In Memory of Angel Clare by Christopher Bram Read Free Book Online

remembered it had been written to Ben. “Oh. It seems like a very long time ago,” he said.
    “It was. Back then it took some of us forever to enjoy what we were doing, although it didn’t stop us from doing it. Guilt and self-hatred. Your generation was spared all that. But now, we all have something besides ourselves to be scared of.”
    Michael nodded solemnly. He wondered if it would be tacky to ask Ben if he had slept with Clarence in college.
    “I’d be interested in hearing your perspective on those letters when you finish reading them,” said Ben. “It’s a good thing I brought them with me, even if I never got to writing my memoir of Clare. The best laid plans of mice and Ben.” He laughed and touched Michael’s arm again. Danny touched because that was just the way he talked to people, but Ben seemed to have to think about touching. “I was going down to the grocery to pick up stuff for tonight. You need anything? Toothpaste? Razor blades? Condoms?”
    “Uh, nothing, thank you.”
    Ben faced the house and shouted, “My reason for living! What do you want for dinner tonight?”
    Danny’s voice hollered out, “Your balls on a plate!”
    Ben turned back to Michael, faked a laugh, and went over to the dog, who sat there looking demented with her pale, ice-blue eyes and her tongue hanging out of her black lips. “How about a walk, Jesse Dog?” Ben unhooked her, snapped on her leash, and she promptly hauled him down the stone steps to the road. Bouncing along to keep up with her, Ben went up the road past Michael and out of sight.
    Michael wondered about Ben’s mention of condoms, which could be a harmless joke, then the razor blades. Had he forgotten Michael’s state of mind?
    The screen door squealed open. Danny came out, carrying a blanket and wearing a broad-brimmed straw hat and bright red bikini briefs.
    The sight was obscene, or surreal. The colored underwear called too much attention to itself. The body was smoothly muscled, just enough to look naked, not discreetly dressed in muscles. With straight black hair and hairless olive skin, Danny Padilla looked Puerto Rican, which he was, but he spoke the accentless English of any New York actor. “Ah. Nobody here but us chickens,” he said as he tiptoed barefoot over the grass.
    “I am not chicken,” Michael said curtly.
    Danny wasn’t either. He was thirty, but being younger than Ben, he sometimes played “the boy,” just as he sometimes played the fishwife, the jaded queen, or even the street-smart Puerto Rican.
    “No. You’re not chicken,” Danny replied. “You’re an old fart. Loosen up, Mikey. I was just joking.” He opened up the blanket and spread it on the grass. “I’m not letting this last gorgeous day go to waste. Screw the neighbors. You should get a little sun yourself, Michael. There’s plenty of room on this blanket if you’d like to join me.”
    “Thank you, no.”
    Danny shrugged and stretched out on his back, the pale soles of his feet spread apart and his crotch aimed at Michael. He pulled the hat down, peeked at Michael from under the brim, then sat the hat squarely over his face and lay perfectly still. In a few minutes, the curves and crests of his torso were shiny with perspiration.
    Michael turned sideways so he wouldn’t have to look at Danny. He undid a few buttons on his shirt so he wouldn’t feel overdressed. Connecticut became very quiet and simple again. Michael resumed reading the letter where the ink changed from black to green.
That was my single encounter with Vienna sausage. The rest of my stay was nothing but art and beauty and three glorious nights at the Stadtsoper, which I know you don’t want to hear about, but on the night train to Venice yesterday—I’m in Venice now, can’t you feel the sunlight and water?—I shared a compartment with a pretty German boy with beautiful blond shoulder-length hair and shallow Tadzio eyes. Too young and shallow for my tastes, really, maybe eighteen or