Roger just looked at the wal behind me, wil ing me to finish my water and leave.
“While we’re talking,” I said, even though we weren’t, “why’d you leave The Stuff of Life, anyway?”
Roger looked at his coffee table.
“I’m sure it’s none of your business.”
“I’m just saying, everyone liked you so much, and you did such a good job,” I lied again.
Roger looked at me. “What did you say your name was?”
I told him.
“You’re the kid who left a message on my machine the other day, aren’t you?”
I wasn’t sure if he’d placed me. I smiled, winningly I hoped. “Guilty as charged.”
“What did you want?”
This guy is al charm.
“I just wanted to make sure you heard about Al en Harrington’s death,” I told him. “Seeing as you two were friends and al.”
Roger sniffed. “Yes. Wel. We were. Poor man.
What a loss. Although I can’t say I was surprised.”
“What do you mean?”
“Suicide. It’s just so cliche isn’t it?”
I leaned forward. “How’s that?”
“Oh, please.” Roger stood up, began pacing. “It’s the oldest story in the world: Old queen can’t stand the fact that she’s getting older. She looks in the mirror and sees herself turning into the kind of old man she made fun of when she was younger. Fat where she should be thin, soft where she should be hard.” His voice took on a weird sing-song. “So sad, too bad.”
I hated what Roger was saying, but I needed to see where this was leading.
“You think that’s why Al en kil ed himself?”
“It’s the lifestyle, darling,” Roger said. He became increasingly agitated and started waving his arms around. “Don’t you see? It’s wrong. It’s immoral and wasteful and against God’s wil. It leads nowhere.
Don’t you see?
“I tried to tel Al en that, but would he listen? Of course not! Just a few days before he died, he was on the phone with me; we got into a terrible stew.”
“What were you fighting about?”
“About me. About how I was growing and changing, and about how much that scared a man like Al en.”
“Al en was scared?”
“Al en was scared of the truth.” Roger sat next to me. “But the truth shal set you free!” he shrieked hysterical y, reaching his hands to heaven.
This guy was nuts.
“What truth?” I asked.
Roger sat next to me and took my hands. “The truth, my darling. The truth about homosexuality.”
I thought he was coming onto me, and then realized it was worse. He was trying to save me.
“You don’t have to be gay,” Roger crowed. “You can change. But did anyone at The Stuff of Life want to hear that? Of course not! They were so stuck in their old ways of thinking-I didn’t dare bring it up!
Look what happened when I tried to share it with Al en-he turned on me!
“That’s why I had to get out of there. Don’t you see? Away from al that cognitive dissonance and deathstyle.”
That word. Where had I just heard it?
Focus, Kevin, focus.
And what was this odd mix of religion and psychobabble?
Roger squeezed my hands tighter. It was starting to hurt, but I didn’t want to say anything and break his stride.
“You had to get out,” I repeated his words, a trick I learned in my psychology classes to keep a person talking.
“I did.” He squeezed even tighter. Ouch.
“It must have been hard for you,” I said.
“Yes! Yes! To see them al, wasting their lives, wasting away in sin. I tried to tel Al en, I did, but I was too late. If only I had reached him sooner.”
Roger surprised me by breaking into tears. He buried his face in his hands. At least he let go of mine.
When the feeling returned to my fingers, I patted his back. “It’s not your fault,” I told him. “You did your best.”
“I know, I know,” Roger sobbed. “What hope did I have of changing him? Not even his own family could help him.”
What did that mean?
I was about to ask when Roger grabbed my hands again. This time, I could have sworn he was trying to break my fingers.
“But it’s not too late for you, my boy. Look at you, you think I don’t know what you are? Dressed like a whore?”
I swear, if one more person cal s me a whore tonight…
“It’s al about sex, isn’t it? Getting it up and getting it off. Disgusting ',” Roger hissed. Beads of sweat dotted his forehead.
“Of course, you’re young, you’re beautiful. Look at you. Those sexy legs in those tight shorts. The way they show off your ass, so fucking tight. That bulge in your shorts. Your T-shirt so snug with those little nipples jutting so proudly, so proudly out at me.”
The way Roger was talking, even though I didn’t want to, I had to look down. Yep, there it was-his erection tenting out his sweatpants.
No doubt about it, he was one sick puppy.
Roger shook his head as if tossing a bad thought out of his mind.
“Of course I want to fuck you right now, and I know you want me to. But I don’t have to give into it, and neither do you. You can re-program yourself, son.”
Roger got up and ran over to the desk. Grabbed a business card and thrust it into my hand. “They can help.”
I looked at the card, and handed it back to him.
I didn’t need it.
I already had it.
The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy.
The group run by Al en Harrington’s son, Michael.
“Deathstyle.” Now I remembered hearing Michael say it at the reading of his father’s wil.
Roger Folds was Michael’s-what? Patient?
Student? Disciple?
Here it was: The first link I had between people who might have wanted to see Al en dead.
I didn’t need to connect the dots. They were connecting themselves.
I got out of Roger Folds’s apartment as soon as I could, skipping the elevator and running down the stairs.
That guy was a freak, I thought, as I hit the street.
Jesus.
The evening was just starting to turn to night, although you wouldn’t know it from the ever-present heat and humidity. Stil, even the stale summer air felt good after being trapped with that born-again lunatic.
The Center for Creative Empowerment Therapy.
Shit. Al en Harrington’s son was running a group that promised to convert gays to heterosexuality.
I knew a little about scams like that from various new reports.
They usual y are based on religion, but Michael’s group sounded like it threw in some pop psychology, too.
Shit!
How twisted was that?
Did Al en know?
Of course he knew.
I remembered something Al en had said in his video. “What you are doing, Michael, makes me especial y sad.”
And Roger’s words: not even his own family could help him.
But Al en never said anything about his son to me.
Maybe Tony was right-Al en wanted to be strong for me. He didn’t share his burdens. I had to admit I didn’t know Al en as wel as I thought I did.
And if Tony was right about that, maybe he was right about Al en’s death being a suicide, too.
How did Al en feel when he found out what his son was up to?
He must have been devastated.
He must have wanted to die.
The realization hit me like a blow to the stomach. I felt dizzy and leaned against a street lamp.
Shit!
Did Al en real y kil himself? Was this why?
“Excuse me,” someone shouted. It took a moment to realize he was shouting at me.
I looked up. A middle-aged man with a Donald Trumpian comb-over sat at the curb in an expensive Lexus.
“Yeah?” I asked him.
“You working?” he whispered loudly.
“What?” I went closer to his window.
“I said, ‘are you working?’” he asked nervously.
I looked down at myself. The skimpy T-shirt, the Daisy Duke shorts stil unbuttoned at the waist.
“Sorry, I don’t work the streets,” I said.
“Oh, please,” the man said. “Look at you. Let’s not play hard to get. I got fifty bucks for your time. We could do it right in the car.”