Michael Nava - Goldenboy

“I have one last job for you, though,” I added.

“What’s that, Henry?”

“I want you to keep your eye on Tom Zane for a few days, make sure nothing happens to him.”

“You think Blenheim will be looking for him?” Freeman asked.

“If he’s anywhere close.”

“He could be in Tahiti by now,” Freeman replied. “That’s what the cops think.”

“But just in case he’s not.”

“Sure, Henry,” he replied. “Give me a number where I can reach you up there.”

I gave him both my office and home numbers. “Listen, Freeman,” I said, “it’s been good working with you.”

I could almost see him smile. “I travel, too,” he said. “Anywhere, anytime. You just call.”

“I’ll do that.”

We left Los Angeles one week before Christmas, choosing to drive up, the coast in Josh’s vw. We had made no plans about how long he would stay with me, — he simply arranged to be away from the restaurant for a couple of weeks. Although things were vague, I wasn’t worried because it seemed to me that the decision to be together had already been made and the mechanics would work themselves out.

As we drove out of L.A., my sense of belonging with Josh grew keener. It was partly the departure itself because, unlike other cities, one leaves Los Angeles by increments, from the crowded central city, over the canyons, through thickets of suburbs, until the tracts of houses thin into the remotest outskirts and then there are hills and sky and the freeway narrows to a two-lane road lined by eucalyptus, and the L.A. radio stations fade in and out, and it becomes possible to hear birds and smell the sea.

We stopped at a roadside produce stand and bought apples and oranges. Back in the car we drank coffee from a thermos and were silent, my hand in his when I wasn’t shifting gears. The sky was clear and cold and the sun cast a rich winter light. Josh whistled under his breath, fidgeted in his seat, read to me from the L.A. Times, yawned, peeled an orange, carefully dividing the sections between us, closed his eyes, napped. I glanced up in the rear-view mirror and saw that I was smiling. I felt his eyes on me, looked at him. His lips parted slightly, and his forehead was creased by shallow lines. I tightened my hand around his and returned my attention to the road.

“I used to play a driving game with Larry,” I said, “back when we were traveling around the state speaking against the sodomy law.”

“What’s the game called?” he asked.

I rolled my head back and forth to relieve the tension. “We called it ‘Classic or Kitsch.’ You know what kitsch is?”

“Sure,” Josh answered. “My aunt’s rhinestone glasses.”

“Perfect example,” I said. We were coming into San Luis Obispo. The traffic was heavier and the sky was clouding over. “The way it’s played is, one of us chooses a category, like movies, and gives the name of the movie and the other one says if it’s classic or kitsch.”

Josh stretched and yawned. “What if you don’t agree?”

“Then you have to say why.” I glanced at him. “That’s really the point of the game, the disagreements. You can learn a lot about someone that way. For instance, Larry and I argued all the way from Sacramento to Turlock about whether All About Eve was a classic or kitsch.”

Josh looked at me. “What’s All About Eve?”

“Are you serious?” I asked, turning my head to him.

He nodded. “Is it a movie?”

“Twenty-two,” I muttered under my breath, grinning. “I can see your gay education has been sadly neglected.”

“You mean there’s more to it than — “

“Don’t, Josh, I’m driving.”

He moved his hand. “No, really, the game sounds like fun.”

“Why don’t you find a radio station,” I suggested as it began to drizzle.

He fiddled with the radio until he found one that was audible above the static. He had tuned in the tail-end of a news broadcast and moved to find another channel. Then the announcer said, “… in other news, accused killer James Pears died today in an L.A. area hospital.”

“Turn it up,” I said.

The announcer’s unctuous voice filled the little car as he continued. “Pears, a nineteen-year-old, was accused of killing another teenager, Brian Fox, almost a year ago today. Fox reputedly threatened to expose Pears as a homosexual. Last October, Pears attempted suicide before he could be brought to trial and he had been in a coma since that time. He died today of natural causes. Closer to home…”

Josh clicked off the radio. I turned on the windshield wipers and tried to focus on the road, but all I saw was Jim’s face and all I heard was his voice, telling me he was innocent.

Josh said, “I can’t believe it.”

“This will make his parents’ lawsuit more valuable,” I replied, bitterly.

“What lawsuit?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

“It’s my fault,” Josh said, miserably.

I glanced over at him. “Don’t be ridiculous, Josh.” It came out harder than I’d intended. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

“That’s not true.”

“This isn’t getting us anywhere.”

We drove on in an unhappy silence. Finally Josh asked, “Why are you mad at me, Henry?”

Without taking my eyes off the road I said, “I’m not mad at you.”

“Don’t bullshit me,” he said tensely.

I looked at him. He was staring straight ahead.

“I’m not mad,” I repeated, more gently. “It’s just not always easy for me to talk about what I feel.”

“Is that why you’ve never said you love me?” he asked, abruptly. His eyes left the road and he looked at me. His mouth was grim. “You never have, you know.”

“Joshua…”

He cut me off. “Don’t call me that,” he said irritably. “That’s what my dad calls me when I’m about to get a lecture.”

The rain had stopped. In the dying light of late afternoon I could see a smear of rainbow above billboards advertising motels and restaurants.

“We’re both feeling bad about Jim,’ I said. ‘‘Let’s not take it out on each other.”

There was a long silence from his side of the car. Finally, he said, “Okay.”

A few minutes later I looked over at him again. He was asleep.

“Will you be patient with me?”

He didn’t say anything for a long time but finally put his hand on mine.

The day before Christmas I was leaning against a post at Macy’s in Union Square watching Josh try on leather jackets. He had already gone through half a rack of them and had long ago stopped asking my opinion since I thought he looked good in all of them. This one though — dark brown in buttery leather — nearly inspired me to unsolicited advice but then I heard my name. I looked around. The man approaching me was smiling in the faintly supercilious way he used to disguise his shyness.

“Grant,” I said, embracing him.

Grant Hancock pulled me close, crushing his costly overcoat, smelling, as he always did, of bay rum.

We released each other. His yellow hair had darkened and there were folds beneath his eyes and deepening lines on either side of his mouth but, generally, time made him more elegant rather than simply older. It had been a long time since I had seen him last.

“This is the last place on earth I would look for Henry Rios,” he said, “so, of course, I find you here.”

“And, when did you start buying off the rack?”

A salesman rushed by and jostled me. Over the din, I heard the slow movements of Pachelbel’s Canon in D, a piece of music I had first heard in Grant’s apartment when we had been law students together.

“We just ducked in for the ladies’ room, actually,” he said, apparently not hearing the music. I caught the “we.” Grant had married two years earlier and was, I had heard, the father of a baby son.