The Pool Boy Page 12

  He shook his head. “But I didn’t know.”

  I shared daggers with him. “Stop at once! Of course you know I’m gay.”

  “But I don’t.”

  Silence hung between us. Motionlessness. Nothing.

  “You’re a fucking tease,” I told him. “A child who likes to play games.”

  He swung his head back and roared with laughter.

  I tossed a slice of uneaten toast at him. It bounced off his throat, landing on his plate. “You may think you’re funny but you’re not. Some games shouldn’t be played among men.”

  He stopped laughing, sat up straight, and cleared his throat. “Think of it as payback for kissing me on the neck the other night. You threw me for a loop, and now I have thrown you for one.”

  “Payback,” I seethed, and rolled my eyes. “How juvenile, and rude.”

  Then he said, shocking me, “For the record, Mr. Fine, I’ve always known that you like to suck and ride dick. You wear the label faggot on your forehead. It’s not something you hide well.”

  Touché.

  Our breakfast had ended as quickly as it had started.

  He rose, pushed his chair in, left the table, and vanished through the library.

  I sat alone, staring wide-eyed at the pool in the distance. The water shimmered in the bright sunshine. For the first time I understood that the pool boy wasn’t naïve and simple. He could be hurtful and mean. He could sting and suck the life out of me like a mosquito. He could be spiteful and crude. He could be…just like me. Fuck.

  Part 3: August

  Chapter 34: Heat

  August 1 through August 4.

  It was an atrocity how summer slipped by so quickly at the estate, smacking me in the ass, and causing heated blisters and sunburns to form on my shoulders, back, and my bottom. August brought more heat along Lake Erie, and the sunbaked ground cracked in various places. The humidity level rose to a bitchy seventy-six percent and everything felt soaked, dripping wet. I tried to stay indoors as much as possible, while the pool boy stayed out by the pool, swimming, exercising, sunbathing, listening to his music, worshipping the sun in a faithfully devoted manner; the perfect cult member. We stayed apart for good reason: no longer were we paired; angry with each other; unapologetic for our uncivil behaviors.

  I never looked forward to the month of August. It struck me across the face, and hindered me until it passed. There seemed to be no sense of existence for me while it lingered overhead, day after endless day, heat pounding the ground, heat slapping me, wind nonexistent next to the lake. I hid in the shade and air conditioning as much as possible, and found myself bathing in words and revisions and chapters and pages, as best I could, consumed in The Next Fall, hidden from the pool boy. Writing became my life. Because I was a writer, of course.

  Chapter 35: Staying Inside

  August 5.

  Our distance from each other didn’t last as long as I thought it would.

  “Will you come out and swim in the pool with me?” Tacoma asked, finding me in the kitchen as I sliced a variety of melons for a fruit salad. I was preparing a lunch for the both of us, although I didn’t think he would eat anything I made since he acted as if he hated me. The salad was something cool and refreshing, something chilled to keep my mind off the exhausting heat.

  I lifted my head and stared at him in the doorway separating the hot outside from the icy inside. He wore his trunks and nothing more; a look I had gotten used to, and enjoyed. “No, thank you. If I play, it will be in here.”

  “Afraid of the sun, are you?”

  “Yes. It’s poison.”

  “You should come out and watch me swim then. I can prop an umbrella up by the pool for you. The Adirondacks are clean and ready for your use.”

  I was slightly taken aback by his forwardness, niceness, and company. How strange of him to make an effort after our awkward brush the other morning. How dangerous since I no longer trusted him.

  “I’ll sit this one out and stay inside,” I told him.

  Too bad for me. I enjoyed his sleek body in the pool, arms moving gracefully through the water, torso gliding with ease within its blue-blue liquid. Such a shame that I had to decline his offer. No, it wasn’t because of the scolding heat outside. Trust was the issue, and his embarrassing game like the one he had pulled on me the other morning. How horrible that was. How miserable. How demeaning it was how he had flung that ridiculous whatever on me, and then laughed at me. I couldn’t trust him. I wouldn’t.

  I shook my head, added, “I’m sorry. Kind of you to offer, but really, I find it more comfortable inside. It’s just too hot out there.”

  Before dashing away, he told me, “Robert, I’d really like it if you changed your mind. Forget about the other morning. I was making a joke. It was just a joke. Lighten up.”

  * * * *

  Lighten up. Those two words should have stung me, but they didn’t. Perhaps it was the pool boy’s way to apologize for his ludicrous behavior at breakfast. A kind apology.

  As I chopped at a honeydew, slicing it into small chunks, I thought to myself: Even pets bite sometimes. And, no one’s perfect. We’re all sinners by nature. He didn’t mean much harm by his joke, I suppose. Maybe I’m reading the scene all wrong. He wasn’t trying to humiliate me. Maybe he was just playing, acting immature. Maybe I’ve been responding the wrong way. Taking the situation too seriously. Maybe I do need to lighten up.

  “Yes, Robert. Take his advice. You’re overreacting. You’ve been too dramatic about what happened. Lighten up.”

  * * * *

  I couldn’t disappoint the pool boy…or myself. I wouldn’t. Not after his comment to lighten up. It would be completely callous of me to stay inside the lake house. It would be rude. Besides, I missed him. Everything about him. His smile. His body. His swimming. His sunbathing. Everything. I couldn’t stay away from him. I wouldn’t.

  I finished preparing the fruit salad. Before heading to the pool, I made a pitcher of margaritas, crushed some ice, salted edges of chilled glasses, and set off to the pool. I carried a bundle of things with me: the pitcher, a towel, bamboo bowls for the salad, matching flatware, napkins, a plastic bowl of fruit salad under my left arm, and half the kitchen.

  Once arrived at the pool, to my surprise, just as he had said he would, he had an umbrella positioned over one of the Adirondack chairs for me. He was swimming in the pool, enjoying the cool water, carrying out a meticulous breaststroke to and fro for my viewing pleasure.

  I sat down in the shaded chair, discreetly tilted my sunglasses upwards a bit to see his back and shoulders and bottom in the pool. He wasn’t wearing his trunks, not that I minded. I sipped at a margarita while enjoying his company and the show, kept to myself.

  Eventually, he climbed out of the pool, dripping wet, fully naked, a complete delight for my eyes. He said, “Glad you could come.”

  “A pleasure to be here, Mr. Tacoma.”

  “You should come more often.” He walked over to me, stroked his limp tool. He picked up a margarita on the nearby table, and took a long sip, swallowed, and a second sip.

  I stopped ogling his dick and wet balls. Any other time I would have greedily done so. Truth said, we needed healing time, and space. Therefore, I kept my gawking steered away from him. Good for me.

  “I hate to pass on invitations,” I told him.

  He moved closer to me for a helping of fruit salad, scooped some into a bowl. Stood inches away from me, almost pressed the length of his wet dick against my left cheek. Dripped water on my lap from its head.

  I didn’t budge, enjoying his action in full, but ignored it.

  “Great salad, Robert.”

  “It’s refreshing on a day like this.” I was talking about his nakedness, not the salad, but whatever. He didn’t need to know that.

  He lifted his drink to mine for a toast, “To August and the extreme heat, and the pool.”

  We clinked our glasses together.

  As the chilled beverage rol
led down the narrow passage of my throat, I thought: Perhaps August isn’t so bad after all, and nor is the bare-bottomed pool boy.

  * * * *

  We finished our drinks.

  He jumped back in the pool and swam for the next hour, mostly doing laps.

  I watched him, getting drunk on the pitcher of margaritas.

  He never slipped into his trunk.

  I didn’t mind.

  Things between us seemed back in order, perfect again.

  Chapter 36: The Stranger

  An obnoxious racket sounded outside. The loud noise rushed through the trees, scaring away all the birds in the West Garden. The clattering sounded mechanical and grating, like something with teeth from hell, overbearing and tumultuous, a jarring of churning wheels. An engine cranked and wheels squealed over asphalt, speeding.

  I placed my read down (The Lure by Felice Picano) on the Adirondack chair next to me and stood. I rushed into the house and found Tacoma in the front sitting-room, looking out the windows.

  “What’s going on?” I stood beside him, almost brushed my hand against his back for comfort or protection, something.

  He didn’t answer my question.

  We looked out the window together, peering at the front yard.

  As if on cue, a silver and green Harley Davidson motorcycle pulled up and into the asphalt drive. Some stranger was attached to the seat; a somewhat nicely-built man in tight Levis, black leather jacket, and dark glasses.

  “Who is he?” I looked at Tacoma and saw a broad smile fill his face. He stood beside me bubbling over with a sense of joy, happy at the sight of the man on the motorcycle.

  “Katz…Katz Strong. He’s my friend I told you about.”

  “Did you know he was coming?”

  “Yes. I did.”

  “And you didn’t tell me?”

  “I forgot to tell you.” Tacoma shrugged his shoulders, looked from me to the silver and green Harley now parked in the drive. The stranger named Katz Strong (a peculiar name in my opinion; something I had never heard before, certainly not in West End) kicked down the cycle’s black stand, took off his helmet and glasses, and placed the pair on the seat. Then he ran a hand through his blond hair and flashed Arctic blue eyes in our direction. A handsome young man with a sloped nose, around Tacoma’s age, five-eleven, and well-built with just enough muscle to hang onto. Not an ugly duckling by any means.

  “How do you know him again, Tacoma? Sorry, but I can’t remember the details.”

  “He’s been my friend since I was little. I used to visit my aunt here when I was young. Katz and I go way back. He lived close to my aunt in Ashtabula. Now he lives here in West End. We used to have a blast when we were kids. All hell breaks loose when we’re together.”

  “You’re boating pal from earlier this summer?”

  “Yes…that’s him.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me he was coming?” I asked him again. I was persistent for an answer, even if it was the same as what he had already told me. My gaze strayed to the stranger in the driveway, and then back to the pool boy, and continued to shift back and forth between the men.

  “You already asked me that. The answer’s the same. I forgot. Let it go.”

  I watched Tacoma walk away and go outside. He left me behind in the sitting-room.

  Tacoma met up with the dashing and good-looking Katz Strong near his Harley. The two young men shook hands and hugged the way straight men do: space between their hips, chests separated by inches, faces apart. They immediately started talking, smiled at each other, and kept steady eye contact, but not in a romantic action.

  My eyes stayed glued on the interloper in the drive, and studied his details: slim build, muscled back, cleft in chin, fall-into eyes that sparked a necessary evil, broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a perfect set of teeth, like a model’s.

  Tacoma walked around the parked bike, admired its metal and leather, passed off the helmet and sunglasses to his buddy, and sat down on the leather seat. With his legs spread over the back as if it were a man’s torso, he gripped its chrome throttles and handles. The two men said things I couldn’t hear: man-talk, laughing.

  Seconds passed like that: one, two, ten, twenty. Eventually, Katz climbed behind him, put the helmet and sunglasses on, started the bike up, cranked it alive, revved the bike’s engine, and scared the birds away, again.

  Before I realized what was happening, the young men were gone, riding and zooming away, vanishing from the estate, down the driveway.

  My mouth hung open.

  Jealousy sunk into my soul for some reason.

  I had immediately learned to hate the stranger.

  And I was pissed at the pool boy for not telling me that Katz was coming.

  “God damn them,” I whispered, shook my right fist at the window, and knew that Katz Strong was going to cause as much trouble in my life as he possibly could, without understanding any of the consequences.

  Chapter 37: Argument

  They came back around eight in the evening looking windblown, spent, and out of breath. Both claimed they were hungry, but they didn’t eat anything. Tacoma took Katz upstairs for privacy and to take a piss.

  I followed them. Fuck privacy.

  When Katz went into the second-floor bathroom, I moved up to Tacoma and asked him, “Where did the two of you go?”

  “Out and around. Nowhere important.” He smelled of cigarettes and beer, looked beaten by the wind, and his eyes were bloodshot.

  “Where is out and about?”

  He stared at me with an unsmiling expression, obviously turning on me. “You’re not like my father or anything, Robert. Do you really need to know? We just went out for a ride on Katz’s bike. We had a snack at some deli in town, a smoke, and then a beer at a nearby bar. I’m old enough to do those things. Or am I not allowed?”

  I didn’t answer his question. Instead, I asked another question. “You know you broke a rule by bringing him here without me knowing? You didn’t ask to bring a guest. You didn’t even let me know he was coming. Do you know how rude that is? Do you realize that’s a rule?”

  He huffed at me. Which totally pissed me off even more. Sent me flying.

  I didn’t like his attitude, or tone. I smelled the beer on his breath and hoped he wasn’t the one driving Katz’s motorcycle, being foolish. “I don’t like him, Tacoma. He hasn’t even been here for a day and he’s already making me question him,” I whispered.

  The pool boy backed a foot away from me, frowned, and exclaimed, “You don’t even know him. How can you judge him like that?”

  I shrugged one shoulder. “You’re right. I don’t know him. But I can tell you that I’m old enough to determine what are good decisions, and which are bad ones. Drinking and riding a Harley isn’t smart. Any local cop would agree with me.”

  “He’s harmless.” He turned away, ignoring me.

  I reached out and clamped my hand on one of his firm shoulders, stopped him from walking away. I quickly spun his frame around and barked at him, “I don’t care what he is, Tacoma…I only know that he put you in danger this evening. Drinking and riding on his motorcycle don’t mix well. By the sounds of it, you make some shitty decisions when you’re with him. As far as I’m concerned, he’s not welcome here and should leave.”

  “Stop touching me. You’re overreacting. Katz will be here and you won’t even know it.”

  I dropped my hand from his shoulder and pointed at the bathroom down the hall, and said, rather loudly, hoping that Katz would hear me, “I know he’s in there pissing. Once he’s done, you either you tell him to leave, or I will!”

  “Shit!” Tacoma shook his head, looked away from me. “You’re being ridiculous. Katz is safe. You’re hopeless and too over-protective. And you think you’re my God damn father.”

  I shook my head again, listened to Katz exit the bathroom. He moved down the hallway toward us, smiled broadly, and pushed his white and too-tight T-shirt into his snug jeans. A sneer of pleasurable g
lee formed on his handsome and suntanned face, which proved to me that he enjoyed drama, and also probably liked to cause it.

  Quickly, I looked at Tacoma again. “I’ll leave you alone so you can get the deed done.”

  I walked away.

  Enough said.

  Chapter 38: Pity

  Anger seemed an understatement for how I felt regarding the pool boy’s visitor. Katz Strong didn’t leave, as I instructed Tacoma to tell him to. Instead, I saw Katz down by the pool, alone. I didn’t know where Tacoma was.

  The two young men couldn’t find me, not that I wanted them to. I was hidden on the balcony, outside my office, from where I had a view of the distant lake, the island, and the two lighthouses, which were both illuminated like yellow-white torches.

  Frustrated, I had decided that if Tacoma—wherever he was—wasn’t going to tell Katz to leave, I would. Why bother wasting another moment concerning the situation? Get the drama over with.

  To take care of such business, I exited the balcony, walked through the lake house, and found myself down by the pool and near Katz’s side.

  Katz was seated in one of the Adirondack chairs that I had called my own, perturbed to see me. “Mr. Fine,” he actually said politely to me upon my poolside entrance and looked at me.

  I looked across the dull shimmering of the pool.

  At the corner of my eye Katz wore his leather jacket, white tee, and jeans. Thank God he was still dressed. I smelled cigarettes on his clothes. I didn’t answer him. Maybe on purpose. Maybe not. Sometimes silence solidified misery.

  “I’m Katz. Katz Strong. Do you remember my name?”

  “I know who you are.” I kept my stare away from him, displeased with his arrival, finding him to be a nuisance, and far too mysterious, trouble.

  “I’ve come to visit Kent,” he mumbled.

  “Where is Tacoma?”

  “Is that what you call him?”

  “It’s none of your business what I call him.”