Quicksand Pt. 04

The next morning, I gathered the Sunday paper from my stoop after my workout. Evan was just stumbling down the stairs when I entered. He followed me to the kitchen as I grabbed a banana. It was too ripe for my taste, but I had become guarded about even the most common errands. I missed store-fresh produce.

As I showered, Evan whipped up a savory omelet and we enjoyed a civilized meal over the Sunday edition. Print newspapers have become farcically meager with the advent of the internet, but I resist succumbing to a screen on Sunday morning. Still, I finished the paper before I finished my breakfast.

I grabbed the comics section first. Evan pouted then pulled his chair close and we read the comics together. The humor of the funny pages seemed increasingly meager these days as well. Probably a sign of a culture descending into a bleak, vapid sump. I was more distracted than amused while Evan giggled over every panel. His shoulder was pressed to mine as he quaked with gaiety, and I discovered my own laughter in his mirth.

I took pleasure in his closeness and was gradually losing my impulse to pull away. He seemed a natural cuddler though I couldn't imagine that behavior with Lucas. Lucy, I'm sure, was the surrogate for his craving for intimacy during those years. With her being equally terrified of Lucas and often exiled to a secret lair, I realized how barren Evan's life must have been.

We cleaned the kitchen together, and then I ascended the stairs to the converted bedroom serving as my home office. Since Evan took refuge here, we had been living in the gloomy umbra of a cave. I opened the blinds to let in the sunlight. Beyond my tiny front lawn and across the street, a foursome occupied the 7th tee. Trash talk and laughter followed each drive. Their swings were fluid and swift. Good golfers. Still, I flattered myself thinking I could have walked away with a wallet full of winnings from friendly bets with those guys.

My gaze wandered to the tree where the thug had stood the day we had our face off. It was a majestic oak with a massive trunk split into two lesser trunks about ten feet up. It was one of my favorite trees and I pondered what might have caused it to grow like that when ...

What is that? I wondered. I've never seen that before!

I tore down the stairs and started to rut through the upper shelf in the hall coat closet. I must have been making a ruckus because Evan was quickly there.

"What's going on?" he asked.

I found the binoculars I was searching for and ripped them from the carrying case. "Nothing. Just some folks on the golf course I think I know."

"Are they playing naked or something? What's with the urgency?"

I brushed past him in a rush. "No. Just gotta hurry before... I've got the shades open so don't come up."

I adjusted the slats of the blinds to allow the slimmest vantage. Through the binoculars, it was obvious to see. A strap encircled one of the upper trunks. Sunlight glinted off optical glass.

I rushed to my bedroom window overlooking the backyard. Through the slats of the blinds, I surveyed the trees on the golf course. Another strap on another tree.

I called Detective Hardesty.

Later, the detective and I were waiting next to his SUV around a bend from my condo when the police technician returned from the cart path. He ignored me and spoke directly to Hardesty. "Two high-end game cameras focused right on his condo."

"Game cameras?" I asked cluelessly.

"Hunters use them to observe deer patterns," the tech replied. "Motion activated. They transmit directly to a cell phone."

I turned to Hardesty, "Well, I should cut them down, right?"

"I'd advise against it. Let them think they're getting away with something."

It was apparent that Hardesty was engaging in a cat-and-mouse game with the thugs. That's probably how he works every case, I thought. "And Evan and I are just bait to him. "So, as long as Evan stays hidden everything's cool. Is that your reasoning?"

"They're not looking for Wilcox."

"What do you mean?"

"By now they've figured that they've scared your neighbor far away. They're watching you."

"They can't possibly think I'm going to pay off my dead neighbor's debt."

"I'm sure they've given up on anyone paying the debt. They just want someone to pay, period. Those are the rules of the stupid game they play. You should have stayed away from the funeral."

"What?" I was incensed at the detective's flippant attitude. "So I perform a common courtesy and now I'm the target of a couple of psychos?"

Hardesty scoffed and doubled down on his callousness. "Only one of them is a psycho."

"Whatever," I erupted. "Those guys are a walking crime spree. Why aren't they in jail?"

Hardesty matched me decibel for decibel. "Because we've got a murder without a murder weapon. No witnesses. No security footage. No squat." Having gotten that out of his system, he took a more professional tone. "I promise you, we're building a case. It won't be long now."

My tone became more apologetic. My words didn't. "You've said that before. Just once I'd like to hear some good news from you."

"You want some good news? Okay, how's this? In this state, you don't need a permit to carry a concealed weapon."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"It means, Mr. Eberson, start carrying a concealed weapon."

I decided not to appraise Evan of this latest development. I sensed he was one scare away from going batshit crazy. I explained my absence by saying I had forgotten to mail the check for maintenance fees and dropped it off at the Pro Shop. As always, I explained, I got to chatting with the golfers.

He and I crafted a grocery list and I left to run errands. I took shortcuts through parking lots, made random U-turns, got on and off the freeway, all while watching my rearview mirror until I was certain I wasn't being followed. Then, I went to a warehouse-sized sporting goods store. Half an hour later, I emerged with a short-barreled 9mm Glock in a concealed carry holster that fits inside the waistband. The process was surprisingly effortless. I found scant consolation that no one in the grocery store would know I was packing heat.

It was barely after noon as Evan and I put away the groceries though it felt like I'd already put in a day and a half. On the other hand, Evan was bristling with excitement as he laid out the fixings for lasagna on the counter. He promised I was in for a treat tonight. I tried to emulate his exuberance in an effort to mask my increasing sense of anxiety. I felt the weight of beady eyes on my home and the heft of the hidden gun on my hip. I hurried upstairs to stash the 9mm in my bed stand beside the.40 caliber that I kept there.

When I came back down, Evan was setting out sandwiches for lunch. "How long do you think this will go on?" he wondered as we sat down.

"I'd bet it's over fairly soon." I was impressed by my false optimism. "Hardesty seems like he's on top of things. Just, please, stay out of sight. We can't afford the slightest mistake."

"I know. You're right." His smile reflected the grace he felt for the asylum my home afforded. "Actually, you've made me very comfortable and your company has been a blessing. I don't know what I would have done ..."

I gave his hand a pat and momentarily our fingers intertwined. "It has been kind of fun in a mildly terrifying way," I joked. "I hope it's not over too soon. I've really grown attached to..." I feigned misting up with emotion, "... Lucy."

Evan swatted at me with a laugh. "Asshole."

Afterward, I retreated to my office to work but my eyes kept being drawn to the window and the tree beyond. The sweet aroma of baking succulence wafted up to me and my stomach growled despite the lunch I'd eaten. I cautioned myself not to gain weight during Evan's stay. I managed to focus on my work and the day succeeded in becoming late.

"Knock, knock." Evan peeked through the sliver opening of my office door. "Thought you might need a beer before dinner."

"Sounds great. Come on in."

He nudged the door wider, holding a couple of cans of Bud. His eyes probed every inch of the room like an FBI interrogator looking for the flaw in my alibi. I realized this was the first time he had breached my business sanctum. I dashed to the window and shut the blinds.

"So not fair," Evan pouted. "You get to bask in the only sunlit room while I'm banished to the inner shadows like a bastard stepchild."

I took his offering and returned to my swivel chair as he hit the light switch and scattered lamps lifted the pall. "You're right. It isn't fair, my ill-fated friend, but I don't make the rules."

"Actually, you do make the rules, my fiducial friend, and that's okay." He gave my framed diploma a close inspection. "The only wall-hanging in the entire condo and it's your MBA. You are such a desolate soul."

"You're forgetting the 'Bless This Mess' sampler in the kitchen."

"I wasn't forgetting. I was ignoring. You got your MBA in finance at OU? How was that?"

"Umm, it suited me. I liked Norman and an MBA just seemed like the right thing to do. I'm naturally good with numbers and I started doing the New York Times crossword at fourteen, so there you go."

"The Times crossword translates into finance, how?"

"Markets are just puzzles with jeopardy attached."

"You make it sound interesting," he said earnestly. Evan had the quality of being sincerely curious about people. Or at least about me. "Was that where you met your wife?"

Sometimes too curious. "Yeah. Junior year, actually." I pivoted the conversation. "Did you go to college?"

"Kind of. For, like, two seconds I was an art student at The New School but we're talking about you."

"What? You went to The New School?" I was genuinely intrigued. "That's impressive, dude. Very prestigious. And Greenwich Village is way more exotic than Norman, Okiehoma. When was this?"

"Right after I graduated from Catholic High School. I absolutely fled Tulsa. And New York was almost far enough away for my family to forgive me. They could tell people I was artistic rather than gay."

"I didn't realize you're an artist but it makes sense. I got a peek of your place and it seemed like the walls were ..." I sought a phrase that might please him, "... festooned with art. Festooned, is that the right word?"

"Yes!" he beamed. "Some of that's mine, by the way. The charcoal sketches. A couple of the black and white photos, too."

"I can't wait to check them out when this is over. What happened? Didn't you like it?"

"Are you kidding? It was the most exciting period of my life. I was literally sparking like a neuron within this living, beating leviathan. New York City. Manhattan. Greenwich Village. My mind was blown. The students were all so sophisticated and brilliant. And the faculty was world-class. But it was very intense. Brutally, brutally demanding. The good part was there were museums and galleries everywhere, dude. We could even hop on a train and be at The National Gallery in D.C. in minutes it seemed."

"And you were a young gay man in a city that never sleeps."

I could practically hear the brakes screech in his head. After a full stop, he said, "A city full of creeps is more like it."

"Really?"

"It's a sordid tale that I'd rather forget."

Evan had gone from buoyant to bleak in the length of a sigh. "Is that why you were only there for two minutes?" I waited but, for once, Evan was not forthcoming. "What happened, man?"

He was disconsolate. I could have dropped the subject but the one thing I knew about Evan was that he craved absolution for the sin of merely being himself. Something lay hidden that he feared to expose, feared what it might expose. It was suppurating within him. I felt it needed to be lanced.

"What happened, Evan?"

"What always happens with me. I walked blithely into quicksand."

He looked at me as if there was nothing more to say, as if I knew him well enough to instantly intuit the story in full. But I was lost. He read my bafflement and with a pained sigh he added, "I got involved with one of my professors."

"Involved?"

"Sexually."

********

What transpired over the remainder of the afternoon was a post-mortem dump of how Evan's great aspiration crashed and burned. There were no tears or even weepy eyes, only a soliloquy of sad dismay. As much was said in long pauses as was in the weary run-on sentences. At one point, I had to crack the blinds to let some light shine against the murk.

Evan arrived in the city like a hatchling astonished by the world beyond its shell. He emerged into Greenwich Village, walking streets consecrated by revolutions in American art, music, and culture. He could have afforded a bohemian flat on historic Bleeker Street where Bob Dylan once lived but instead chose to live in a residence hall in order to be immersed within the student life of America's most avant-garde university.

And it was there that Evan found what he wanted. In that teeming city, on those storied streets, amid that cacophonous press of indifferent humanity, he was emancipated from censure for being who he was. The rigors of The New School were staggering. The intellectual requirements were far greater than he had ever encountered, but Evan had always had a determined, precise mind. It was the strictures of his family, church, and school that had stupefied him. Intolerance had been his oppressor and now, not only was he liberated from constant condemnation, he was actually encouraged to realize his full true self.

It was during his first semester that Evan came to know Jonathon Fitzpatrick. Jonathon was a docent at the Guggenheim Museum and a guest lecturer in the art history department of The New School. In small groups, the students would tour the city's many museums accompanied by one of the faculty. They would spend an entire day viewing and discussing the masterworks of every age and genre of art. It was exhilarating and at the center of the experience was their frequent guide, Jonathon.

He was a tall, elegant man of forty-three with premature graying of his brown hair and goatee. His eyes seemed lustrous with insight as he parsed the nuance of each painting, and he spoke with a vivacity and sophistication that was enthralling. Evan came to anticipate those field trips with a lusty exuberance. As Christmas break was approaching, Jonathon asked Evan if he was looking forward to time at home.

"Honestly, I'm not the least bit homesick for Tulsa," Evan admitted. "I'm looking forward to having the residence hall to myself for two weeks."

"Well, I'm throwing a bit of a holiday party to kick off the season," Jonathon offered. "You should come. It will help stave off loneliness."

That's how it began. Evan arrived fashionably late with the party in full swing. The moment he crossed the threshold, he felt conspicuous. Younger by a generation than the gathered revelers, he realized he was a naif amidst an elevated strata of the New York art world. A quick appraisal of the crowded flat, with its clamor of witty banter vying against the ironic backbeat of seasonal music, and he was prepared to bolt out the door. It was then that Jonathon rushed to greet him. With an arm across his shoulders, Jonathon ushered Evan around the room, introducing him to the other guests as one of The New School's brightest young stars. He felt curried by his mentor's praise.

Yet, Evan was still that hatchling and he found it daunting to be amidst such urbane company. Fortunately, alcohol quickly calmed his inhibitions, and he was soon swept within the party's flow. He was especially susceptible to the flattery of the older gay men who were giddy at the prospect of new blood in such an attractive form. However, Jonathon kept his eye on Evan and was quick to come to his rescue.

Evan woke up in Jonathon's bed the next morning, horribly hung over but unmolested. Coffee failed to revive him, and he awoke a second time well after noon. He was embarrassed by his dissolute state, but Jonathon simply laughed his discomfort away. He slept again in Jonathon's bed later that night but as a lover, not an inebriate.

The rest of the holiday break was spent as much in Jonathon's company as it was in the dorm. They went arm-in-arm to the Christmas Spectacular at Radio City Music Hall, a concert in the atrium of the Guggenheim, the opening of an exhibition at the Whitney, and The Book of Mormon on Broadway. Evan knew Jonathon's friends viewed him as arm candy, but he felt a deep relationship cultivating between the two of them, the first great love of his life. A scant few months before, he had been a veritable hayseed from Oklahoma, and it was thrilling to be so suddenly ensconced in the privileged society of New York's art scene. He was reminded of the old joke: six months ago I couldn't even spell sophisticate and now I are one.

Once the Spring Semester began, Evan resumed his life as a student and tried to keep his liaison on the down low. Still, there was a libidinous frisson between him and Jonathon in class and field trips and there was no way to disguise from his roommate the frequent overnight absences. They were each studying at their desks when his roommate chimed, "You know, there's a policy in the Student Handbook against what you and Mr. Fitzpatrick are up to."

"You don't know what you're talking about," Evan snipped.

"Don't be coy, Evan. I mean, he's hot as hell but you could get him fired. He's everybody's favorite lecturer. You don't want to be 'that' guy."

Evan started to protest but became defensive instead. "Isn't there an 'everybody mind your own fucking business' policy as well? Something about respecting privacy?"

"I'm just saying ..."

The trysts continued unabated. One night after dinner and drinks with friends, Jonathon said, "It would be fun if you made yourself pretty for me, tonight. Would you do that for me?"

Evan was confused. "Aren't I always pretty?"

"I've laid some things out on the bed. Just try them on. Okay?"

In the bedroom, he found silvery sheer stockings, a lacy garter, and a whisper-thin thong waiting. Over the back of a chair hung a violet silk kimono. On the bed stand was a case of make-up.

At this point, I interrupted Evan's narrative. "What? He wanted you to dress in drag for him?" "No, no, no," Evan corrected. "Drag is burlesque. It's all about camp. Jonathon wanted me to wear men's lingerie. To be alluring. Sexy. You know, a gay guy's Victoria's Secret." 
 "I'm sorry." I was more than a little flustered. "I didn't realize there was such a thing. So you wore make-up?"

"Nothing garish. I never use more than a little color on the eyelids and some lip gloss. I prefer subtle accents."

Evan continued his story. "Anyway, it obviously worked. I came out of the bedroom so nervous my knees were knocking. But Jonathon's eyes practically bugged out of his head. I mean," he said with sincere modesty, "I know I'm an attractive guy. I notice the way men look at me. Women, too. But I had never elicited this reaction before. I suddenly realized I possess a sexual charisma.

"I did my best Mae West impersonation, opening the kimono and pulling it aside as I slowly twirled. Jonathon was practically drooling. I pranced for him inches out of reach, allowing him to ogle every inch of me. He was aroused by the sight, feverishly so, and I felt glorious.

"It was the most romantic night of my life. It was more than lovemaking. It was adoration, and it lasted for hours. I was in heaven."

Back in school, Evan had to work doubly hard to keep up. His trysts, though delicious, took precious time from his studies, and the friendships he had cultivated in the fall semester suffered. Murmurations of gossip followed him through the corridors like an odor. Few details were known, which gave the speculation a wide berth. It was a vast city of myriad temptations and young minds are capable of wild imaginings. His roommate kept his confidence and those closest to him were discreet. So long as Evan kept apace with his studies, his frequent absences were tolerated. Still, mystery shrouded him.