Loyalty, Love, & Vermouth, page 4
“I don’t think that’s right.” Tucker’s face registered skepticism, Lee’s face answered with defiance. Lee was right, of course, and normally I would have relished this conversation, but not this night.
“Dogs are supposed to be easy,” I said, and the room fell silent. Suddenly, the subject of whether Gene Kelly had done Carol Channing wrong was moot. “You don’t have to work for their approval, and you never let them down.”
“You were robbed, sugar. This is not your fault,” Tucker assured me.
“I know we outlive our dogs,” I continued. “I mean, we have to say goodbye eventually, right?” Mamie was only the third dog I’d ever had in my life, but I knew what it was like to watch a member of your family grow old, slow down, collect a dusting of gray in their coat, grow blind or deaf or both, and breathe their last. This was not that. “But I have no idea where she is. I don’t know if she’s alive or dead. If she’s alive, she could be in terrible pain, she could be sad. God, I hope she’s sad.”
“She wants to come home, of course she does,” Lee offered, again squeezing my hand. In response, I exhaled a sharp but exasperated chortle. Lee, to his credit, didn’t let go.
“If I wanted to,” I said, “I could tap my phone three times and some stranger would show up at the door in twenty minutes with a bag of General Tso’s Chicken. How is it possible I don’t know where she is? How, in the twenty-first century, can someone just take the thing you love, and you have no fucking idea why or where?”
The room fell silent, with no answers to these questions. I emptied my glass and looked around at Lee, then Jack, then Tucker. Finally, my eyes met Claude’s, and he intuitively responded by prepping another martini.
Claude owned a sterling silver atomizer he filled with dry vermouth. Held at the perfect distance from an empty martini glass, one spray supplied a perfect coating of vermouth before adding the ice-cold gin or vodka, but Claude would be the first to tell you that a martini made with vodka was a vodka martini, while a martini made with gin was simply a martini. He was very particular about it.
“I don’t know why you use that thing,” Lee said. “You can’t even taste it.”
“Nobody likes vermouth, it’s true,” Claude said as he sprayed. “But without it, it’s just not a martini, and Charlie here is swilling straight gin like an overgrown Toby Ragg. I don’t make the rules.” And he lovingly stirred the gin with some ice using a long metal spoon made expressly for this one task, then strained it into my glass. “Voilà,” he said, presenting it to me.
These were my best friends in the world, the “family of choice” our people are always talking about. My wonderful, imperfect, affectionate, snarky, comforting, maddening, married friends. Their presence at this table touched me in a way that was both surprising and completely predictable. Where would they be at this moment if their friend’s dog hadn’t been taken? Did they have plans? If so, they were canceled. And as awful and drunk and angry as I felt, I was also grateful. I was even a little guilty, because all too often I couldn’t help but resent these seemingly perfect pairs whose very existence sometimes made me feel like an onerous fifth wheel.
But being single wasn’t the worst thing. It certainly beat the last few months I had spent with Freddie Babcock when I went to bed angry more often than not and was twice as lonely as I’d ever been since. Well, maybe not on this specific evening, but in general.
Besides, I wasn’t the lonely type. Sure, there were moments first thing in the morning or late at night, when it would have been nice to share a wry observation or a good snog with someone who loved me, but I didn’t suffer for it long. The worst times were the Friday and Saturday evenings when I had forgotten to make any plans, only to discover Claude and Lee had tickets to the theater, and Jack was dragging Tucker away for another weekend of clothing-optional gay camping, where Tucker would always avail himself of the option for clothing while Jack availed himself of every possible option, as was his way.
On those evenings, I typically looked at Mamie and sighed. “It’s just us tonight, girlie girl,” I’d say, and Mamie would curl up beside me on the couch while I watched All About Eve for the fiftieth time. And I’d momentarily wonder why a boyfriend wasn’t sitting next to me, passing a single bowl of popcorn back and forth. But by the time we fastened our seat belts, Mamie was snuggled close while Bette Davis misbehaved terribly, and all things considered, I figured I was okay.
“—and what the hell is a pansexual, anyway?”
I had drifted away, and the conversation had continued without me. Now Claude was railing on about new, progressive vocabularies he couldn’t or didn’t want to comprehend. “Bisexual was a perfectly good word. Even though bisexuals don’t exist in real life.”
Lee rolled his eyes. “Oh, Claude, c’mon.”
“Have you ever met a bisexual? I mean really?”
“My office mate is a bisexual,” Tucker said, “and she’s very nice.”
Unhelpfully, Jack began to sing the chorus to NSYNC’s “Bye Bye Bye” just under his breath. That he and I were the only ones not dancing along seemed to irritate Claude even further.
“A bisexual is attracted to both men and women,” Lee continued. “Pansexuals are attracted to people regardless of gender.”
Claude then prepped a martini for himself, only his second. “That’s the same goddamn thing,” he said, vigorously shaking his sterling silver atomizer.
“There are more than two genders, dear.”
“Oh, goddammit,” Claude said. “How many? Three? Four?”
“It’s a continuum.”
The specific way Claude rolled his eyes let us know he knew he would never win this argument, but please don’t continue to explain it to him because he would never understand. Lee gave him a smile. Claude was a narrow-minded curmudgeon, but he was his narrow-minded curmudgeon, the Archie Bunker to his Edith.
The conversation about the infinite number of specific genders was momentarily interrupted by three distinct notes on an ascending scale, recognizable to everyone in the room as a Grindr notification.
“Sorry,” Jack said, muting his phone.
Tucker cleared his throat, and all eyes in the room traveled from Jack to his husband. “I’m getting some action on this hashtag.” He held up his phone, which was full of tweets.
Jack looked up from his phone. “What are they saying?”
“Nothin’ yet, just retweeting.”
Claude huffed. “What the hell does that mean?”
“It’s a good thing, honey,” Lee said. “I think.”
Tucker poured himself a glass of red wine, his second. “Are you on the Nextdoor app, Charlie?”
“I don’t think so.”
“It’s like a Facebook but for neighborhoods. You should get on that and spread the word.”
“Go ahead,” I said, taking another sip. “Post away. Whatever helps.”
“I’ve already got it,” Tucker explained, “but I can’t post in your neighborhood. That’s the whole point.”
I couldn’t spend the mental energy necessary to fathom a new social media platform, but what I could do was unlock my phone and pass it to Claude, who handed it to Tucker, who proceeded to do whatever needed to be done.
“Would you mind?” I asked. “I appreciate it.”
And Tucker smiled—happy, I assumed, to be useful. “Sure thing, sugar.”
I took a swig of gin, feeling it burn the length of my esophagus until meeting the pit in the bottom of my stomach. Claude whipped out his sterling silver atomizer, but I shook my head in polite refusal. Even in my miserable state of mind, I could tell I’d had too much already. I got up and meandered to the adjoining living room where I sat on their giant blue couch. I gingerly kicked off my shoes, rested my head against the armrest, and put my feet up. I folded my hands across my belly like someone who was dead or in therapy, both of which seemed like ideas worth considering.
“If you’re going to sleep, drink some water first,” Lee shouted from the dining room. “Your head is going to hurt like hell en la mañana.”
“It’s your husband’s fault,” I replied.
“Hold tight. I’ll get you some,” Lee said, moving to the kitchen. Soon, I could hear the faucet running.
Tucker and Jack were talking about something in the dining room I couldn’t quite make out. But when Claude joined me in the living room, he rolled his eyes and shot me a warning glance. They were clearly having an argument. When Lee entered a moment later with a tall glass of water, he was humming some show tune or other, which only partly obscured the quarrel next door.
I took the water from Lee without getting up, doing my best not to spill. “What’s going on in there?”
Lee held my head as if he were my nurse while I took my first sip. “Jack says he’s leaving.”
I was surprised and not surprised. It wasn’t unlike Jack to pick inopportune times to make an exit without saying why, although the metallic strumming noise emanating from his phone was an obvious clue he’d found his next hookup.
Sometimes I wondered how we became friends with Jack. In the social hierarchy of the gay culture, he was a certified A-Gay, one of the rarified beautiful ones, and his mixing it up with such imperfect specimens must have been baffling to onlookers. But beyond the gorgeous exterior, he could be selfish and sullen, and was probably a sex addict, so perhaps it evened out. And if I was being generous, he could also be funny, warm, and kind, so long as you were prepared for him to disappear whenever an amorous mood struck.
The voices around the dining room table were getting louder.
“You can’t just leave,” said Tucker.
Lee tried humming a little louder. It didn’t work.
“Actually,” said Jack. “I can. And I’m about to.”
Let him go, I thought. It’s not like Mamie’s any closer to home because your husband is sitting at this particular dining room table, sad and useless and horny to boot.
“What about Russell? And how am I supposed to get home?”
“You can have the car if you want it.”
I was upset, however, about the way his behavior affected Tucker. It obviously stung a little bit every time Jack pulled something like this. Whatever the A-gays thought about the relationship, Tucker was the one who deserved better.
And then the voices got a little quieter. I lifted my head. Lee stopped humming. “Maybe he’s not going.”
Claude and I answered quietly but simultaneously: “He’s going.”
A few tense moments later, Tucker walked into the living room and crouched beside the sofa. I felt like Greta Garbo in Camille, a pale French whore with a Swedish accent dying of consumption while Robert Taylor bravely watches her slip away. Or maybe it doesn’t happen that way exactly. In point of fact, I’ve never seen Camille. Moreover, I’m not quite sure what consumption is, only that death by consumption is tragic, but beautifully so.
“We’re going,” Tucker said.
“Okay,” I said. Bravery with a hint of pathos, exactly like Greta if she’d been a gay man in his forties after too many martinis.
“I’m sorry,” he continued. “It’s just that—”
Having had enough of the Garbo imitation, I pulled myself upright. “It’s okay,” I said. “Really. I appreciate you coming to collect me, but the truth is, sitting around a table and getting drunk and feeling hopeless isn’t accomplishing anything.”
Jack appeared in the doorway, hovering.
“Anyone who can feel good tonight should do so,” I said. It occurred to me Jack was the only person in the room for whom this was possible, and I pondered whether I was right to judge him as he sought his own pleasure while I soaked in a bathtub of pain. Tucker, meanwhile, was clenching his jaw and a little red in the face. Probably embarrassed, I thought. Whatever he was thinking, he didn’t want to discuss their sudden exit any further. “And tomorrow,” I said, “I’ll talk to the cops and figure out what to do next.”
“Listen,” Tucker said. “I’m going to go home and post a bunch of photos on Instagram with the hashtag.” He handed me my phone. “You’re on Nextdoor now. It’s right next to your Facebook app. There’s a post up, so keep checking it for any leads. I’ll make a flyer we can start hanging up tomorrow.”
A flyer was a good idea. I hadn’t even thought of that. “You’re the best,” I said.
“I’ll call you first thing.”
I must have made a face indicating I might not be conscious or coherent first thing in the morning because Lee jumped in. “Call the house. I’ll be up.”
Tucker put his hand on my knee. “Hey,” he said. “We’re going to get her back. You know that, right?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I know.”
Except I didn’t know. She had been plucked from the only place I’d know to look for her, and she was somewhere in the city—maybe, if we were lucky—but I had no earthly idea where. Or who took her. Or what they planned to do with her. Or why they wanted her to begin with. Or if she was still alive. I had a million questions and absolutely no answers. In the corner of the room, Lee was praying again. Which I appreciated, though it seemed even less useful than retweeting cute doggie photos and hanging a bunch of flyers.
“This sucks,” said Jack. “Maybe you’ll get some good news tomorrow.”
I applied a plastic smile. “Thanks. Get outta here.”
And they did.
As soon as they were gone, Lee tut-tutted like an old biddy. “Poor Tucker.”
“He made his bed,” said Claude. “You don’t settle down with a man as good-looking as Jack unless you’re asking for trouble.”
Lee rolled his eyes in response. “Must be why I’m so happy,” he said, prompting Claude to chuckle.
“So, what, Jack is going to drop Tucker and Russell off at the house, and then say, ‘See you in fifteen minutes’?” I asked.
“Be nice,” Lee said. “I’d give him at least a half an hour.”
Claude chuckled. “I’d settle for five.”
Lee laughed. “You couldn’t get your socks off in five, you big orangutan.”
“Ah, romance,” said Claude. “See what you’re missing out on, Charlie?”
“I wouldn’t say I’m missing it, Claude.”
“Speaking of things we don’t miss,” said Lee. “I hate to even bring this up, but…” And his provocation hung in the air for a moment.
“Go on,” I said, “you can’t stop now.”
Lee sat and made eye contact with each of us, a preemptive plea for forgiveness before he spoke. “I’ve just been wondering. Do you think Freddie might have had anything to do with this?”
“No,” I said, a little too quickly. “I mean…I don’t know. Maybe.”
“I shouldn’t have said anything,” he said, going into the dining room to clear away the stemware. “Shut up, Lee, shut up, shut up.”
“It’s all right,” I said. “I wondered the same thing.”
A split second later, Lee reappeared in the doorway, wine and martini glasses in hand. “I mean, okay, he was my friend before he started treating you like hot garbage, and I’d like to think he wouldn’t, but he’s got motive, you know?”
“You watch too much Law & Order,” said Claude.
“Mamie is adorable, don’t get me wrong, but if you want a cute dog to keep you company, you can go to the shelter.” He went back to the kitchen but kept on talking. Loudly. “Why would some stranger commit second degree burglary—”
“Third degree,” Claude chimed in, ever the lawyer.
“Whatever degree. You see what I’m saying.”
“But why would Freddie take my television?”
“To throw you off! Because you’re sitting there, asking that very question right now. Besides, it’s a beautiful television,” he said, reappearing in the doorway. “He doesn’t have a TV like that. And he took your laptop just to piss you off. I hate him.”
“He moved to New York,” said Claude.
“You can drive here from New York easy,” Lee said. “If he left at nine this morning, he would have been here in plenty of time.”
“He doesn’t have a car,” I said.
“So he joined a gang full of gay burglars, one of whom has a car, and they all did it together, and while Freddie was stealing your dog, they picked up some electronics. Eso fue lo que pasó. I’m telling you, it was him. It’s like, what’s his name’s razor.”
“Occam’s razor,” Claude said.
Lying back down, I became Garbo again. “Who has a razor?”
“The simplest solution is probably the right one,” Lee explained. “That’s Freddie.”
“The simplest solution,” Claude argued, “is some random kid we’ve never heard of broke into your house, stole some stuff, thought the dog was cute, and grabbed her.”
Lee picked up the glass of water, still half-full, and held it in front of my face until I took it. “I still think it was Freddie. Drink up, then go to bed. Guest room’s all made up. Tomorrow is a big day.”
“What are we doing tomorrow?”
“We’re getting your dog back. Bébelo.”
Chapter Four
Friday, 7:47 a.m.
My head hurt.
At least four times the night before, I had woken with a start, unsure of where I was. When I realized I was in Lee and Claude’s guest room, I remembered why. And I tried to go back to sleep while wondering where Mamie was sleeping. On someone’s bed? A floor? The back seat of a car? Outside in the freezing cold and wet? Even in the best-case scenario, I knew she was confused and scared. I didn’t want to think about the worst case.
And it was now light, so bright and sunny outside you could almost believe it was no longer winter. A good night’s sleep was now a lost cause, so I thought it best to put my two feet on the floor and face the day. I felt like a list of side effects in an ad for prescription medication: nausea, headache, anxiety, increased likelihood of death. I wanted coffee. And maybe a shower.
