MILE 22
“S
he was running the race with an iced coffee in her hands. I am telling you the God's honest truth ... I mean, could I make that up?”
Liam embellished a few of the details. It seemed like the right thing to do given the circumstances. Bertha Kurtzel
had
been seen sipping an iced coffee at the four-mile mark of the Club Team Championships, but no one knew for sure whether she had been handed the beverage by a spectator or had been carting it around the entire race. Either way, it seemed like a minor setback for competitive running in the club. And Liam knew that Riser of all people would find the tale amusing. Slumped in the hospital bed, Riser looked more like a concentration camp victim than a twenty-six-year-old athlete. His skin was sallow and his eyes, deep and haunting. Every once in a while, perhaps out of sympathy for Liam's earnest effort, Riser would eke out a look of amusement and the misery in his hollow face would shift into a wan smile or the outline of a laugh.
“Even in mid-August that Bertha had a flannel shirt wrapped around her waist. I guess to cover her fat ass.” Liam had to keep talking to deal with the stress of seeing Riser in this state. “More power to her, really. I don't think I'd bother to spend a full hour of my day running a five-miler. Someone should credit the slower runners; they are the ones who have to stay on the battlefield while we're back at the diner wolfing down the lumberjack special.”
Unable to stop his rambling, Liam delved further into detail about the other heftier runners on the team and their slovenly habits. He knew going into the visit that his level of discomfiture would be high (he never had been good in hospitals) and had begged Gary to accompany him for that reason alone. But Gary would hear nothing of it. In his book, Matthew and Riser had become prima donnas and behavior like theirs was not to be rewarded. “Yes, you're the only queen bee,” Liam had retorted during their heated phone conversation. Gary had voiced many strong opinions during Riser's bodily transformation. The idea of willful starvation deeply insulted him. Having seen the way disease steals the body of itself, Gary called anorexia an affliction of pampered affluence. He had reduced Riser to a sad cliché.
Liam could feel nothing but sorrow for the lost soul lying beside him. The harsh afternoon sunlight streaked the blue veins in Riser's neck and the deep gully of his collarbone. Liam searched unsuccessfully for something reassuring to say to his friend. All Riser could talk about was how stupid the doctors were. They claimed that his bones weren't strong enough to run, which he noted was clearly misguided given his string of PRs in recent months. Riser waited for a response, eagerly canvassing Liam for some sign of agreement. Hoping to offer his friend some perspective, Liam laughed and said that it had been a long summer of racing for Fast Trackers and that the whole team was taking a couple of weeks off. A lie, of course, but Liam wanted to help Riser slay the demons of his type A personality.
Months ago, the doctors had shown Riser the striations and cracks in his bones on an MRI. Through unflinching will and determination, he had pushed past the shin pain and continued to train and race, but at some point the body demands its due. He now had no choice but to rest. Riser nodded as the doctor explained the situation, but Liam could see his friend's eyes glaze over as the man spoke to them. The first thing that Riser said after the doctor left his room was that the physician, who was handsome in an avuncular way, should drop twenty pounds before telling other people what to do with their lives.
Random Fast Trackers had been talking behind Riser's back for what had felt like an eternity, offering a selection of theories as to whether he was healthy or unhealthy, sane or insane, going to live or destined to die. Watching him in the hospital bed now, helpless like a child, Liam began to resent the jeering onlookers who had turned Riser's illness into sport.
Could Riser die?
A human could only make it for a few days without water. Longer without food, clearly. But what was the threshold? In many religions, starvation was a rite of passage or a cleansing ritual. Maybe Riser had ascended to a higher plane of being that none of his friends could yet understand. Life offered many a yin-yang tensionâabundance and scarcity, satisfaction and yearning, completion and emptiness. The dualities swirled in Liam's head when he was suddenly ambushed from behind.
Sets of hands grabbed at Liam's rib cage, fingers fiddling under his armpits. He caved into a helpless ball of laughter, writhing on the cold hospital floor. As he wiped the tears from his eyes, Liam saw Gary and Matthew standing above him. Given his relief at their presence, Liam sloughed off his embarrassment and hoped that Riser had been entertained by their folly. In truth, Liam suspected that Gary might be the only person who could wake Riser up and help him reclaim his life. For a Fast Tracker, not having Gary on your side was like being abandoned by your father. No matter how many times you told yourself that you didn't care, that the old man was a loser, you never really shook yourself of him. A Fast Trackerâat least a male Fast Trackerâneeded Gary's acceptance to be whole. It was just one of those annoying yet unassailable truths. Gary knew it better than anyone and deftly used it to his advantage within the club, maintaining what some of the bitchier women and bitter old men called his “entourage” of cute, fast boys.
“Why do they always make hospital rooms so dreadful?” Gary circled around Riser's bed and drew open the blinds, exposing the dirty brick of the neighboring building. “A pretty pastel yellow or subtle pink paint could be purchased at Janovic Plaza for the same price as this penitentiary white. The chalkiness makes me think of Imodium A-D.”
“Gary, I love that you still carry that Fifth Avenue haughtiness even though you're now a dirty Chelsea boy like every other queer in Manhattan!” Riser lifted himself out of the bed to pat Gary on the back. “I hope to be just like you in thirty years.”
“Bitch, I came up here just to throw sunshine up your sorry ass.” Gary spoke with feigned indignation. “And FYI, if you lose any more weight,
you're
going to look fifty-five years old. Emaciation has a way of aging you. The pounds drop off and the years pile on ... ”
Liam and Matthew looked at each other nervously. An uncomfortable silence followed Gary's punchy assertions. Would his quips help Riser take himself less seriously? Given his increasing fragility, Riser might take it personally and recede into the inner world he lived in more and more these days.
“Matthew, can you hand me the mirror that's on that nightstand by the door?”
Matthew reached over and handed the small glass oval to Riser. Gary, Liam, and Matthew turned their eyes in unison toward the floor as Riser began to carefully study his reflection. Everything that Liam had ever read about anorexia clearly stated that those who succumbed to the condition could never see themselves as others did. Liam worried that Riser might hate himself more now that he knew his friends thought he looked wizened and that he might restrict his diet further as punishment.
“I think I just need a good night's sleep.” Riser pressed his two index fingers into the bruised pockets under his eyes to see if they would change color. The skin only reddened. “Once I am back in my own bed and fully caught up on shut-eye, then I'll be perfectly fine.”
“Brand spankin' new,” confirmed Matthew.
“The cat's meow,” Liam said, wanting desperately to believe it.
“Like a million bucks,” Gary agreed with a gentle nod of his head.
It was as though they had all repeated the words of a responsorial psalm in mass. Everyone in the room had made a pact to move on from this moment, even if that meant pretending that a lie was the truth.
The nurse, a young woman who looked hardened by the realities of life, poked her head in and testily told everyone that visiting hours ended in
precisely
ten minutes. Catching Gary rolling his eyes, she informed the group that visiting hours were a privilege not a right and her only concern was that her patients got the proper rest they needed to survive.
How did it get to be that we put our lives in the care of strangers?
Liam wondered if Riser's parents, wherever they might be on the other side of the globe, knew the desperation their son lived with, if they had any idea that their little boy might starve himself to death for acceptance or for the whims of fashion. Gary moved closer to Riser to say good night and rested the palm of his hand on Riser's forehead, as though he were trying to tell if the boy had a fever.
“Good night, sweet prince.” Gary leaned over and kissed Riser on the forehead in the administration of a sacrament. “And flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.”
Liam wanted to cry. He knew the scene was overly maudlin but wanted nothing more than to throw his arms around Riser and beg him to be alright again. After all the tantrums and the petty bullshit, Gary could still make a man believe in things beyond himself. He could imbue you with a sense of hope and power. If Gary could sustain his partner through a decade of decay and the ravages of AIDS, then surely Riser could find the strength to take care of his own health and find a reason to live again.
MILE 23
L
iam looked at his watch one more time. The big billboard with all the track locations for the departing trains flickered with new information. While he realized that fifteen minutes did not qualify as extraordinarily late by New York standards, particularly those employed by gay men in the city, Liam considered whether it was worth pulling out his cell phone from his beach bag and calling Monroe. Of course, if Monroe was already on a train heading downtown, he would have no cell phone service, making the attempt fruitless.
Liam had initially phoned Didier to invite him to this Labor Day party. But Didier did not allow Liam the chance to reconcile differences and rekindle their romance. He responded to the voice mail that Liam had left with a short, mysterious e-mail. Didier wrote that he would be in touch soon, that he had some loose ends to tie up with his wife. Liam was glad that Monroe was available at the eleventh hour to fill in.
A collage of sad celebrity makeovers papered the news kiosk in the little store across the way in the train station. Liam caved in and bought a $5 oilcan of Foster's from the stand in an effort to busy himself and perhaps stop the beads of sweat gliding from his forehead down to his shirt. His mouth scratched with dryness, but he knew his bladder would regret this decision during the ninety-minute train ride out to the beach. As he leafed through the new issue of
Vanity Fair,
Liam felt a hand brush down his spine.
“You're so moist already ... You are going to dissolve by the time we get out there.” Monroe tipped the Panama hat that clung to his balding head.
“I've been waitingâor should I say sautéingâhere for the last twenty minutes so forgive my indelicate state.”
“C'mon, I agreed to join you at yet another Fast Tracker event. I know you're not about to give me shit ... Anyway, you must have known that I would need the extra time to choose an outfit. I can't very well be upstaged by you!”
Liam yanked Monroe to attention as the track location for their train was announced. The crowds made a mad dash for the stairwell in unison, and Liam bounded through the thick mass of people, dragging Monroe along behind him. He hated the idea that after paying $22 for a round-trip train ticket, he might get stuck standing on a overstuffed Long Island Railroad train. After they crammed into a little bench seat in the back car of the train, Liam relaxed and took stock of the fellow passengers heading out to eastern Long Island.
It appeared everyone was taking advantage of the fact that the last official weekend of the summer was a scorcher. A young mother wheeled her toddler son onto the car backward; he had zinc oxide on his nose and cradled a water gun between his leg and the seat of the stroller. Three teenage boys in sleek fluorescent wet suits carried on oversized surfboards and managed to block one of the train doors. The tallest in the crew announced that the passengers would be serenaded with doo-wop songs from the fifties and sixties and then launched into the opening sound effects of “The Lion Sleeps Tonight.” Liam closed his eyes and wondered whether he would be too annoyed to sleep through the racket.
“Don't think that you're going to snooze through this trip, Liam.” Monroe elbowed him hard right under the rib cage. “I fully expect you to entertain me. You know my escort services do not come cheap.”
After Didier had turned down his invitation, Liam had received several offers of lifts out to the beach party from Gary and others. But Liam looked forward to the one-on-one time with Monroe and truly hoped that his friend would let himself unwind with a cocktail or two and maybe even find a little romance at the Fast Tracker barbecue. Being that Horace was hosting this fête, Liam knew that there would be an eclectic mix of older gentlemen in attendanceânot just skinny young runners.
“If I don't get my beauty sleep, things are going to get ugly.” Liam eyed Monroe as his head bopped against the rattling train window.
“Run through the guest list again,” Monroe said. “You know I don't like to be surprised. If there's anyone I will detest, please tell me now. I'd much rather know in advance so I can prepare my game face. Tell me, is that horrific old queen Gary going to be there?”
“C'mon! You know he's the president of the club. Of course, he's going to be there.”
“I'm sure he'll be hovering nearby all dayâa moth to your flame.”
Liam let Monroe's snippy tone roll off him. He appreciated that Monroe felt threatened by his friendship with Gary. It even flattered him slightly.
“Now, now,” Liam said, with a slight chuckle in his voice. “There's more than enough of me to go around.”
“Don't be so vain, my lovely. It's unbecoming.”
Liam retreated into Annie Leibovitz's elaborate photo spread of young starlets and wondered, halfway through the accompanying text about Scarlett Johansson's latest project, if his dream job really was writing copy for this publication. His eyes narrowed with the pages until he was out cold in his seat. Monroe gently shook Liam awake as the train conductor announced the last stop on the lineâthe Village of Greenport.
“That was enough beauty sleep for one afternoon,” Monroe said as he pulled Liam back into consciousness. “Not to worry, you'll be fresh as milk from the cow for the party, Liam. I, on the other hand, was kept awake by some tweenager with unlimited minutes in the row behind us. How do I look? Please, lie to me if necessary.”
“No need for fibbing, Monroe. You're a dandy in that outfit. I know you'll shine. Now, let's get out of this train and try to catch a cab to the party.”
Feeling more fatigued than before he had his ninety-minute nap, Liam began to have doubts about the trek out to eastern Long Island for a party that would last about as long as the commute back and forth from the city. He wasn't certain he would have the energy to juggle all the personalities at play but knew he needed to focus on Monroe's happiness for at least the first hour of the event.
The ten-minute ride from the station wove through some old farmlands and vineyards before hitting any signs of beach life. As the cab wound through Lake Drive, a vista of dunes rose up in every direction, and an army of little boys skipped out onto the rocky beach with Styrofoam boogie boards. A green snake and a purple dragon floated and dove around each other in the cloudless sky; their masters fidgeting to keep them airborne from the expanse of a beachfront deck.
Liam instructed the cabbie to turn at the mailbox marked “No. 17.” The house itself was not visible from the road, and the driveway rose and fell several times before depositing them at what appeared to be the guest cottage. Cars were parked everywhereâin and by the garage, on the grass, on the stone pathway that led around the propertyâbut not a single person was in sight. Only the sharp sound of The Eagles singing “Take It Easy” offered proof that a party was taking place.
As they walked around the stone steps to the back of the house, Liam took survey of the landscape. A forty-foot-long pool overlooked the Long Island Sound, and everything was blue. In every direction. The water. The sky. Even the grass that offered sunning spots to some of the older guests had a regal blue tint straight out of
The Great Gatsby
. Large deck umbrellas freckled the scene yellow and red. Waiters in tight shorts and Fast Tracker singlets served daiquiris and frozen margaritas.
Rising out of the pool in a square-cut bathing suit of chartreuse plaid, Horace rushed over. Liam examined the fragmented slabs of Italian tile on the deck to avoid making eye contact with the spare tire spilling over Horace's waistline. Horace did not believe in cordial greetings and instead insisted on full-on-the-mouth kisses. Liam detected the taste of stale cigarettes and rosé wine on his mouth and hated himself for finding the combination appealing, even sensual.
“So glad you traveled all the way out to the boondocks, Liam.” Horace shook out his mop of silver hair, christening Liam and Monroe in chlorine. “And who have we here?”
“Horace, this is my friend Monroe ... ”
“We ran together last year,” Monroe quickly interjected, “on my first run with the club. Thanks for taking mercy on a slowpoke.”
“You're very welcome, Monroe. Sorry, I didn't recognize you. Everyone looks so different out of running gear. Feel free to jump in the pool or take a walk around the grounds or a tour of the house or head across the way to the beach. Liam, some of your crew headed out that wayâthrough the gardens and down to the Sound. If you go, be sure to keep your shoes on. We have rocky beaches here in the North Fork. The Hamptons got the white sands, and we got the wine and the rocks.”
Knowing that Horace could chatter on all day if left to his own devices, Liam quickly excused himself by noting a dire need to use the facilities after the long train ride from Manhattan. Liam took Monroe by the hand and walked up the stairs to the deck, through the sliding glass doors and into the house. Even with Horace's invitation to take a tour of the house, Liam felt like a trespasser. By throwing a Labor Day party, Horace must have imagined the guests lingering by the pool, not poking their heads through the warren of rooms in his massive ranch house. The only art on the walls in any of the dozen or more rooms that Liam and Monroe walked through was documentary photographs of adolescent boys. While none of the subjects was ever naked, or even scantily clad, they looked self-conscious in their vulnerable positions in front of the camera. Liam wondered whether these were boys Horace had invited into his home but then suppressed the notion. He continued on with Monroe toward the far end of the house, where there were two small bathrooms opposite one another that they used.
“There is something creepy about this whole setup,” Monroe said, finally, as they exited the house through a set of French doors that opened onto a breezeway. “I mean, I'm kind of intrigued and afraid at the same time.”
“Let's chalk it up to his being eccentric,” Liam said. “Getting to spend the last weekend of summer at the beach is a good tradeoff for dealing with a few questionable household details.”
“Yowza, I had no idea you could turn kiddie porn into a simple question of taste,” Monroe said, laughing. “Where did my little Liam pick up this political aplomb?”
Liam and Monroe stopped outside a small barn at the edge of Horace's property, just before the gate that led to the beach. As they drew nearer to the little triangular house, Liam and Monroe heard muffled voices. The two small windows at the top of the structure were at least twelve feet high, making it impossible for them to peer in, so they tiptoed around the perimeter in search of an entrance. Once they located the door, Liam and Monroe paused outside, looking to one another sheepishly.
“Do you think it's a sex party?” Liam whispered to Monroe.
“It's barely one o'clock in the afternoon,” he replied. “I certainly hope not.”
“But what then?”
“Maybe drugs,” Monroe offered.
“With a crew of runners? I don't think so.”
“Why don't we just crack open the door?” Monroe said. “What's the worst that could happen?”
The intense blue light inside the little house blinded Liam at first. After a few seconds of squinting to adjust his eyes, he noticed that about a dozen men stood transfixed in front of a fifteen-foot-high wall of stacked television screens. It was not dissimilar from an installation you might see in the Museum of Modern Art, except that each monitor showed footage of Horace having sex with a different man. Each sexual partner was beautiful and looked young enough to raise the question of legality or, certainly, moral impropriety.
Monroe leaned against the wall and his mouth went agape. The images on the television screens grew more graphic. A hairless slip of a man was ordered to bend over and expose his anus. A close-up of Horace's tongue circling the inflamed pink sphincter followed. Liam watched in awe, paralyzed by what he was witnessing. But in less than sixty seconds his macabre interest in the films turned into complete disgust and he motioned to Monroe to leave. As they turned to exit, Liam was stopped dead in his tracks at the sight of Matthew necking some liver-spotted man with steely gray hair. With a quick tug, Monroe pulled Liam out of the barn. In the high blue of midafternoon, Monroe blinked dramatically while addressing Liam.
“What kind of warped world have you taken me into, boy?”
“Oh please, like I could really shock a weathered queen like you.”
Liam rubbed the buzzed fringe of Monroe's shaved head and felt very aware of how much he enjoyed hanging out with his best friend. Liam suggested they forget all the freaky goings-on and enjoy the beach. If it were possible, the day had grown even more beautiful in the hundred-yard walk from the gate toward the pebbly strand.
By the shoreline, tons of parents stood with their ankles in the water begging their kids not to venture out an inch farther. The water was very still and sandbars freckled its crystal blue surface, reminding Liam of the late summer tides of his childhood. Something final lurked under the shoals, and he began to feel melancholy without reason.
“You're looking pensive all of a sudden,” Monroe said, taking Liam's hand into his own in a pure and platonic gesture.