, too, Josh.”

“Is that supposed to make me feel better?” he snapped.

“I guess not.” I looked at him. “Look, Josh — “

“That’s why I ran away,” he interrupted, “because I didn’t want to have to tell you. Because I didn’t tell you.” He paused. “Before we made love.”

“We didn’t do anything risky,” I replied.

“No,” he said scornfully, “it wasn’t worth it.”

“Jesus, Josh, did you want to infect me?”

He lowered his eyes. “I’m sorry, Henry. I don’t know what I’m saying.”

“Then be quiet and listen to me,” I said.

He reached for his cigarettes.

“And don’t light another one of those.”

He dropped his hand. “Sorry,” he said.

“I’ve been driving all over L.A. looking for you,” I said, “and it wasn’t because I thought you killed Brian. Not really.” I ran my hand through my hair. “I’m thirty-six years old, Josh. You have no idea how old that sounds to me, especially when I wake up in the morning alone.” I paused. This was going to be harder than I thought. “I just have these feelings for you…” And then I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

He looked at me. “I love you, too.”

I nodded. “Then come here.” He rose from his chair and joined me on the couch.

He sniffed. A trickle of snot glistened under his nose. I gave him my handkerchief. He blew his nose gravely.

“I’m so scared,” he whispered, and began to cry.

I pulled him close and held him until I could feel the heat of his body through his sweater. I thought of all the rational things I should say but heard myself tell him, “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

He pulled away and looked at me, lifting his sleeve and wiping his nose. His eyes searched mine, slowly. I didn’t look away. We both knew that what I’d just said was, on one level, impossible and, therefore, untrue. And yet we both knew I meant it, which made it true on a different level, the one that mattered between us now.

He brought his face forward and we kissed.

Just then the door opened. I saw Mrs. Mandel out of the comer of my eye. Behind her came a man who I recognized from the picture at Josh’s apartment as Mr. Mandel.

“Joshua,” Mr. Mandel said, “what is this?”

We moved apart. Josh said, “Mom, Dad, you’d better sit down. There’s something I have to tell you.”

Over the next eight hours, Josh not only told his parents that he was gay but that we were lovers and about the result of the antibody test. Mr. Mandel ordered me out of the house, relented, and alternately screamed at and wept for his son. Mrs. Mandel seemed to have been rendered catatonic.

Then, after the hysterics came the hard talk. Josh’s sisters were called, one in Sacramento and one in Denver, and consulted. They came out heavily pro-Josh. His father brought down the Bible and read to us the passage in Leviticus that condemns homosexuality. That led to a long, rambling discussion about biblical fundamentalism which ended, predictably, in a stalemate.

Mrs. Mandel mourned for her unborn grandchildren. Josh said that he planned to have children. This silenced her. Silenced me, too. We talked for a long time about Jim Pears and how having to hide being gay had probably led him to kill someone. We talked about AIDS. This was the hardest part for all of us.

I argued that AIDS wasn’t divine retribution on gay people any more than Tay-Sachs disease was God’s commentary on Jews. Mr. Mandel bristled at the analogy but his wife diffused the tension with a series of surprisingly well-informed questions about AIDS. It occurred to me then that she had known Josh was gay all along. Even so, they both remained worried and frightened. So was Josh. So was I.

In the middle of all this, Mr. Mandel ordered pizza and we had an involved argument over the relative merits of anchovies. He and I wanted them. Josh and Mrs. Mandel resisted. The three of them went through a bottle of wine while I guzzled Perrier.

And then it was three o’clock in the morning and Mr. Mandel was apologizing for being sixty-two and needing his sleep.