“Is now a good time?” she asked.
BEN FELT AN UNEXPECTED SENSE of accomplishment when Mary Ann broke the news to Michael over dinner that night.
“Ben got me going on Facebook, Mouse.”
Michael set down his fork and looked at Ben. “No shit.”
“I thought she’d enjoy it,” Ben said evenly, wondering if Michael, for one reason or another, might think this was a bad idea.
“It was kind of liberating,” said Mary Ann. “I used my maiden name and listed myself as single on the profile. They had a box that said ‘It’s Complicated,’ but it really wasn’t complicated at all, so I just said single. It was like a quickie Mexican divorce.”
Michael grunted. “That guy deserves a quickie Mexican hit man.”
Ben was jarred by this response, and it must have showed.
“I mean it,” said Michael, stabbing his salad as if there were vermin hiding in it. “I’ve been thinking about it. No fate is too cruel for that douche nozzle.”
Mary Ann smiled at the terminology. Ben recognized it as one of Jake’s expressions, so Michael must have just been saving it for the right occasion.
“You know what you should do?” said Michael. “You should talk about the Skype thing on Facebook.”
Mary Ann winced. “Right, Mouse. Why not share my humiliation with the world?” She turned to Ben. “He told you about that, I guess.”
Ben nodded.
Michael said: “I don’t mean mention it directly. Just the occasional veiled reference. So he knows that you know.”
“I’m sure he’s not on Facebook,” said Mary Ann.
“Yeah, but his friends might be.”
A stifled groan from Mary Ann.
“I’m just sayin’. You could have some fun with it. Make ’em sweat a little.”
“Sweetheart,” said Ben, admonishing his husband with a look. Michael had a way of working a gag until it screamed bloody murder.
“The thing is,” said Mary Ann, “I’m not even positive that he doesn’t already know that I know.”
“What do you mean?” asked Ben.
She shrugged. “He could have done it on purpose.”
Michael looked annoyed. “Well, of course he did it on purpose!”
“I mean, left the Skype on.”
“No!” Michael looked genuinely aghast.
“Bob’s not good at confrontation,” she said. “Not about the tough stuff. He might have just decided to show me rather than tell me.”
“C’mon, babycakes. No one could be that vile. Hadn’t you just told him you might be pregnant?”
Ben wasn’t sure he’d heard this correctly. “I’m sorry . . . what?”
“My cancer symptoms,” Mary Ann explained quietly, looking at Ben. “I didn’t know what was happening yet.”
He still wasn’t sure what she meant, so he nodded and left it alone. He could see from her face that the conversation was beginning to get to her.
“Anyhoo,” said Mary Ann, chirping away the darkness, “I have twenty-six friends already.”
Michael seemed confused. “Oh . . . on Facebook, you mean.”
“Yeah. Ben friended me, and some of his friends recognized my name from my TV days.”
“That’s because they’re old,” said Michael.
Mary Ann batted her eyes in half-serious indignation. “Excuse me?”
“I didn’t mean it that way.”
“What other way could you mean it?”
Though Michael didn’t deserve it, Ben let him off the hook. “He was being jealous,” he told Mary Ann. “That comment was for me, not you.”
“His Facebook friends are older gentlemen with facial hair . . .”
Ben grinned at Mary Ann. “He’s exaggerating. A few of them maybe . . .”
“ . . . and they all look like me . . . fleshy features, big bellies. It’s totally unsettling.”
“So?” said Mary Ann with a shrug. “You’re his type. What’s so unsettling about that?”
“Thank you,” Ben mumbled through a mouthful of bread.
“It would be much more unsettling,” Mary Ann added, “if they were all cute little twinkies or something.”
“Don’t be so sure,” said Michael. “Now that I know what his type is I have to worry about whether I’m the best version of that type. Not to mention what will happen when . . . you know, I’m no longer that type.”
Mary Ann rolled her eyes so Ben could see it. “He’s always been like this, you know.”
Ben nodded. “I kinda figured.”
“When things are going great, he finds a way to make it not count.”
“Hey,” said Michael. “Gang up on me, why don’t you?”
“I’m not saying a word,” said Ben, exchanging a private smirk with Mary Ann.
It was a moment of bonding he had not really expected.
Chapter 11
An Underlying Agenda
So here they were, at last—sitting underwater on a floating island in San Francisco Bay—a wack place to eat dinner if ever there was one. But something about the way the waiter had just crooned the word “gentlemen” as he handed them their menus had turned their excellent adventure into an embarrassing dinner date.
Or so it seemed to Jake. He wondered if Jonah was feeling the same discomfort over the assumption that they were a couple. It was Jonah, after all, who’d insisted on this goofy outing to Forbes Island, so he was the one whose motives were suspect. At first Jake had written off the evening as a boyish whim, but now there was something brightly expectant in Jonah’s eyes that hinted at an underlying agenda.
“May I show you our wine list?” the waiter asked, while a solitary, bewhiskered fish idled in the murk beyond the porthole.
Jake glanced at Jonah, who shook his head. “I’m good with ice water.”
“Same here,” said Jake, relieved that he’d been spared the ordeal of wine selection. He was sure that duty would have fallen to him, since he was the one with the beard, and Jonah, weirdly enough, seemed even younger than his twenty-two years now that he was spiffed up in a blue blazer and a white shirt.
When the waiter had left, Jonah pulled an iPhone from the breast pocket of his blazer and summoned a photograph. “That’s Becky,” he said, showing it to Jake.
The girl was a toothy brunette with flat, shiny hair. She was standing in front of a sign that read HOME OF THE LOBOS.
“Smokin’,” said Jake, though she wasn’t especially.
Jonah returned the phone to his blazer. “She works at the chamber of commerce. We’ve been together since high school. How ’bout you?”
“How ’bout me what?”
Jonah smiled. “Is there a girl in your life?”
Jake hesitated, looking for a way to be as truthfully misleading as possible. “There used to be,” he said at last, “but no more.”
The kid frowned in sympathy. “That’s too bad.”
“Thanks, but . . . it wasn’t a good fit.”
Jonah nodded solemnly. “You’ll find the right one.”
“So where’s the chamber of commerce? Where your girlfriend works. What town?”
“Oh . . . teeny tiny little place. Snowflake, Arizona. About six thousand souls.”
“Where it snows a lot.”
“Well . . . a fair amount, but that’s not the reason. It was founded by a guy named Snow and another guy named Flake. Back in the 1870s.”
“Dude . . . shut up.”
Jonah smiled. “My last name is Flake.”
“Seriously?”
“There’s a bunch of us in Snowflake. People tend to stay put.”
Suddenly, the name rang a bell for Jake. “There’s a movie about that town. I saw it on TV back in Tulsa. Some logger who said he got abducted—”
“—by a UFO. Yeah, that was Snowflake.”
“That was some scary shit. They probed him with these creepy metal doohickies. Were you living there when that happened?”
Jonah shook h
is head. “I remember the movie. The abduction was before I was born. My cousin was town marshal back then. He thought the whole thing was a hoax.”
“Marshal Flake.”
Jonah hesitated, seeing the smirk on Jake’s face. “Actually, yeah . . . Marshall Sanford Flake.” He managed a sheepish smile. “Told you I was a country boy.”
Jake was instantly remorseful. “No, man, it’s cool. I grew up in the suburbs of Tulsa. I would have given anything to live somewhere that interesting.”
“When did you move here?”
“About four years ago. Just picked up and left. Got tired of working at Wal-Mart.”
“So what do you do now?”
“I’m a gardener. Actually, a partner in a gardening firm.” It was stupid, but he couldn’t help bragging a little. For some reason, he wanted to impress this green kid from the hinterlands.
“And it doesn’t . . . you know . . . get to you?”
“What? Gardening? I love it.”
“No . . . this city . . . the people and all.”
Jake was pretty sure he knew what Jonah meant, but played dumb. “How so?”
“You know . . . San Francisco values . . . that sort of thing.”
Jake shook his head, remaining as poker-faced as possible. “Nope. No problem so far.”
The kid nodded rhythmically, as if keeping time with the silence between them.
THE WAITER RETURNED WITH THEIR meals—salmon for Jake, a rack of lamb for Jonah. Jake welcomed this temporary relief from conversation, since there was already a whiff of uneasiness in the air. He was making appreciative noises about the salmon, when he realized that Jonah’s head was bowed discreetly in prayer.
“Oh . . . sorry . . . I didn’t . . .”
“You wanna join me?”
“That’s okay. I’ll just . . . you go ahead.”
So Jonah kept his head bowed while his lips moved in silence for a few more awkward moments.
“Sorry,” said Jake, as soon as Jonah had picked up his knife and fork.
“No biggie. You were thanking Him in your own way.”
“I always thank the salmon.” Jake was joking, but not completely, since he often made an effort to be appreciative when a helpless creature had died for his sins.
Jonah chewed a mouthful of lamb before speaking again. “You’re not a Christian, then?”
Jake shrugged. “I was raised one.”
“But?”
“I dunno. I couldn’t buy it anymore.”
Jonah looked him directly in the eye. “You know, dude . . . that’s why they call it faith.”
“Believing what you know ain’t so.”
A cloud passed over the kid’s face.
“Mark Twain,” said Jake. “ ‘Faith is believing what you know ain’t so.’ ”
“Oh.”
The kid was looking more and more like the bug-eyed fish pressed against the porthole, so Jake kept his tone as gentle as possible. “I just don’t think that anybody’s up there. I don’t believe in life after death. I wish I could, but I can’t. I think if there’s a heaven, it has to be here and now. We’re the only ones who can make it happen.”
“I understand,” Jonah said softly. “That’s why I do what I do.”
Jake just blinked at him.
“I’m a missionary, Jake.”
“No kidding.” For a moment, Jake thought of the classic image, picturing the kid in a pith helmet and jungle khakis. “To where?”
“To here . . . for now.”
“Here? San Francisco?” It took him a while, but Jake finally saw the cold, gray light of dawn. “Oh . . . you’re a Mormon.”
“We actually prefer—”
“Right . . . sorry . . . the Latter Day . . . whatever. You came here for the election, then? To work for Prop 8?”
The kid nodded.
“Canvassing or something? Going door to door?”
“Yes.”
Jake could feel his face flashing red—a sure sign that he was beginning to lose control—but he made no effort to temper his reaction. “How did that work out for you? After you’d won, I mean . . . after you’d taken away people’s rights in a state you don’t even live in, for fuck’s sake. Did you feel you’d done some good in the world?”
Jonah seemed to think about that for a moment. “Truthfully . . . no.”
“Wow. Imagine that.”
“I’m not sorry it passed, because I truly do believe that marriage is between one man and one woman. But I never felt that I’d connected with another soul. Made a real difference, you know. I never had that one-on-one. And when I saw you standing there watching the sea lions, and you seemed so kind-hearted and decent and . . . I don’t know, like a regular guy . . . I felt like I had to reach out to you, because I could help.”
“And how would that be?”
“Look, Jake . . . I thought I might be gay myself until I met Becky.”
“Excuse me?”
“Maybe I’m totally out of line here, but I’m pretty good at telling when somebody’s—”
“You’re talking labels, Jonah. Around here we don’t put labels on people.” This was completely untrue, Jake realized—San Francisco was obsessed with labels—but he had to say something, and this was all he could manage in the heat of the moment.
“Let’s put it this way,” said Jonah, lowering his voice as he looked around the room. “You sleep with guys, right?”
After a moment, Jake replied quietly: “Yeah. Not often enough, but . . . yeah.”
“And do you know why that is?”
Jonah’s wooden, seminar-style questioning annoyed the hell out of Jake. “Because I’m attracted to them?”
“Yes,” said Jonah, missing the sarcasm completely, “but why are you attracted to them? I’ll tell you why. Because you’re trying to complete your masculinity. Someone, at some point in your life, said you weren’t man enough, and you believed them, and that’s why you think that being with another man will somehow—”
“Jonah—”
“Hear me out, dude. You’re one of the manliest guys I’ve ever met. Not just in appearance but . . . your manly heart and your compassion. You’re the real thing, dude. You’re man enough for any woman.”
By this point, Jake had lost track of his emotions. He felt flattered, insulted, humiliated and validated all at once. Without making a spectacle out of it (since several of the other diners were already glancing in their direction), he pulled his wallet from his back pocket and removed three twenties, tucking them under the butter dish.
“What’s that for?” asked Jonah.
“I gotta go. That should cover my portion.”
“C’mon, dude—”
“You mean well, Jonah . . . but you don’t have a clue what you’re dealing with.”
“If this is about Prop 8—”
“It’s about everything, Jonah. It’s about all sorts of shit you don’t know about in Snowflake. The world isn’t as neat as you think. It’s not your fault. It’s everybody else’s fault.” Jake pushed back his chair and stood up. “That includes me, for what it’s worth.”
Jonah gazed up at him in forlorn confusion.
Without looking back, Jake headed directly for the stairs, only to remember, as he climbed into the cool night air, that there was no instant escape from this phony island. He stood beneath the phony lighthouse and the real palm tree and waited for the shuttle to arrive, fretting at first that Jonah might follow him out there, then fretting because he did not. He imagined the kid sitting alone in the midst of all those strangers, heartsick that he had failed in his holy mission. He considered going back, but he knew there was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it worse. He was well beyond saving by anyone.
AN HOUR LATER, BACK AT the flat, Jake was in bed when Anna appeared in the doorway in her Chinese pajamas. She had been fast asleep when he got home, so he couldn’t imagine how she could have heard him crying from the other end of the hall.
“Is t
here something I can do, dear?”
“No. I’m fine. Go back to bed.”
“I’ve had a lot of practice at listening.”
“I know. It’s okay.”
She turned to leave, then stopped abruptly, wobbling a little as she did so. “Maybe this Sunday we can go to the new science museum in the park.”
“Sure. That would be nice.”
“I hear they have green things growing on the roof.”
“I’ve heard that, too.”
“Good night, dear. You’re a man among men.”
It was pretty much the same thing Jonah had said, but this time the compliment actually meant something.
Chapter 12
The Elusive Leia
Shawna’s homeless woman had begun to haunt her. That’s how she thought of her now—as her homeless woman—since the poor creature had a way of materializing at the oddest times, though never in the actual flesh. Shawna would flash on her scalded face in the midst of an Almodovar film at the Sundance Kabuki, or down at the Rainbow Grocery when she was scooping rice from the bulk-foods bin. Once, she even dreamed about the woman, dreamed that the two of them were dining at the Cliff House, gossiping like old friends as they admired the sunset, though—as dreams had a way of doing—it wasn’t the sleek new Cliff House but the funky old one with the greasy photographs and flocked wallpaper that Shawna remembered from her childhood.
What bothered her most was that she didn’t know the woman’s name. Her image was becoming clearer all the time in Shawna’s promiscuous imagination, but she still lacked identification, that all-important peg on which to hang her humanity. How could you even survive, Shawna wondered, when no one bothered to learn your name?
She drove back to the underpass one foggy afternoon in the hope of a reunion, but the only person there was an old hippie with a sign reading GULF WAR VET. While waiting at the light, Shawna lowered her window and signaled him with a $10 bill.
“Excuse me,” she yelled.
The guy put down his sign and came hobbling toward her. As he took the bill, he examined it at length. “Money looks fake these days, don’t it?”
She smiled but passed on the discussion, conscious of how little time she had. “I was wondering if you know a woman who sometimes signs on this corner. Red tracksuit. Forty or fifty years old, maybe.”