Fifteen Shades of Gay (For Pay) (29 page)

On December 3rd, Andrew went down to the super’s office, broke his lease, and started packing for Wichita. The television station was still willing to hire him, though now only as a weekend replacement weatherman, meaning he might appear on newscasts ten or fifteen times a year. The rest of the time he would assist the reporting staff, conducting pre-interviews or narrating the occasional puff piece. It was a significant step down from the previous offer, but given the still-weak economy, Andrew felt lucky to land any job. He spent the last of his savings on an economy-class plane ticket to Kansas. There, he’d stay at a Holiday Inn until his first paycheck. Once that arrived, he would start searching for a condo or small house.

On Andrew’s way back to the apartment, his mobile rang. The screen said P. CHOUDHARI.

“Hey.” Andrew didn’t bother injecting false friendliness into his tone. “I’m not doing the escort thing anymore, so if that’s what you want, call Wasserman’s office.”

“I did call. He said you’d moved on. But I wasn’t calling to book your services.” Paresh cleared his throat. “I just wanted to apologize for what happened. And thank you for helping Caleb.”

“Forget it. I have.”

A pause. “Did you leave Mr. Wasserman’s service because of me? If you did, Andrew, I promise not to interfere or bother you again. I wouldn’t want you to lose your livelihood because—”

“I was only in New York because my sister had cancer. I needed money while I took care of her. She’s dead now, and I’m going home.”

Paresh sighed. “I’m so sorry.”

“Um-hmm.” Andrew felt in his pockets for his keys. He’d become so forgetful—had he left them on the super’s desk?

“You must have been very close.”

“Must’ve been,” Andrew muttered, finding the keys in his jacket pocket. Why had he put them there?

“Andrew. Can I see you tonight? Not for a date,” Paresh added hastily. “Just to talk.”

Andrew groaned. He didn’t mean to. The ever-rational part of his mind knew it was rude, even cruel. But day-to-day existence took so much effort, micromanaging his social interactions was nearly impossible.

“Sven’s out of the picture. You were right, when he finally had the balls to resurface, he tried to blame everything on me. I told him we were finished.” Paresh gave a shaky laugh. “First time I ever really surprised him. He’s probably sitting at home right now, waiting for the phone to ring. And yeah, I called you for selfish reasons. You’re the only person who knows everything I’ve been through. But now….” Another pause. “Maybe I’m out of line. But you sound like you need a friend more than I do.”

Andrew’s knee-jerk impulse was to say no. Had the offer come from someone who really knew him, who understood how terribly he missed Marie, Andrew never would have agreed. But this was Paresh—rich, self-indulgent, and obviously still lovesick, desperate to bend someone’s ear about his missing Swede.

“Can we go to a bar?”

“That’s what I had in mind.”

“Are you paying?”

“Of course.”

“Well, then. Why not?”

* * *

Andrew took the subway to midtown, intending to meet Paresh inside a West 57th gay bar. Arriving a little early, Andrew planned to head for the bar and enjoy his first drink in solitude. But Paresh was already waiting outside, bundled up in a stylish Burberry wool coat.

“They’ve cut off the music and turned on the TV full blast,” Paresh said, pointing to the front window. The bar’s interior lights were up; many of the patrons had abandoned their tables to cluster near the flat screen. Even from the street, Andrew could hear the indistinct ebb and flow of canned TV voices.

“Probably
Monday Night Football.
”

“I don’t see any jerseys or face paint. Maybe it’s
Dancing with the Stars.
Want to try the Radisson’s bar?” Paresh pointed down the street. “It’s nothing special, but at least we’ll be able to hear ourselves think.”

The Radisson’s bar was dark and quiet. The piano stood neglected. According to the lighted “event board,” which listed all its information in curly, hot pink script, the lounge singer had the evening off. As Andrew sat down, Paresh shrugged out of his coat, revealing the double-breasted suit beneath. In the bar’s deliberate gloom—white lights behind the liquor shelves and miniature lamps on each tabletop—Paresh looked dapper, handsome, and younger than Andrew remembered.

“How old are you, anyway?” Andrew asked.
Rude. I’m being rude again
. Surely if he put his mind to it, he could regain a few social graces.

“Thirty-two.” Paresh consulted the drink menu.

“How’d you get so rich at thirty-two?”

“I inherited a great deal of it. My father wanted the money to go to my brother Deepak. But he was killed in a Jet Ski accident. So the good son went into the ground and the sniveling little faggot got everything.” Paresh smiled as the waitress approached. “I’m thinking vodka and tonic. You?”

“The same.”

As the waitress veered toward the bar, Paresh continued, “That night at the hospital, you said you didn’t know who hurt me, or why I felt like shit. Well. I’m afraid it’s not much of a story. Daddy didn’t love me. Not exactly the stuff of great drama.”

Andrew shrugged. “Most of the worst things that happen to us can be summed up in a sentence or two. I know what Sven meant to you. Telling him to take a hike took guts.”

Paresh said nothing. When the waitress returned with their drinks, Paresh took a sip before answering at last. “Not compared to what came after. I asked my wife for a divorce.”

Andrew blinked. “Really? Why?”

“Because I want a real relationship. I can’t have that while I’m in the closet. Besides….” Paresh’s dark eyes gleamed, shy but hopeful. “I met some new people in a BDSM chat room. They’re all about openness and honesty. Most of them came out to friends and family, and the world didn’t end. I married Kamala to please my father, just before he died. I didn’t love her, and she didn’t love me. We’ll both do better on our own. The kids may be happier, too, once they get used to the idea. I’m sure they’re tired of hearing us fight.”

Something inside Andrew softened. “I’m happy for you, Paresh.”

The other man grinned. “Good. Now. Enough about me. Tell me about your sister.”

Andrew hadn’t planned to talk about Marie. But the otherwise-empty bar was soothing, the vodka and tonic went down easy, and Paresh proved to be a surprisingly good listener. Starting with his discovery of Jake’s affair with Hugh, Andrew told Paresh how Marie had defended him, eventually convincing Connie to foot the bill for martial arts lessons. How Marie had moved to New York on a whim, falling in love with the city and deciding to stay. How she’d loved the museums, the ethnic foods, the kaleidoscope of perspectives and cultures. Even after her breast cancer diagnosis, Marie had assumed she’d prevail, upbeat and confident and determined to keep right on living.

“If positive thinking were all it took to survive, Marie would be fine today,” Andrew said, making a sweeping gesture to emphasize his point and almost knocking over his empty glass in the process. He’d been talking for so long, the drink had practically worn off.

“I understand. I was jealous of my brother Deepak, but I loved him, too,” Paresh said. “If courage and strength were all it took to stay alive, he’d be running my father’s company, not me. Deepak was, what’s the phrase? A real man.”

“A real effing man.” Andrew sighed. “Can I get another drink?”

“Of course.” Paresh, who’d barely made a dent in his own vodka and tonic, signaled the waitress. “So what’s waiting for you in Wichita? Some girl?”

“No girl. Just a couple of hookups from way back when. And after Cormac, I don’t know if I’m ready to….” Andrew stopped. He hadn’t intended to mention Cormac, either.

“Cormac?” Paresh raised his eyebrows. “Who’s that?”

Andrew waited until his second drink arrived. It took him that long to get his thoughts together. “You remember what I told you? How you helped me, reached me? I didn’t know I could be with men, Paresh. Not until that first time with you. Cormac started out like you—a client—but pretty soon we were dating. I fell in love with him. Then the whole thing blew up. He’s a politician. You know, Cormac Donovan, the senator from California who said all that stuff on TV about gay people.”

Paresh’s eyes widened, but he quickly regained control of himself. Reaching across the table, he touched Andrew’s hand. “Tell me everything.”

* * *

“Dork. I’m calling you. Wake up.”

Groaning, Andrew folded his pillow over his face. He’d fallen asleep with the bedroom lights on.

“You didn’t drink that much.” Marie poked his ribs again. “Wake up or I’ll give you an Indian burn.”

“Jeez.” Tossing the pillow aside, Andrew sat up and stared at Marie. Perched on the edge of his mattress, she looked like she was supposed to: shoulder-length blond hair, full breasts, a healthy glow to her skin. Even her blue and white softball league uniform seemed appropriate. “I keep dreaming you’re dead.”

“He who saves one life, saves the world entire. I like that line. It’s from the Qu’ran. Did you know the Chinese didn’t invent fortune cookies? They were created by an immigrant bakery in San Francisco.” Marie smiled. “I’ll bet Cormac knows that.”

“Probably,” Andrew said. “You know, if you liked the quote, you could have told me. Opened your eyes at the very least.”

“I was already gone. Sometimes all the machines make it hard to figure out who’s alive and who’s dead. Modern medicine. Gotta love it.”

“Oh.” Andrew thought about that. “So what’s it like? Dying?”

“Sort of like dreaming. I kept slipping back and forth between memories. Then I heard the light and decided to find it.”

“Heard the light?” Andrew frowned. This exchange was beginning to feel suspiciously like a dream. “Marie, you can’t hear light.”

“You’re the one who can’t hear light, Andy. Not yet. In fact, you can’t even hear your own phone. I’m calling you. Pick up.”

“I’m sleepy!” Andrew groaned, reaching for his discarded pillow.

“I’m calling you,” Marie insisted. Far away, his mobile was ringing. “Pick up, Andy. Pick up. Pick up.”

* * *

Andrew opened his eyes. The bedroom lights were on. And his phone was ringing on the nightstand, just like in his dream. Gooseflesh rising on his forearms, he snatched up the phone, half-expecting to see Marie’s picture, or at least the designation UNKNOWN. Instead, he saw a familiar name: P. CHOUDHARI.

“Yeah?”

“Andrew. I’m sorry to wake you. You have to turn on the TV.”

Almost overcome by
déjà vu
, Andrew stumbled into the living room, well aware he was probably still dreaming. Instinctively he went to the twenty-four hour news channel, which had clearly been analyzing the same story for several hours.

“… show you the footage again,” the newsreader was saying. “But first, Hollywood’s finest comedians weigh in on today’s bombshell.”

“Did you watch as that senator came out during a TV interview?” David Letterman asked his audience. “See, that’s what’s wrong with politicians today, they can’t master the basics. The confessions come after the impeachment.” He accepted the smattering of laughter, then reemphasized the punchline as if a sterner reading would make it funnier. “Impeachment first. Confessions later.”

The montage shifted to Jimmy Kimmel, who had a heart-shaped box of candy in one hand and a bouquet of red roses in the other. “I’ll just say it. I’m in love. Sen. Donovan is a Republican who not only came out on national TV, he used the f-word while doing it. How cool is that?” Kimmel grinned at the applause. “If my erection lasts much longer, I’ll have to seek medical help.”

Kimmel was followed by Stephen Colbert, wearing a look of mock outrage. “Nation! Sen. Cormac Donovan says he can’t bear the hypocrisy of living as a closeted homosexual Republican. In the same breath, he endorses gay marriage and gay adoption. Sen. Donovan, I resent the suggestion gay Republicans are expected to stay in the closet. The Republican party encourages its gay members to live as they please—as long as they never speak up, never disagree, and never breathe a word they’re gay.”

When the network went to commercial break, Andrew found himself sitting on the floor instead of the sofa. Something was wrong with his chest. Either he was having a heart attack, or this was happiness—wild, giddy happiness—coming over him for the first time in what seemed like eons.

The newsreader, a middle-aged brunette, looked equally pleased with this particular story. “We’re back. As promised, here’s the footage again. CNN’s Opal Guthrie sat down with U.S. Congress hopeful Cormac Donovan to discuss his runoff campaign, including his emphasis on environmental issues. But when she asked about Sen. Donovan’s former mentor, disgraced former Rep. Martin Fontaine, the exchange took an unexpected turn. Take a look.”

Cormac looked as handsome as ever, but a bit thinner. There was a hardness to his mouth Andrew didn’t remember. The interviewer, Opal Guthrie, appeared more than a little star-struck.

“Does it feel strange, running for Rep. Fontaine’s seat? Do you think you can restore honor and dignity to the position?”

Cormac’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t understand the question.”

Guthrie smiled. “Well, Rep. Fontaine’s homosexual affair with a male prostitute created quite a scandal. What will you do to assure voters you’re a different sort of man?”

“That’s the stupidest question anyone’s ever asked me.” As the reporter blinked, casting a nervous glance at her camera operator, Cormac continued, “You know what? I’m not a big fan of adultery. When people make vows to each other, I think they should keep them, if at all possible. But any voter with half a brain surely knows Martin Fontaine’s private life—his sex life—has nothing to do with the service he rendered the state of California. Martin was forced out because he’s gay and our party doesn’t accept that. He put a toe out of the closet and lost everything.”

Taking a deep breath, Opal Guthrie visibly rallied. “Well, Senator, this line of reasoning is very different from the statements you made just after the Fontaine scandal broke.”

“I was exhausted. Trying to pick up my baggage after an eleven hour flight. Next thing I knew, there were microphones under my nose. Everyone wanted a sound bite, so I went on autopilot.”