A Madness Most Discreet Page 7

  “That boat is my fucking albatross, but we have unfinished business.”

  He didn’t say more than that, and I sensed he didn’t want to, so I picked up the thread. “I’ve felt that way about my mystery series at varying points.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, once I’d started it, there was the expectation that I’d finish. But every time I’d draft a book, I felt like I still hadn’t completed Nathan Shields’ character arc. With the tight publishing schedule, I also couldn’t abandon the series to work on other projects, so I just had to power through.”

  “And now you’re on the other side,” Arden said.

  “No longer stuck. Just… lost.”

  “Wouldn’t it be nice to find something in between?”

  I wanted to respond in a meaningful way, maybe grab his hand to show I understood, but I did neither.

  “Yes, it would.”

  When we got back, I prepared dinner—grilled chicken served with a spoonful of goat cheese and a side of broccoli. Arden’s stories picked up again in the living room where he was sprawled along the length of the couch. Much like the clothes he modeled, he had the ability to make furniture look as though it had been crafted to ensure his comfort.

  “We were at this one island in the Bahamas,” Arden was saying, “Allen’s Cay, where there were no people, only iguanas, and some of them were huge—like small dinosaurs. And I was scared of them. I’d never seen so many. And they were a little aggressive too because they were used to being fed by the visitors. My dad kept teasing me about one of them biting off a finger, or if I waded into the shallow water, my nuts. Because the fuckers could swim, and all you’d really see was their heads bobbing above the water. He knew I was terrified of them, and he just kept at it.

  “Finally, I got sick of his bullshit, and I went on land to prove I wasn’t scared. I went up to a big ole daddy iguana and tried to pet it. The fucker snapped at me, and I screamed bloody murder. I busted the ketchup packet in my hand—my dad always hoarded stuff like that—so it looked like real blood.”

  Arden laughed diabolically while I could only wait in suspense.

  “My dad freaked the fuck out until I showed him my finger was fine, and it was only a prank. Then he slapped me upside the head, the only time he’d ever hit me. I bawled like a baby. I’d never been hit in my life. I didn’t talk to him for two days after.” Arden sighed. “Later, I realized that maybe he did give a shit about me after all. My limbs at least—he’d hate having to go to the doctor. Whenever he did something nice, he’d say that he was only doing it for my mother, but he was a liar.”

  I thought about my own father’s way of showing affection, which was to hound me about my studies, and later, my career prospects, and now, my next book. I shared that with Arden.

  “He’s really invested in your career,” he said.

  “It would have been better for everyone if they’d had another child. Or if my father had remarried. Then he could spread that intensity around a bit.”

  “Do you think all fathers want their sons to grow up just like them?”

  “One of their sons at least.”

  “Why do you think that is? Pride?”

  “And ego. I read somewhere that men feel they need to leave behind a legacy, whether it’s through their children or their empires. Italians are notoriously obsessed with the achievements of their sons. My mother once told me she was so relieved that I was a boy because it meant she wouldn’t have to have any more children.”

  “That’s fucked up,” Arden said. His gaze drifted to the window. Night had fallen without me even noticing. “You’re lucky though, to still have your father. I wish I did.”

  “We argue all the time.”

  “It’s still something though. Without him, there’s just… nothing.” Arden sighed. “I miss that the most. My dad barking at me to do something or not do something. He gave me direction. And discipline. At times he was like a drill sergeant, but I needed it. I’ve been a little off course ever since.”

  I wanted to ask him something, but I held back.

  “What?” Arden said, sensitive to my impulses.

  “Does your benefactor do that for you? Give you structure?” I was going to say discipline, but I didn’t want for it to be misconstrued.

  Arden considered it. “Kind of, but it’s not the same.”

  “Why not?”

  Arden glanced down at his iced tea. “I don’t know how to say this delicately.”

  “I’ll keep my opinions to myself.”

  Arden smirked. “Yes, you’re classy that way.”

  “It’s the way I was raised. My father has many powerful and eccentric friends. If you don’t have anything nice to say…”

  “Well, Matteo met me at my worst and decided it was a shame to let such beauty go to waste. That was what he told me, anyway. He felt like he was acting in the public’s best interest in getting me off the streets, which I’ve always thought was kind of hilarious, but aesthetics are important to him. I think he takes some pride in my accomplishments, but more so as it relates to him. I’m like a living before and after shot. I think if we didn’t have the arrangement that we do, and if I didn’t have such an appreciation for what he’s done for me, we would have drifted apart.”

  There was a lot of history between them, and a sense of debt that went beyond money owed. I didn’t know at the time if their relationship was sexual or not; I only assumed it was.

  “Would he be upset to know you’re here with me?” I asked.

  “He knows. I had to arrange the time off.”

  Time off from what?

  “And he was okay with it?”

  “He’s going to want to meet you.”

  “And if I don’t want to meet him?”

  Arden considered it. “Then it makes our friendship more difficult.” My face must have revealed my silent protest because Arden then assured me, “You can walk away at any time. I’d understand.”

  I felt, especially in that moment, that our relationship had a short shelf-life—a particular kind of urgency—and I wanted for us to get the most out of it while we could.

  “Why don’t you get a couple more hours of work in before we call it a night?”

  “I’d understand,” he said again, quietly.

  I came out to the kitchen the next morning to find Arden wearing my father’s bathrobe. It was strange to see the muted plaid I associated with my father to be wrapped around the masculine contours of the man I wanted most intimately.

  “I hope you don’t mind. It was hanging in the closet, and it looked so cozy.”

  “I don’t mind,” I said as I sat down at the counter.

  “I made breakfast.” Arden plated an omelet with veggies and two slices of toast. “I made coffee too. I wasn’t sure if you drank it, but I figured, why not?”

  “Thank you. We should have brought cream.”

  Arden smiled and dumped a pile of single-serve creamers on the counter. “My dad used to have me fill my pockets with these. It’s one of my many vices.”

  “A thief of inconsequential things,” I marveled.

  “It would add up if everyone did it. I try not to anymore, but it’s a hard habit to kick.”

  “Did you shoplift?”

  Arden looked guilty. “Sometimes. Mostly food.”

  “Were you hungry a lot?”

  “Often enough. My dad complained all the time about how much I ate. I hit my growth spurt with him. When we got back from our first sail, none of my clothes fit properly. Everything was ripped and cut-off, like a real pirate. My aunt told me I looked shipwrecked.”

  “Were you ever shipwrecked?”

  “No, but there were a few bad storms. And one time my dad left me on an island overnight because I spent his drinking money on a water filter. He came back for me though.”

  Arden must have seen my shocked expression. I’d not yet touched my food.

  “That must have been traumatic.”

 
; “He felt bad about it, but dysentery is no joke. Eat up. We’ve got work to do.”

  We worked all that morning, then went for a hike in the afternoon. Arden told me about the books he’d treasured when he was younger. How he’d read the Bible cover-to-cover three times, and the Complete Works of William Shakespeare, which had belonged to his mother, as well as some old Danielle Steel and Jackie Collins novels he’d “borrowed” from his aunt’s house. “I knew more about female orgasms than I did about men’s,” he said. He’d also read the Harry Potter books out of order and spent years trying to acquire a complete set. He said that when he went to a used bookstore, he’d pick the thickest books because he knew they’d take the longest to read.

  “I see now why you hoard books.”

  “I never knew when we’d ship off again. I never got much notice. Not all books are worth reading multiple times.”

  He’d said that mine were.

  “And your food situation?” I asked, recalling the inventory of canned goods I’d found in his apartment.

  “You don’t ever forget what it’s like to be hungry. Even SPAM, which used to make me want to barf just opening the can. Seriously, it tastes like fucking dog food. But if I had the choice between being hungry or eating it, I’d hold my nose and do it.”

  I’d never known anyone to trust me with their secrets so easily or present their authentic self without the airs and conceits I’d experienced with my friends and exes. He wasn’t trying to impress me, and yet, I was impressed.

  On our hike we stumbled upon a forest canopy where a few species of wildflowers were in bloom. I plucked a Carolina Springbeauty and tucked it in his hair. Arden laughed like a sprite, his golden-brown waves teased by the cool breeze. I wanted to kiss him, bed him on the forest floor. I wanted to recite fucking poetry to him. But whenever I made any romantic overtures, he stiffened and pulled away, so I figured it best to amble on.

  When we returned from our hike, Arden was subdued. His mood lasted throughout dinner. When we’d settled down to work again, I glanced up to find him staring at me with a peculiar expression. He still had the flower in his hair, though it was wilted now.

  “What’s on your mind?” I asked. I thought he might be stuck on his writing.

  “I need to show you something.” I nodded and waited for it. Arden continued, “It’s not something I can explain. You have to see it for yourself.”

  “Okay.”

  “You’re not going to like it.”

  “Are you cultivating a mystique right now?” I’d meant for it to be a joke, but his face remained grave.

  “You don’t know who I am,” he said. “Or what I do.”

  “I know enough. You’ve been very candid with me.”

  “You don’t, though. My looks and manners are misleading you.”

  “I don’t think that’s completely true.” It sounded like he was calling me shallow.

  “You put a flower in my hair.” His tone was imploring, almost on the verge of begging.

  “It suits you.” He was handsome without the adornment, but feminine touches looked good on him too.

  “You think I’m someone worthy of romancing.”

  He was so negative in his self-assessment. I went over to the couch and laid a hand on his knee. It was meant to be a comfort, but Arden shifted away.

  “Is there a bar nearby?” he asked. “A pool hall, maybe?”

  “There’s one off State Route 30. It’s a bit of a dive.”

  “That should work. Let’s go there.”

  “What are we going to do?”

  “I’m going to show you who I really am.”

  Part I.

  The first time the boy laid eyes on his father, he thought the man was homeless. His graying, unkempt beard reminded him of a shorebird’s haphazard nest. His clothes were faded and well-worn, and his eyes were bloodshot—whether it was from bereavement or alcohol or the biting sea air, the boy didn’t know.

  The man stood on the periphery of the funeral ceremonies, an unwelcome interloper, and the boy thought he’d come to their huddle to beg for spare change. The boy reached into his pocket to see if he had any coins, but no, these were new pants, bought especially for this occasion, so there was none of the detritus of boyhood he normally carried around with him. Only the soft, satin lining of pants that were not comfortable, that he did not want, that he had, in fact, fought viciously with his aunt just that morning when she’d insisted he wear them, before she brought him to this place and the service before it to gaze upon the empty shell of his mother and confront the fact that she was dead.

  His mother was dead, and there was no one else to love him, only an aunt who barely tolerated him and a father so despised that no one ever spoke of him.

  It was only afterward, when the homeless man approached the grieving family with his watery gaze set on the boy, that he realized this man may have known his mother, that he’d come here with a purpose.

  “I’m your father,” the man said, speaking only to the boy. He avoided, very pointedly, the knife-like glare that the boy’s aunt was giving him. “What’d your mother end up naming you?”

  It was an unusual phrasing, as if the man had to qualify any connection between them, through her. But the boy didn’t understand the difference at the time, only trembled in fear and terror and felt his bowels loosen with an uncomfortable cramping sensation.

  “Arden Evans,” the boy said with some formality. They were not on a first-name basis. Might never be.

  “I’m Jimmy Evans,” the man said as if to prove their family connection. “But you can call me Captain.”

  He stuck out one leathered hand, brown as beef jerky and speckled from skin damage. The hand he’d offered was at least as twice as big as the boy’s own.

  “Why would I call you Captain?” the boy said, revealing the stubborn, smart-aleck streak that the captain always attributed to the boy’s mother and never himself.

  “Because I’m the captain of the ship, and you’re my new first mate. Time to get your sea legs, Kid. You’re with me now.”

  What was this man talking about? He sounded insane. “Are you homeless?” the boy asked, fearing the worst.

  The man chuckled, and it sounded like air wheezing through coal-blackened pipes. “Nope. I live on a boat. Her name is Tondaleo, and it’s high time you meet her.”

  Tondaleo, the boy marveled. He’d never heard such a beautiful, exotic name in all of his life.

  Later, when his aunt was trying to convince him not to go, to stay in the house where he could still smell his mother, where he could crawl into her bed every night and cry himself to sleep, where all of her clothing and jewelry and lotions still sat in her bedroom, untouched and gathering dust, he realized that he could say goodbye to her a thousand times and die slowly, or he could escape with this strange, weather-beaten man and say goodbye to her all at once.

  Like ripping off a Band-aid fast and hard, he left.

  7

  the john

  Arden dressed me in my father’s clothing—jeans, t-shirt, and a flannel. Wearing his clothes, I looked a lot like him, which was a little disconcerting. Arden gave me a ball cap so I wouldn’t be recognized. I told him I wasn’t that famous.

  “What about you?” I asked. He wore tight jeans and a sleeveless t-shirt that showed off his sculpted arms and shoulders. He threw a light jacket on top of that, only because I insisted.

  “I won’t use my real name.”

  We ended up at a pool hall, dark on the inside except for the bar and the oily pools of light cast by the bulbs above the tables. The air smelled like stale beer and men’s sweat topped with a layer of fry grease. After only a few minutes, my skin had a sticky residue on it. Arden surveyed the place and decided it was sufficiently seedy for his purposes. I dreaded what might come next.

  It was a slow night—tourist season was still a few weeks away—so there were a few empty tables. Arden ordered me a draft beer and an iced tea for himself. I asked if dr
inking in front of him might compromise his sobriety, but he only waved off my concern.

  Arden racked the balls. Right off the bat, he wasn’t acting like himself. Since we’d stepped inside the pool hall, he’d become… slinkier. Like he was drunk, only I knew he wasn’t. He stood closer than necessary as I lined up the cue ball and hung on me performatively while I read the break. He laughed loud enough to get others’ attention and shot a few long, lingering looks at the bar’s patrons. He was working the room, and even though he’d given me the game plan already, I didn’t really think he’d see it through.

  But what could I do? He wasn’t my boyfriend—he’d made that clear. We weren’t even fucking. Not really. We were friends and we were keeping it simple. No demands and no expectations.

  So, when a big, sturdy man in his late thirties approached us, I didn’t snarl and send him packing, I leaned against the pool table, chalked my cue, and watched this exchange play out.

  “I noticed you looking at me,” the man said.

  “What if I was?” Arden said haughtily. He moistened his lips with his tongue, which caught the man’s attention and mine too. They were the same height, but Arden was slouching with his ass against the pool table, letting the man think he was bigger.

  “What’s your name?” the man asked.

  Arden gave a fake one, and the man gave his own. I determined right then that I’d only ever consider him “the john.”

  The john nodded at me and addressed Arden, “That your boyfriend?”

  Arden shot me a calculating look. “No, he’s my pimp.”

  I almost gave myself away. I’d never in my life fantasized about being in such a role.

  “You looking for work then?” The man tucked his thumbs in his waistband and licked his chops hungrily.

  “Forty for a suck, eighty for a fuck.”

  “David,” I said, using the name Arden had given the john.

  “You think I’m selling myself short, Boss?” Arden reached up and drew a finger down the man’s sternum, subtly, so others wouldn’t see unless they were paying close attention. “I’ll give you a deal, big man. Give me a hundred, and my friend here will record it for you, so you have a little something for later.”