The Death Of Blue Mountain Cat Part 14

The fact of his s.e.xuality wasn't constantly uppermost in Caleb's mind, nor did it color many of his casual relationships. He met men he found attractive whom he simply recognized as off-limits because they were straight or committed. And there were many he discounted because they were seriously flawed-something he was perhaps quicker to notice because of his profession. He recognized that he hadn't found an intimate because he wasn't looking, hadn't even been haunting places where he might be seen. He didn't frequent bars, in fact, hadn't been in one since before Christopher died. He was becoming like one of his female patients, who read romances and dreamed of tall, dark strangers appearing-like the answer to prayer-to solve her problems and give her drab life meaning. Magical thinking. He would never meet anyone by hiding out in his comfortable routine. And if he wanted to alleviate his awful loneliness, he would have to meet someone.

Not that his social life was lacking. He was often invited out. Couples asked him when they had an extra lady guest, male colleagues frequently asked him to squire their wives, happy he wouldn't seduce them. And he liked women, eighty-year-old grandmothers no less than teenaged ingenues. He enjoyed escorting most of them. But they didn't fill his needs.

Sat.u.r.day, he forced himself to go out despite his misgivings. It took him all afternoon to get up the nerve.

The bar was on Clark, the northeast corner of an X-shaped intersection. He'd been there before, but not for years. Even as he was walking in, he felt great resistance. But what could happen? Some guy might make a pa.s.s? Wasn't that what he was hoping for? Some regular patron might challenge his right to enter? He could deal with confrontation. And the bar was a public accommodation. They'd serve even the most obnoxious h.o.m.ophobe if he didn't start a fight.

He stopped inside the door to a.n.a.lyze his reluctance. He recognized the illogic of his situation. He'd traveled some distance and set aside an afternoon to meet people, but couldn't cross the room to make the final connection. He hadn't thought of himself as shy since the service. After 'Nam, he'd thought he could face anything. But if merely talking to someone was so difficult, getting to the point-to intimacy-seemed a light-year distant.

Two men were playing darts. The bar was moderately full. Its patrons were integrated, a.s.sorted, mostly male, mostly in their twenties or early thirties. A few glanced at him, most didn't notice his arrival.

The decor was Southwestern-cowboy boots and cow skulls, Indian artifacts and old photographs. The music was contemporary and not unbearably loud, the ventilation good-air decent despite a number of smokers. Caleb made his way around the zigzag-shaped bar and took a stool between a papier-mche totem pole and a woman wearing a man's shirt and suit jacket over Levi's. As he took Caleb's order, the bartender-cheerful, middle-aged but well kept-seemed almost too eager to please.

While he waited for his beer, Caleb studied the patrons. A dozen men flanked the north side of the bar in groups of two and three. A young black man in a dashiki leaned on the video game by the men's room, talking to an older black man wearing a Bulls jacket. Two women were playing pool in the back of the room, while waitresses hustled back and forth between the bar and the adjoining restaurant. A man with dark-framed gla.s.ses sat by the south window, watching pa.s.sersby out on the street. And an urban cowboy sat at the bar with his back to the window and his arms around his lover.

The couple made him think of Christopher.

He was still discovering what he'd lost when he'd lost Chris. Before that, he'd been able to walk into a strange place and, without hesitation, initiate conversations with strangers. Losing Christopher, he'd lost the feeling that he was unique, that he was loved and treasured by one special person. He was liked well enough, now, by those who knew him, but he was indispensable to no one.

The bartender put a beer and a smile in front of Caleb, then began simultaneously mixing two tall, exotic drinks. The woman sitting next to Caleb watched with the avidity of Freud stalking birds. She had short, dark hair, thick gla.s.ses, and cat earrings by Laurel Burch. Caleb watched her twist her Sharps around in her hands as she visually fondled everyone and everything in the bar. She emptied the bottle and left a dollar for the bartender as she departed.

Before the door closed on her, a familiar figure swung it wide and entered like Melodrama, wearing a full-length racc.o.o.n coat. Ivan.

He minced his way across the room and took the seat the woman had vacated, gesturing to the bartender before giving Caleb a supercilious inspection. "So-ooo I was right about you. The great Dr. C is one of us after all."

"Just a bit of the continent."

Ivan slipped out of the coat and let it fall back over the bar stool. "Oh, don't go literary on me."

"Well, then drop the flaming-f.a.ggot routine and let me buy you a drink."

"I never pa.s.s up a freebie."

"It's not free." Caleb leaned into the angle between Ivan and the bar. "I want something."

"Me, I hope." He gave the bartender his order and turned back to give Caleb a simpering smile.

Caleb ignored it. "I want to know how David Bisti got a showing at the museum."

"Oh, that."

They both watched the bartender mix Ivan's drink-an electric-blue concoction-and set it in front of him. Caleb pushed a ten-dollar bill toward the barman, who smiled and nodded and deducted the price.

When he'd moved away, Ivan told Caleb, "A brilliant bit of misdirection, my dear."

Caleb waited.

"I showed Andrews the brochure Anita made up for the show at her gallery and let him believe that Blue Mountain Cat was still in his Arizona Highways period."

"Why go out of your way to promote David?"

"Cultivating my investment. I do own more of his work than anyone, including the widow."

It made sense. Gushing on paper about an artist in whose works he'd invested would destroy his carefully crafted reputation for impartial, critical savagery. Instead, he'd guaranteed priceless free publicity by setting up a situation that was bound to cause controversy. A brilliant strategy.

"Naturally, if you quote me, I'll deny it."

"Naturally." Caleb sat back and sipped his beer, then said, "I wouldn't think this was your sort of venue."

Ivan smiled, then leaned around him to speak to a waitress handing in drink orders on the other side of the totem pole. He pointed to a sign by the restaurant door-PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED-and told her, "My dear, I'm waiting."

She was a pet.i.te, conventionally attractive brunette. As she raised an eyebrow at Ivan, she seemed to be trying not to laugh. "Sure thing, hon." She took her drinks from the bartender and went back in the restaurant.

Ivan continued talking to Caleb as if without interruption. "It most definitely is not my kind of place. But the sweet young thing I'm dining with won't go near my watering hole."

"What would that be?"

"My dear, if you have to ask, you're too young..." He took a sip of his drink, managing to put the maximum of s.e.xual innuendo into the gesture. Then, leaving the nearly full gla.s.s on the bar, he picked up his fur, said, "Ciao," and minced out. When Caleb turned back around, there was a new occupant on the next stool. Another acquaintance. Rick Patrick.

Nodding in the direction Ivan had taken, Rick said, "A perfect example of 'What's the use?'" He was wearing a turtleneck and slacks instead of a dress shirt and tie. He looked even more like a model for Dockers. Stunning. Too good to be true. Caleb felt a sensation akin to decelerating sharply in an elevator. His mind fogged and he could almost see the nervous vibes he was emitting. He took a deep breath.

Rick was saying, "Do you come here often?"

Caleb shook his head then forced himself to say, "No. First time in a long time."

"Serendipity, then," Rick said.

To Caleb's amazement, he seemed content to be making small talk. And he was attending closely to the conversation and to Caleb, not cruising the bar visually, not-apparently-marking time until someone more appealing wandered in. Caleb was almost flattered. But Rick had made it clear at their first meeting that he had an agenda, so Caleb withheld judgment and observed his own discomfort-the dissonance between what he wanted and what he believed possible-with proper scientific detachment.

"I haven't been here in years," Rick continued.

"What's special about today?"

"Luck?" He smiled, and Caleb imagined his own blood pressure rising. "I had an interview not far from here, and nothing special to do tonight. So I thought, what the h.e.l.l..."

"And you spotted me and thought you might still get an interview?" Caleb observed his own alarm at the prospect and could see that Rick noticed it, too.

"Are all shrinks so paranoid?" He smiled.

"Why do you ask?" Caleb rolled his eyes from side to side as if looking for enemies.

Rick laughed. Other drinkers looked-stared actually. Caleb didn't blame them. He felt as if he'd won the office football pool. Rick was easily the most beautiful man in the bar.

"Off-the-record," Rick said. He pulled a little tape recorder out of an inside pocket and offered it to Caleb.

Caleb transferred it to his own and, parodying paranoia, said, "Where's your backup?"

"In the car. This whole evening is off the record."

They sat companionably until Caleb's beer was nearly gone. As the bartender approached, Rick said, "You hungry?"

"Not enough to go in there..." Caleb gestured toward the restaurant door. "...before Ivan leaves."

"I hear you. We could go somewhere else..."

Caleb had come on the bus, though he didn't mention that to Rick. They took Rick's car, an aging Chevy Blazer, back Downtown. Caleb suggested the restaurant, which was moderately expensive, so he also offered to pay. It was a test of sorts, the kind of place with real flowers and crystal and linen, and silverware in layers. The waiter presented them with a semi-interesting wine list; Caleb waited for Rick to make a selection.

After a few minutes's study, he put it down on the table. "I daresay I could tell cabernet from Chianti but, to be truthful, I've never had the money to develop a taste for the good stuff. I'd just as soon have a beer."

Caleb appreciated his candor.

Midway through dessert, Rick said, "I didn't see you at the march this spring." Washington, D.C. The gay-rights march. They'd progressed to the point in their relationship where he didn't have to explain which march.

Caleb laughed. "I was there." He thought about it for a moment. "Sort of."

Rick waited for him to elaborate.

"I went by myself, just for the day. It was a strange experience. I felt very alienated. Everyone else seemed to be with someone-friends or family, or loved ones. Or with an organization. I didn't feel as if I fit any of the categories. I didn't have a lover or a group, or any agenda beyond civil rights." He shrugged. "I promised myself I would join something when I got back, but I'm not much of a joiner..."

"Join me."

They headed back to Newton-Boystown, Rick called it-and barhopped until they found a place with live musicians and slow dancing. Between dances, they talked. It was nearly three when Rick stopped the Blazer in front of Caleb's building. Caleb felt, simultaneously, relief and sadness, reticence and l.u.s.t.

Rick said, "Aren't you going to ask me up for a drink?"

"You might get the idea that's not all it was for."

Rick leaned over and kissed him. "You had a good time tonight?"

"Yes."

Rick slipped his hands under Caleb's jacket to brush his fingertips up and down his sides. It was the first time they'd touched since they left the dance floor. Rick knew what he was doing-like the light man at The Phantom, orchestrating the magic. "You know I'm safe. You had me investigated."

Caleb blushed. "That was something else."

"So you know I won't mug you or steal the silver." He nudged Caleb's lapel aside and gently bit him on the pectoralis.

Caleb gasped.

"I have to admit," Rick went on. "I approve. You can't be too careful these days." He gently pushed Caleb away, then straightened his tie and smoothed his lapels. "We wouldn't want to scandalize your neighbors..."

Rick was suitably impressed with the condo. Caleb put jazz on the stereo and made them both drinks, then watched him explore the living room like a cat in a new territory. He p.r.o.nounced his verdict as he settled onto the couch, intimately close. "Very nice." He made it seem to include his host as well as the surroundings.

Caleb was suddenly-and ironically-aware that he felt trapped.

"What's wrong?" Rick asked.

"I'm not prepared for this."

Rick seemed to relax. "Not to worry." He slipped his hand into his pocket and withdrew a small, flat, square, foil-wrapped packet for Caleb's inspection. "I am."

Caleb felt the hot wave of a blush color his face. "That's not exactly what I meant." With part of his mind, he could trace his own discomfort; part of it was numb with panic; and part of it noted-quite dispa.s.sionately-that Rick was enjoying himself. Caleb didn't hold that against him. Viewed objectively, the situation was absurdly amusing.

"You don't know the first f.u.c.king thing about safe s.e.x, do you?" Rick asked.

"Theoretically, I'm a genius. But my last relationship was monogamous. And before that, it wasn't an issue."

"How antediluvian. Well, we're not all into r.i.m.m.i.n.g and fisting. By the time I was old enough to join the gay community, safe s.e.x was 'in.' Most of my first lovers had lost someone to AIDS."

Caleb couldn't think of anything to say to that.

"You have a lover you didn't tell me about who's going to barge in on us?"

"No." He couldn't stop himself from glancing at Chris's portrait.

Rick caught the gesture. "You want to tell me about him?"

"Christopher," Caleb said, looking at the portrait, "died. I guess I haven't gotten over him."

"Ah," Rick said. "How long ago?" He studied the picture.

"More than five years."

"And how long since you made love with someone?"

"So long ago I've forgotten how."

Rick stepped closer and slipped his hands beneath Caleb's jacket. "Let me refresh your memory," he said, pulling Caleb closer. He glanced at Chris's portrait again. "Let's go somewhere more private."

A few moments later, in Caleb's bedroom, Rick put his hand on Caleb's shoulder. "You have to relax and relinquish control, even though I know what control freaks you shrinks are..."

"Tell me about your first time," Rick said. "Was it as awful as mine?"

They were stretched companionably on Caleb's bed, enjoying the aftershocks. Caleb rolled on his back and thought.

"We were in Saigon for R and R. I went with a number of my buddies to a bar. The idea was to pick up some B-girls and get laid. I was self-medicating for performance anxiety-with straight rotgut, the house brand. The problem was that, at nineteen, I was still a virgin. I wasn't sure I could get it up. I didn't know what to do. And without the usual urges, I couldn't just let the woman do her thing and trust nature to take its course.

Rick grinned-obviously savoring Caleb's retrospective discomfort. He balled the pillow up and propped his head on it.

Caleb didn't hold it against him-conflict is the essence of story. He continued. "Eventually, I devised a strategy. There was a singer there, a beautiful young woman-not a prost.i.tute-who didn't fraternize. In fact, she had an escort watching her all the time. I think she might have been French or half French, and her escort wouldn't even let the patrons talk to her. I figured if I seemed drunk enough and got stubborn and refused to have anyone but the singer, my buddies would give up on me and go off without me. Then I could slink back to the barracks and sack out.

"My sergeant, a tough black man from Alabama, was watching the whole show and, a few drinks later, he peeled me off the bar stool and took me out of there. We walked until I was sober, then went to a hotel. He was gentle and considerate and he practiced what he'd been teaching us about safe s.e.x."

"Got you off to a good start, I'd say."

Caleb was nearly asleep when he felt the familiar shaking that told him Freud had jumped up on the bed.

As the small, warm body curled itself against his thigh, a voice at his ear demanded, "What the h.e.l.l's that?"