Exiles in America(30)

old man. Which wasn’t fair to Eugene—he was what he’d always been, a

frisky, oblivious sex buddy—but the next morning Zack apologetically told

him that he didn’t want to see him again. And Eugene looked relieved. He

confessed that he was getting bored and wanted to play the field but was

afraid of hurting Zack’s feelings. Besides, hadn’t Zack said he had a

boyfriend?

“If you’re not coming down,” said Daniel, “could you send me my navy

blue overcoat?”

“Sure,” said Zack. “Where is it?”

“The drawer of the platform bed.”

“All right. There’s nothing else you need?”

“Not for now. No. Love you. Bye.”

Daniel didn’t miss Zack nearly as much as Zack missed Daniel. Which

hurt Zack more than he thought possible. As the weeks passed, it began to

make Zack angry. He decided to test Daniel. If the next time Daniel called

and it was just to chat, then he still loved Zack and they were still a couple.

But if he called only because he needed something, a book or a cassette or an

article of clothing, then they weren’t a couple and it was over.

Zack was a smart man, conscientious and aware. He was a trained thera-

pist. He recognized exactly what he was doing: he had locked himself in a

cycle of guilt and punishment, a trap of blame. He was determined to punish

himself further. If a patient came to him and told him this story, Zack would

help the man find his way out of his narrative trap. But Zack wasn’t one of his

patients.

E x i l e s i n A m e r i c a

6 9

One night after ten o’clock, the phone rang and Zack picked up.

“Hello, love. How you doing?”

Zack’s heart lifted a little, as it almost always did when he heard Daniel’s

voice. “Fine. And you? Is it cold down there yet?”

They exchanged pleasantries for a few minutes, and Zack was happy. Then

Daniel said, “Oh, the real reason I’m calling— You know the Met catalogs in

the bookcase in the front room? There’s four or five. From the Bacon and

Caravaggio shows and others. Could you pack them up and ship them down?”

Zack sat with the receiver pressed to his newly bearded face. “I have a bet-

ter idea,” he said. “Why don’t I just go through the apartment and pack up all

your stuff and ship it down?”

Daniel didn’t get it. “That’s okay, I just need the catalogs.”

Zack took a deep breath. “Do you realize you never call except when you

need something? This isn’t your home anymore. It’s just a post office. I’m no-

body to you now but your fucking mailman.”

Daniel was silent for a moment. “That’s not true. I miss you. I just don’t

want to waste money on long distance. So I wait until I have a practical reason

for calling.”

“But I want to waste money on you!” Zack cried. “Because I miss you. But

you don’t miss me. Not at all. Jesus Christ. To think I spent all summer feel-

ing guilty for what I did, when you don’t give a damn one way or another.”

“I give a damn! I miss you. Look, I’m sorry I don’t call more, but this is a

new life for me. I’m busy adjusting to it. But I do miss you, Zack. Please. Be-

lieve me,” he pleaded. “I’m sorry.”

His apology instantly made Zack feel guilty for his anger. He spoke more

softly. “No, I’m sorry. I have no business flying off the handle like that. But

I’m not myself these days.”

“You’re telling me. You haven’t been yourself for a long time. Not since

you started seeing that pig professor.” Daniel paused. “I don’t believe this.

You spent the past six months fucking that pig, and now you’re angry with

me?”

He abruptly turned combative, which was always Daniel’s curve in an ar-

gument. When the other person was angry, he backed down. But as soon as

the other person turned apologetic, Daniel became the aggressor.

7 0

C h r i s t o p h e r B r a m

“I’m angry with you because you don’t miss me like I miss you,” Zack ar-

gued.

“And whose fault is that?” said Daniel. “I miss you,” he conceded. “But I

don’t miss your smugness. Your calm. Your I’m-so-on-top-of-the-world con-

fidence. I don’t miss how you and everyone else in New York make me feel

like a failure.”

“When did I ever treat you like a failure?”

“Every time you look at me with your poor-little-you eyes. You feel so

sorry for me. Poor little Danny. Poor loser Danny. I hate it.”

Only when they were four hundred miles apart could they say all the dan-