Chapter 19
19.
The First High Holy Day
“A good night of dancing is not measured in hearts stolen, but in how many lives have been made larger. (Of course, one can do both with the perfect outfit.)”
—Disco Witch Manifesto #27
By the Friday afternoon of Memorial Day weekend, every inch of the Pines hummed with young holiday revelers, all shamelessly attired in the tightest go-go shorts or Speedos, and little else. Howie had told Joe that Memorial Day was the first of Fire Island’s four high holy days, the second being the “invasion” on July Fourth; the third being the Morning Party, a fundraiser for Gay Men’s Health Crisis in mid-August; and the last being Labor Day, the official end of the summer season.
In the weeks since his encounter with the Graveyard Girls, Joe had neither seen nor heard anything to worry him further about Howie and Lenny. Mostly, people spoke fondly of his housemates. Ronnie was the only one who talked smack about them—at least to Joe’s face. Sure, Howie and Lenny were quirky as hell, but they were also very kind and were always feeding Joe and trying to teach him things. These older, overly caring oddballs were a nice balance to all the young hot guys on the island who could be snooty, especially when they found out Joe was a bartender.
Meanwhile, the bar was doing far better in the early season than both Dory and Vince had predicted. If things kept up reasonably well, they thought they could keep Scotty Black from trying to take the bar over—at least anytime soon. And the cherry on top of everything was Vince had told Joe he could end his Saturday shift early and attend the Promethean’s opening party. “The bar will be slow anyway that night,” Vince said. “You go, have a night out dancing, and, please Jesus, get laid for once, would ya?”
Joe was thrilled. Beyond it being his first weekend night off on Fire Island, he thought he might maybe—just maybe—run into that Gladiator Man. For the first time in a long time, everything seemed to be looking up. That is, until he returned to 44 and ⒈／⒋ Picketty Ruff and found Howie out on the back deck at the other end of the twenty-foot spiral telephone cord, looking very upset.
“Oh no,” Howie moaned to whomever he was speaking with. “Are they sure?”
Joe strained to decipher the one-sided conversation, which mostly consisted of sighs, head shakes, and grunts of disappointment. Something was really wrong.
“Sure. Sure. Right,” Howie said as the call edged toward an ending. “Thanks, Heshy. I know. I know. I know. I guess right now all we can do is burn some sage and offer it up. Keep us posted, dear.” He slowly walked back into the kitchen, hung up the phone, and stared at it hanging in its cradle as if it were a dying kitten.
“What happened?” Joe asked gently.
“That was Max’s boyfriend.” Howie’s eyes welled. “They found a lesion on Max’s brain.”
Howie’s huge body collapsed into a kitchen chair as his face filled with a look of hopelessness. Seeing him that way caused Joe’s mind to flash onto dark memories he longed to forget—the day Elliot had been diagnosed with thrush, then Kaposi sarcoma, then the lymphoma scare. The incessant doctors’ appointments, the obsessive scouring of newspapers and medical journals for any scintilla of hope. How foolish Joe had been to think that by coming out to Fire Island he’d be able to forget. How could he? Almost every day, he’d hear people talk of friends who were sick or dying. Every day, men with AIDS would sit at his bar, nursing their drinks, with clothes hanging off their bodies like scrawny kids playing dress up. Seeing their gaunt gray faces, powdery lips, and sunken scared eyes, Joe would tell himself, Elliot never looked that sick toward the end. Elliot never suffered like that. But the longer he lived on the island and the more he saw the anguished faces of men like Howie, the harder it was to believe all the lies Joe was telling himself. This disease was not gentle, nor straightforward, nor did it allow some handsome, noble death. It was out there, aiming for you and all those you would or could love.
“I’m so sorry,” Joe said. It was all he could say.
“Thank you.” Howie wiped his eyes with the hem of his robe. “But I do have some good news to sprinkle on this misery pie. In a moment of lucidity, Max spoke to Heshy. He agreed that you can stay in the attic the whole summer if you like. Heshy says Max is beside himself to meet you. Of course, that could be the lesions talking …” Howie feigned a laugh. “No. Of course, he really wants you here. We all do.”
A surge of warmth hugged Joe’s heart. “Thank you, and please thank Max for me too.”
“I’m still hoping you’ll be able to thank him yourself. Either way, you’re a Picketty Ruff boy now.” Howie rustled Joe’s wavy hair, but a second later, Howie’s smile vanished, and like he had several times over the previous weeks, he looked at Joe in that odd way, with his eyelids almost squeezed shut.
“Is something up?” Joe asked. “You keep looking at me funny.”
Howie opened his eyes back to normal. “Just be careful this weekend, okay? The high holy days can be tricky, no matter who you are.”
Joe squinched his nose. “What’s that mean?”
“It’s just things may tempt you out there—delicious and dangerous things. You can always talk to me and Lenny about it. We won’t judge. Okay?”
“I’ll be careful,” Joe said, assuming Howie was talking about safer sex.
“And if you wouldn’t mind, please keep us posted of your whereabouts. I know that sounds like I’m a silly old worrywart, but, well, I am.” He smiled sadly. “I’d better go find Lenny and tell him the news about Max.”
Howie trudged out the screen door, a look of grave concern on his face.
“A Picketty Ruff boy now.” The hairs on Joe’s neck stiffened. Those had been the Graveyard Girls’ words just before they told him about that bar in Rehoboth burning down.
Saturday afternoon, Joe awoke with his head still swimming with faint images of a dream. He couldn’t remember the details except for it having to do with people running from a spreading fire. Like most dreams, Joe was left with more of a feeling—in this case a dire desperation, a longing to save people, and a fear of being consumed by flames himself. The Graveyard Girls had gotten back into his head about Howie and Lenny.
Joe pulled on a T-shirt and gym shorts, but as he was headed downstairs, he stopped at the padlocked crawl space and got on his knees to peek through the crack in the door. He saw nothing but shadows and a glint of light on the floor. He pressed his nose against the space under the door and sniffed. Beyond the usual scents of cedarwood, dust, and cardboard boxes, he detected a faint, familiar, smoky odor. If only he could get inside.
“What are you doing?” Howie’s voice cried out. Joe’s body jolted. He then realized Howie was yelling at Lenny downstairs, from the base of the ladder. “We don’t have a lot of time!”
Joe jumped up and quickly clambered downstairs. Howie was indeed in more of a dither than usual, scribbling a list on the back of an envelope and wearing his shockingly “hetero” “ready-to-go-over-to-the-mainland” Mets cap and jacket. “Breeder drag,” Lenny had once called it.
“Good morning, gorgeous,” Howie said to Joe. “How was the bar last night?”
“Great.” Joe grabbed the bagel that Lenny had obviously left out for him. “It was packed. Vince even sounded optimistic about us staying open. What’s going on? Did something happen?”
“I’m afraid Lenny and I have to scoot over to Sayville to do some shopping for a last-minute soir é e Dusty Jacobson decided to throw Monday night.”
“On Memorial Day?” Joe asked. “One of your high holy days?”
“Indeed it is,” Howie said glumly. “Alas, there’s an even higher and holier day that we call payday . The gig will cover expenses for a month. Stores are closed Sundays, so we have to head over today. The Great Goddess Mother will understand. We need last minute decorations for a sexy merman theme. Which means nets, glass balls, and a mermaid costume that can fit a two-hundred-and-thirty-pound Bulgarian stripper—I’ll need to whip that up myself of course. Oy! Johnny Weissmuller meets Esther Williams madness! We’ll be back in about three hours, so hold the fort down—”
“Howie, enough with the blabbing!” Lenny said, rushing from his room. “We don’t want to miss the boat!” He turned off the stereo and carefully returned the cassette to the shelf. “Joey, I left you some meatballs and gravy in the fridge for your dinner. But like I keep saying, now that we’re stuck with you for the summer you gotta learn to cook for yourself. Capeesh?”
“Got it,” Joe said.
“Good,” Lenny said, rushing out the door. “But don’t cook anything until Wednesday, ’cause I’m gonna roast a leg of lamb—”
“Lenny!” Howie screamed at the screen door. “The boat!”
A moment later the house was deathly quiet. Joe suddenly realized it was the first time he’d be completely alone in the house for that long—no disco music, no housemates watching his every move, no threat of a surprise return. Joe’s limbs began to tremble with excitement. If he was going to find out what was inside the crawl space, that three-hour window was the time.
“The one thing we ask here is that we all respect one another’s private spaces,” Howie had told him the first day he had moved in. If they discovered him prying, he might be kicked out. But he needed to find out what they were hiding in there. Was it proof that could confirm or deny the Graveyard Girls’ horrific accusations? And if Joe was going to be called a Picketty Ruff boy, wasn’t it only fair he knew the truth?
The only thing was, to get into the crawl space, he’d need a key.