The Evil B.B. Chow & Other Stories Read Free Page B

failure. The heart gives up.” His chest starts to heave and I wrap myself around him, pull his head to my bosom, run my fingers through his thatched hair, in the half light of my bedroom, this awkward healer of children with his soft soft lashes, his big broken cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he sobs. “I’m so sorry.” And now I can feel myself throwing the last anchor of discretion overboard, giving in to the pleasure of giving in, of tending to his tears, his hurt, his deep want of love.
    And it’s more than this really. I can see now that B.B. is as devastated by this loss as by our ardent duet, that what he’s offering me, what his tears offer, is the deepest measure of love: unfettered access to his emotions.
    He moves as if injured the next day, though we manageto have a good time, puttering around in pajamas, watching cooking shows, collecting ourselves for some goofy Sadie Hawkins soiree in Somerville. We take the T over, what the hell, watch dusk firing up the Charles, unfolding hopeful pink panels onto the gray rooftops. B.B. is wearing this suede jacket I bought him; I even took the sleeves up an inch with the sewing machine I thought I’d never use again. He looks so adorable that I spend most of the night checking him out from across the room, thinking about his smooth little butt, only half-tuned to the sad angry buzz of gossip that rises from the party with the cigarette smoke.
    Later, in the quiet of my bedroom, we make love, and again when the dawn breaks, a languorous morning session. B.B. runs out to get some fresh juice and comes back with flamboyans and snapdragons.
    P HIL THE P UBLISHER comes bouncing into my office in his dreadful linen suit, full of dumb suggestions. He makes authoritative hand gestures while I pretend to jot notes. This is our Monday morning ritual. He nods at the stack of proofs on my desk. “Did you come in yesterday?”
    â€œNo,” I say. “Did you?” What I actually want to say is: “Uh, Phil, why do you smell like pussy? Have you been porking your assistant again?” But the whole situation is just too pathetic.
    He finally leaves and I start thumbing through theglossies. What I’m actually doing is trying to remember what it meant to give a shit about all this: the grinning semifamous with their hairdos and rescuing platitudes, the sweet, standing water of self-help. The phone rings and rings. Marco is out sick.
    I finally punch up the line.
    â€œHey,” B.B. says.
    I can hear the hospital bustle in the background and I picture him cradling the phone in the crook of his neck—his long, smooth neck—and smile. “Hey loverboy.”
    Silence.
    â€œAre you okay?” I say.
    B.B. says something, but so softly I can’t quite hear him.
    â€œWhat is it, honey?”
    â€œI can’t do this,” he says.
    â€œDo what?”
    â€œI’m still in love with Dinah,” he says quickly. “It’s not fair for us to spend any more time. Not fair to you.”
    â€œWait a second,” I say. “What are you talking about?”
    â€œI’m still in love with Dinah.”
    â€œWhat?”
    B.B. starts crying.
    I feel, in my chest, the slapping of wings around a dark emptiness. Then the endorphins come roaring in and my heart does the little two-step into rage. “Why are you telling me this on the phone? Why am I hearing this froma goddamn piece of plastic?”
    â€œI’m sorry,” B.B. sobs.
    â€œYou’ve got to be kidding.” I slam the phone down.
    The lesser gay underlings, sensing a disturbance in the Boss Force, have clumped outside my office. In Marco’s absence, one of them will soon be nominated to check in on me. I regulate my breathing and call B.B. back. He comes to the phone in tears.
    â€œStop that,” I say. “Be a man, for crying out loud. Be a man and tell me how long you’ve known this.”
    â€œA couple of