He’d cheated because he had nothing else to do or have. But he’d always thought that Guy was fiel since, damn!, he owed him something, Guy had his freedom and this big bed, sheets white as foam, the right to walk around the world as he wished, to see movies and eat Italian, Chinese, Cuban, whatever he wanted, and to stand under the hot shower for hours and to use all the products he wanted or might just slightly want. The least Guy could have done was to stay faithful, shit!, this little punk had probably been around for years and years. He wanted to wake them and shoot them both between the eyes or in the balls, there was no decency in the world!
He left the room and wandered down the hall to the guest room where he hoped he’d find his nephew studying but no, the kid was asleep too, asleep at eleven in the morning! Guy had promised he’d look after Vicente, make him work, stabilize him, discipline him — but here he was with two roaches in the ashtray by the bed, a skinny naked body, not a book in sight. He’d heard so much from Guy about the boy’s workout routine, his weight-gaining diet, his sober habits, his regimented day. Fuck!
Andrés dragged the boy out of bed onto the floor, not caring if he broke his back or injured his flopping neck.
“Hey! Ay!” Vicente yelled, startled into English and Spanish, his red eyes traveling up Andrés’s jeans leg in a bewildered rage — and then he melted into a smile upon recognizing his enraged uncle.
“Don’t fuckin’ smile at me, you little shit!” Andrés shouted. He kicked the boy, who looked confused then terrified and rolled away.
“What the hell you doin’ here? I thought you weren’t being sprung till next week.”
“Guess I surprised you and the little lovebirds next door. Thought you’d pull a fast one on ol’ Andy.” It took a minute for Vicente to realize his uncle was referring to himself.
“Don’t kick him,” Guy said quietly, confidentially; he was suddenly standing in the doorway and reaching out to touch Andrés’s shoulder.
Andrés shook off his hand, tightened his fists and turned to look at Guy. Somewhere in the sun-drenched background was the other guy’s naked body, slightly bent over — in shame? Fear? Modesty?
“Sorry if I woke you guys up at eleven in the morning.”
“How did you get out early? Who drove you into town?” Guy asked.
“Sorry to fake you out before you hid the evidence and had Vicente all washed up and combed and your trick in the closet.”
Guy smiled wearily as if in response to a bad joke or corny pun. His heart was beating with alarm but all he wanted to do was to fold Andrés in his arms. If only Kevin weren’t here or would put on some clothes. Guy looked around. Kevin had disappeared and Guy could hear water running. Maybe that was what he was doing, preparing to leave.
Vicente had pulled on some week-old boxer shorts and a dirty T-shirt, which clung so tightly to his body he looked even skinnier. “Let’s all chill,” Vicente mumbled. He couldn’t meet anyone’s eyes. His nails looked badly bitten, which Guy realized he’d never noticed before. Those dirty little nails, bitten down to the cuticle, made him feel guilty.
Had Andrés seen him in bed with Kevin? What a disaster, he told himself, as his mind scurried around searching for alibis.
Andrés folded his arms, widened his stance and rocked back on his heels.
Guy shrugged and almost whispered, “I’ll make some coffee.”
Andrés said, “I’ll tell you what I’m going to do. I’m going to walk around for ten minutes and when I come back I want to see you bums dressed and the trick gone.”
“What’s a trick?” Vicente asked.
“It’s whores’ slang,” Guy said wearily, “for a one-time client.”
“But Kevin isn’t—” And Guy kicked him.
Andrés stormed out. Guy said, “We’re up shit creek,” a saying he was proud of, since it was both American and manly. “Jump in the shower and get dressed.”
“But I’m still tired …”
“Now!” Guy barked, which was so unusual for him that Vicente headed immediately into his bathroom to get ready.
Guy hurried off to his own bathroom, which Kevin had filled with steam. Kevin was as pink as a boiled shrimp. “Did you get rid of him?” Kevin asked over the roar of the water.
Guy turned the shower off, which seemed to vex Kevin since he still had soap all over. “He’s gone out for ten minutes but he’ll be right back.” Even after all these years — and especially in an emergency like this, Guy felt as if he were in a dream when he spoke English and he was mildly astonished that he was making sense. He was almost offended that Kevin could talk about getting rid of “him.”
Guy said, “Would you mind leaving us alone for half an hour till all this blows over?” He was speaking in his most intimate indoor voice, soft and kind.
Kevin said, “It’s not going to blow over. We got to have this out. You’re either mine or his — which is it?”
“Let me get showered and dressed,” Guy said tonelessly.
A fleeting look of fear crept into Kevin’s eye. He rushed off to dress without saying a word. Guy hadn’t reassured him.
By the time all three of them were fidgeting and formal in the living room, pretending to be at ease as in a posed, “casual” photo, Andrés had returned. Guy noticed his hand was shaking slightly — from anger? Tension? “Looks like a committee,” he said. Then he turned to Kevin and said accusingly, “Who are you?”
“I’m Guy’s lover, Kevin. I’ve been living here for years. I’m surprised you never heard of me.”
“How could I? I wasn’t exactly free to investigate. And God knows Guy would never have told me anything. He’d sooner die.” Andrés looked at Guy menacingly. “All along I thought you were waiting for me. I shoulda knowed you had your pretty blond butt boy in your bed every night. You’re not decent, nobody’s decent. You didn’t mind if I suffered as long as you could fuck a boy every night and get a two-hour rub-down and travel to Europe whenever and wherever you wanted. It ain’t decent.”
Guy inventoried Andrés’s envies — sex, massage, travel. He wanted to buy off Andrés’s rage and wounded feelings with all these things.
He wondered how all this would end. He hoped it wouldn’t be up to him — that he wouldn’t have to choose between them.
And then the focus shifted to Vicente, who was living in the States illegally, since he’d outstayed his original three-month visa by years. Guy had hired a lawyer to sort it all out, but it seemed hopeless, unless Vicente went back to Spain, found an American woman to marry, could prove it was a legitimate marriage, applied for a green card, waited six months … Or he could stay here, never break the law, never try to work, stay off the government’s radar. That was the problem, Guy explained: Andrés wanted him to work, but he couldn’t unless it was off the books. Or Andrés wanted him to go to a university, but he didn’t have a student visa. Nor the grades. So he just ended up sleeping till noon, biting his nails, playing pool, trying unsuccessfully to pick up girls, getting high.
Guy tried to explain all that to Andrés, but even though, as a foreigner himself, Andrés understood visa problems, he shook his head and said, “This has got to change. I owe it to his mother, my poor dead sister,” and Andrés made the sign of the cross and kissed his thumb, which Guy had never seen him do before.
“But, Andy,” Vicente said, using the new prison name, “I help out around the house …”
“Not!” Kevin chimed in, which only drew the unwelcome attention back to him.
“Who are you, kid? Guy fuckin’ you regular?”
“Actually, I’m the one who does the fucking,” Kevin said.