Guilty Little Secret Read online

  It was nearly dinnertime in Anjoie, which meant it was past noon in New York. Terry should be awake, I assured myself as I quickly dialed Terry’s number. I hoped Terry would answer. I didn’t want to waste time on polite conversation with Drew.

  “Allo?” It was Drew.

  I took a deep breath, trying to manage the anguish that was building in my chest. “Drew, it’s Paul. Is Terry there?”

  “Paul! What a nice surprise! How are you doing?”

  Before I could answer, I began to sob hoarsely, like a mule braying.

  “Paul, is everything okay?”

  “Oh, Drew, I hate it here. I want to be in New York with you. And Terry.”

  “Let me put Terry on the phone for you.” Drew knew exactly what I wanted. He had answered countless homesick calls from me over the years.

  I sniffed shamelessly while I waited for Terry to get to the phone.

  “Hi, Paulie! I’m so glad you called!” Terry purred into the phone.

  Just the sound of his voice had a sedative effect on me. “Terry! Are you getting my letters?”

  “Yes! I’m enjoying them. Did mine get there?”

  “Mmmhmm. Listen, I hate it here. I want to be with you. Come and get me. Please? I can’t stand it here!”

  Terry chuckled a bit. “Robbie’s there, huh? Are he and Dizzy ignoring you?”

  “Sex, sex, sex. It’s all they talk about. It’s all Maman and Dad talk about. Dizzy and the French girl. Now Robbie and the French girl. Please, come and get me, Terry! Don’t you love me?”

  “You know I do, Paulie. When do your parents plan to come back to Valhalla?”

  That was the problem. Now that Dizzy was no longer interested in screwing Jeanne Marie, he wanted to return to New York. But, Justine told him, they couldn’t leave Anjoie until my drawing class at the university was over.

  “That little fairy,” Dizzy had jeered, in English for my benefit, “and his fairy art class. Man, I want to go home.” Dad had set down his tea cup real hard in response, and Justine lectured him sharply about using the word “fairy.” Dizzy had scowled at both of them.

  I gulped back a sob before answering Terry. Then I explained about waiting until my art class was over. I didn’t tell Terry, though, about Dizzy calling me a “fairy.” “I really messed up,” I whined. “I didn’t want to take the stupid drawing class. I thought they’d send me to New York to stay with you if I insisted on art lessons. I don’t want to stay in France another minute! Come and get me, Terry, please?”

  Terry was silent for a moment, then he spoke. “I miss you, too, baby. Terribly. Let me talk to Drew here, and I’ll call you right back. Stay by the phone, okay?”

  I smiled, my heart beating with renewed hope. “Okay. Yes! Call me soon. I’ll be here. Please hurry! Please?”

  “I love you, Paulie, you know it!”

  “Yes! I love you. Please hurry, Ter. I love you.” I hung up and burst into fresh sobs. I cried unashamedly, waiting for Terry to return my call.

  If I’d had a choice, I would live with Terry and Drew all the time. As it was, I spent more than half the year with them. Only in the summer, when my parents moved to Scotland, and in late autumn, when Drew and Terry left for Paris, did I reside with Maman and Dad. I preferred to be with Terry. I loved Terry more than anyone else on earth.

  For as long as I could remember, Terry had been the center of my life. Terry was there when I was born, in that very house in Anjoie. It was Terry who took newborn me and bathed and dressed me for the first time, while Dad and Drew tended to Maman.

  I was born in early March 1966, ten months after my parents’ reconciliation in the spring of 1965. Terry told me that, from the start, Dad didn’t know how to handle the intrusion of a demanding newborn baby. He and Maman were separated before Dizzy’s birth, so Dad was unaccustomed to sharing Maman with a baby. Dad was so jealous of me and the attention that Maman gave me that he began to demand nursing privileges at her breasts. I once overheard Terry and Drew chuckling about Maman nursing Dad. I was five years old at the time, and Dad was still suckling from Maman’s breasts.

  When I was six months old, Dad became quite depressed. It was his first major depression in five years. Dad’s psychiatrist, Gabe Edgeworth, recommended a holiday from me. So Dad, with Maman and Dizzy, flew to Disneyland for two weeks in the California sun, leaving me with Terry and Drew. By the time my parents returned from California, Terry and I were inseparable.

  According to Drew, Terry spent the entire time, while my parents were in Disneyland, caring for me, carrying me everywhere, talking to me constantly. He gave me so much attention, something that I got little of from Dad. I thrived under Terry’s care. I went from sitting without support to pulling myself to a standing position, all in a week, with Terry’s encouragement. I would protest loudly whenever Terry left my side, and I would hoot with joy when Terry returned.

  When my parents and brother arrived at the airport, only Drew was there to meet them. Terry wasn’t ready to relinquish me quite so soon. He told Drew he’d meet them at their place in the Village. An hour passed before Terry showed up at the apartment, pushing me in a stroller. He burst into tears when he saw Dad and Maman. I guess that seeing Terry cry upset me because I began to scream in protest as, kicking and arching my back, I was handed over to Maman.

  Dad, tanned and well-rested, became irritated. “Well, there goes two weeks of rest and recuperation, down the drain,” he remarked glumly, as he clutched Dizzy to himself.

  Maman flashed him an angry look. “Don’t start, please?” she asked him, in French. “You promised me that you would be more patient with this baby!” Then she turned to Terry, who was wiping his face on Drew’s shirtsleeve. “Terry,” she said in English, “why don’t you and Drew come and stay with us in Valhalla for a while? It seems like Paul won’t be happy unless you are around.”

  And that episode began the endless series of lengthy visits by Drew and Terry to our household. Terry and Drew stayed nearly a month with us in Valhalla that fall of 1966. And when they went back to their apartment in the Village, I returned with them. Terry cared for me until he and Drew left for Paris in late October. That November, when we moved to Anjoie, Terry and Drew stayed with us there, taking me to Paris with them occasionally.

  Dad, it seemed, was relieved to be rid of me when Terry took me from the house. While he doted on Dizzy, his perky, talkative son, Dad never quite knew how to deal with me when I was a baby. Even years later, as I developed into a quiet, artistic child with a temperament much like his own, Dad still seemed to prefer Dizzy’s company to mine.

  The truth was I never connected emotionally with either of my parents. I felt so alone in their house, like I was not part of their family. I became homesick for Terry whenever we were separated for more than a few days. Gabe Edgeworth assured my parents that I would outgrow my attachment to Terry. But, eleven years later, my preoccupation with Terry was stronger than ever.

  The phone jangled furiously, catching me off-guard. I lifted the received eagerly. “Terry?”

  “Hello, sweetheart. We’ve made arrangements to fly out this afternoon. We’ll be there in the morning. How does that sound?”

  Tears began to multiply in the corners of my eyes. “Did you get the soonest plane?”

  “The soonest,” Terry assured me. “I can’t wait to see you. Will you put your father on the line now, Paulie?”

  “Yes! I’ll see you tomorrow. Hurry, okay?”

  “Okay! I love you, little Paulie. ‘Bye now. I’ll see you in the morning. Now get your dad.”

  Like my parents, Drew and Terry enjoyed a leisurely life, moving back and forth across the Atlantic several times a year, alternating between their flat in the Village and their home in Paris. They were, like Dad and Maman, retired musicians. Drew Carelli had played the drums in Blaise Morgon’s jazz band in France until Uncle Blaise’s death in 1958. Then he joined Dad’s and Uncle Rob’s rock band, Posso, the band that got all the gold records on U
ncle Rob’s wall. Terry Walters, also a drummer, recorded a couple of hit records with his band in the early 60’s. By the 70’s, Drew had become a recluse, rarely venturing out except to visit Dad and Maman, although Terry still made occasional public appearances, sitting in with this band or that, just for fun. Mostly their lives revolved around responding to my pleas for rescue.

  I barely slept that night, I was so excited by the prospect of Terry’s arrival. When Dad arose at his usual hour, a bit after 5 AM, I joined him in the kitchen.

  “Terry and Drew will be here soon,” Dad observed.

  “Yes, their plane is landing right now,” I responded. I could feel my face beaming with joy. “How long will it take them to drive from Paris?”

  “At this hour, about three hours.” Dad stared at me over the rim of his teacup as he brought it to his lips. I flinched under his gaze. Dad’s usually bright eyes were dark, like clouds in an approaching storm. “You know, son,” Dad began, “it breaks your mother’s heart when you leave us. Every time you go out that door with Drew and Terry, it breaks her heart.”

  Sucking in my breath quickly, I felt my stomach, heavy as lead, drop into my pelvis. “But, I love you,” I replied. “I love both of you. Very much.” Silently, I pleaded, please don’t stop me, please let me go back with them.

  Dad nodded, but he didn’t smile. “I’m not trying to guilt-trip you or anything like that, Paul, but you are old enough now to understand that your behavior has consequences. And, it hurts your mother’s feelings, and yes, it hurts me, too, that you have to run to Terry when you need something. Why can’t you talk to us?”

  I shrugged. “Terry is the only person who ever listens to me. You and Maman have Dizzy. You’re too busy listening to Dizzy.”

  “Paul, that’s horseshit, man! Pure horseshit! We’d love for you to speak up once in a while, instead of always sitting in the audience.”

  Horseshit. Everything I say is horseshit. Well, here goes, let me tell him what I’m feeling. “Dad,” I began slowly, “I don’t want to stay in Anjoie any longer, I want to go home to New York.”

  Dad seemed to erupt, sitting up tall in his seat, his eyebrows raised in surprise. Even the hair on his head seemed to stand on end. “Well, why the hell didn’t you tell us so? The only reason we’ve been hanging around here is because you wanted to take drawing classes.”

  “No, not here. I want to draw in New York.”

  “Well, Jesus, Paul! We thought we were doing you a favor, staying here for you. Why couldn’t you tell us? We could be in New York right now, and Terry and Drew wouldn’t have to be chasing over here.”

  I shrugged again. I felt like a stupid idiot. I wished Terry were there.

  Leaning across the table, Dad stroked my arm. “Paul, please try and trust your mother and me. Trust us.”

  Shortly after that, Dad went back upstairs to join Maman, who was still in bed. It was part of their daily routine. I wandered out to the east gardens, to explore among the beds of flowers that Maman had carefully planted. I knew the names of each – lady’s slippers, cannas, begonias, achilleas, ajugas, and geraniums - knew their names in English and in French. The yarrows and Shasta daisies were my favorites. I searched among their petals for ladybugs.

  When I grew tired of these explorations and, still smarting with embarrassment over my chat with Dad, I walked back to the house. A memory came to mind, from when I was really young, maybe two or three. Terry and Drew must have been across the ocean because it had been weeks since I had seen them. Every day my need to be with Terry became more intense. One night, I couldn’t stop crying. I sat up in my bed and shrieked and shrieked for Terry. Maman came into my room to soothe me. She turned on a table lamp and started my favorite record, a Terry Walters album, humming to the music as she gathered me in her arms. I screamed and struck out at her. When she tried to hold me close, pulling my head to her shoulder, I bit her viciously on the neck. Maman cried out and dropped me on my bed.

  Maman’s cries brought Dad to my room. Maman said something like, “Davy, don’t strike the child in anger.”

  “I am angry!” he told her. “Look at your neck, Justine. You are bleeding. These tantrums have to stop!” He spoke to her in French. Then he turned to me, speaking in English. “I am going to give you something to cry about, you spoiled brat. You never, ever hurt your mother, do you understand?” Dad picked me up then and spanked me very hard on my bottom, so hard that I still remembered the feel of my father’s muscular legs against my belly and his strong hand on my backside. He spanked me until I stopped crying.

  My memory of that night was still sharp. Dizzy stood in the doorway of my bedroom watching, until Dad yelled at him in French and told him to get back to bed. Maman left the room, too, and I was alone with Dad, who told me to be quiet or I would be spanked some more. I learned that night to never give voice to my need for Terry, to suffer my loneliness, my neediness, silently, alone.

  It wasn’t until Dizzy taught me how to dial Terry’s number in France and in the Village that I was able to reach out and beg Terry to rescue me whenever my loneliness overwhelmed me. I kept these telephone numbers close to my heart. They were my lifeline to Terry.

  I sat on the swing on the porch, waiting for Terry and Drew to arrive. I was dozing as their Mercedes pulled into the drive. When their car horn tooted, I nearly fell out of the swing, I was so startled.

  Terry jumped out of the car and bounded up the stairs toward me. “Paulie!” That’s all he said. That’s all he needed to say as he gathered me into his arms like a huge baby. My heart began to sing with relief. I smiled broadly, sincerely, for the first time in weeks. I pressed my face into Terry’s chest, basking in his scent. I raised my eyes to study Terry’s face. He was stunning to look at, Terry was, with his fiery red hair, bright green eyes, and chocolate freckles that ran across his face, down his neck, and over his back, arms, and legs.

  “Wow! Look at how you’ve grown, Paul! You’re nearly as tall as me!”

  It wasn’t exactly true. I was growing fast. At age 11, I was nearly 5’5”, which Maman recorded weekly, nearly as tall as Dizzy, but a long way from Terry’s height. Terry, actually, was shorter than average, standing about 5’9”, at least half a foot shorter than Dad or Drew.

  I smiled ecstatically at him and snatched his hand. “Let’s go for a walk,” I suggested. “Along the Loire.” To be polite, I turned to Drew. “Hi, Drew! I’m really glad you are here!”

  Before Drew could respond, Dad bounded out of the house. “Drew!” he purred, embracing his friend. He nodded in Terry’s direction. “Ter, how goes it?”

  Terry nodded back. “Okay. Paul and I are going for a walk.”

  Drew frowned slightly. “You must be exhausted. Why don’t you rest first?” Then he turned back to Dad, returning his kiss.

  I clutched Terry’s hand, refusing to release it, as we strolled down the footpath to the river. We stopped to admire the flowers that grew wild along the centuries-old path. I pointed out and named the flowers for Terry. Astilbe, painted daisies, calendulas, daylilies. We talked about nothing in particular, yet the whole conversation had an air of heavy significance for me. I had Terry to myself. We were alone. Together. And I felt as if I could tell Terry anything. Or ask Terry anything. Anything, like about his relationship with Drew.

  “Are you and Drew married? Really married, I mean, like Maman and Dad?”

  Terry nodded slowly. “Yeh, we feel that we are. But, not legally, not like your parents. The law doesn’t allow two men to marry legally. But, 16 years ago, you understand, Drew and I exchanged vows, just like other married couples do.”

  “What do you mean, ‘vows’?”

  “Vows are promises. We promised to always love each other and

  take care of each other.”

  My mind was working furiously as I tried to imagine Drew and Terry loving each other the way Dad and Maman carried on. “Do you have sex together?” I asked shyly. I decided to try out a new word. “Do you sc
rew?”

  Terry grinned mischievously. “Yeh. Of course! We’re married, eh?”

  I filed this tidbit of information away for later contemplation. I had more questions for Terry. “Which one of you gets to have the baby?”

  “You are our baby, Paul.” Terry stroked my cheek as he smiled into my eyes.

  “No, I mean, when you have sex, you make babies, isn’t that true? Who gets pregnant, you or Drew?”

  Sighing lightly, Terry squeezed my hand. “Paul, hasn’t your father talked to you about this yet? We need to talk to Davy!”

  I shrugged. I felt confused. What did Dad have to tell me? Was there some secret about Drew and Terry that I didn’t know? I couldn’t wait to get back to the house to find out.

  Later that afternoon, when Terry and I were messing around with a couple of acoustic guitars in my bedroom, Dad glided into the room without knocking. Dad was smiling mysteriously, his eyes dancing and the edges of his mouth twitching upwards. He winked at Terry, then turned his pale eyes on me. “Hi! Can I join you two?” Without waiting for an answer, he sat down on the bed beside us.

  Then I saw it. The magazine. Dizzy’s magazine. The one with the lollipop on the cover. I looked into Terry’s eyes in horror.

  “Paul,” Dad directed, “go get your magazine. The one we bought at the airport.”

  I got up and hesitated before reaching into my closet for the Avec Lui magazine. I brought the book back and handed it to Terry.

  Terry looked from the magazine to me. “Gee, Paul, is this yours?” He turned to Dad. “You bought this for him?”

  Nodding, Dad replied, “He wanted it.”

  “Would your father have bought this for you?” Terry flipped through the pages, stopping from time to time to check out a photo that caught his attention. He looked up from the magazine and smiled at Dad.

  “Of course not,” Dad answered. “What about yours?”

  “No way!”

  “That’s why I got it for the kid. Who needs fathers like ours?” Dad and Terry laughed softly, in quiet chuckles.