“Everything’s fine,” I said to Paul, but real y to Freddy, who I knew could hear us on his headset.
Freddy nodded and turned back.
Tears came back to Paul’s eyes. “It’s not fine!
Nothing’s fine!”
I thought I’d give it another go. “Paul, what do you think happened to your father?”
“He kil ed him!” Paul’s eyes were wide and bulging, the muscles in his neck strained.
“Who kil ed him?”
“I don’t know.” The whine was back.
“You said ‘he.’”
“I meant ‘whoever.’ Maybe another guy he was seeing.” He gestured around the room. “Or another hustler. I don’t know.”
“No, Paul. He didn’t have anyone else over that night. He was waiting for you.” I told him about what Randy Bostinick had said.
Paul’s face crumpled. He real y did look a child again. He bit his lip. “I don’t know,” he cried. “I don’t know, I don’t know, I don’t know.” He put his hands on his temples and rubbed furiously.
It was as if Paul was cycling through personalities before my eyes. Confident businessman, sorrowful son, petulant teenager, lost child.
But given everything he had gone through in the last few weeks, could I blame him? In a short time he had accepted his own sexual orientation, let go of the hate and anger he’d been indoctrinated with, final y reached out to his father, and then lost him-
Paul Harrington had been through a lot of changes. I regretted that what I was going to say might push him further along the edge.
“Paul,” I said gently. This time, I took his hands. He looked off into space with a steady fixed stare. “Paul.
Look at me.”
His head weighed a hundred pounds. He turned it slowly. His eyes met mine, but they were blank and unfocused.
“Paul: Do you think your brother could have kil ed your father?”
“Michael wouldn’t hurt anyone.” His voice had a hol ow, robotic ring.
“Is that true?” I asked.
“Michael wouldn’t hurt anyone.” The exact same intonation.
“He hurt me, Paul.” I pointed to the bruise on my face. Actual y, I didn’t know for sure that it had been Michael in the hotel room, but I had to break through Paul’s withdrawal.
“Oh Lord,” Paul pul ed his hands from mine and buried his face in them. “He told me never again, never again.”
“Never again?”
“Not another boy.”
“Did he hurt another boy, Paul?”
“He hurt me!” This time, Paul was loud enough that several heads turned. He didn’t notice.
“ H e liked hurting me,”
Paul continued.
“Sometimes it would start as tickling, or wrestling, you know. He told me al brothers did it. But he’d always carry it too far. He’d make me cry, and then make me beg him to stop. The more I’d beg, the more excited he’d get.”
“Excited?”
“Once I saw it,” Paul whispered fiercely. “He was hard. He was hard from hurting me. I was so ashamed!”
“You didn’t do anything to be ashamed of,” I told him.
“I liked it!” he cried. “Don’t you get it? He’d hurt me and I’d like it. I liked the closeness, how strong he was, that I was the one getting his attention. It was so fucking… sick!”
“You were kids,” I said.
Paul winced. “It didn’t stop until he went to col ege.”
Oh.
“Did you have sex?” I asked him.
“No. It wasn’t about sex. Wel, not normal sex. It was about power. And I think Michael always knew I was gay and he was punishing me. And, God help me, I wanted to be punished.”
We sat quietly for a moment. I didn’t know what to say. I looked up to see Freddy once again looking at me.
“Holy shit!” he mouthed.
I wanted to know as much about Michael’s psychology as I could. “Did you ever talk about it with him?”
Paul sat up a little straighten He looked up at me again.
“When he came back for his summer home after his freshman year at col ege. He told me that he had taken psychology courses in school, and that it helped him understand that what we were doing was wrong. That my wanting to be hurt was a sickness, and that he should never have gone along with it.
That he’d never hurt anyone again.
“He made it sound like it al happened because of me. But it was OK, he told me. It was al my father’s fault. Of course I was neurotic. He said he could help me. We’d spend hours in my room. Just talking. He’d learned hypnosis from a professor of his, and he’d put me under. He told me he was freeing me from my self destructive patterns.”
“He’d hypnotize you?”
Paul nodded.
“Did it work?”
“Did it make me straight? Did it make me stop wanting men? No. Did it make me hate myself for what I was feeling? Yes.”
Paul’s face was a portrait of anguish.
I leaned forward. “Paul, I’m so, so sorry that he did that to you. But he’s doing it to other men, too. Every day. That’s what his whole practice is about. He’s using the same techniques he used on you to make hundreds of other men miserable.”
Paul nodded. “I know.”
“It’s wrong.”
“I know.”
“Do you think he’s stil hypnotizing you?” I asked.
“No, we haven’t done that for years.”
“But you said he has a lot of control over you.”
Paul was silent.
“A lot of influence.” I reminded him of his own words.
Paul looked down at the table again.
“Are there ever occasions when you’re with him and you can’t remember what happened? Or there’s missing time?”
Paul gave the tiniest nod. I would have missed it if I weren’t looking so hard.
He didn’t look up. He could have been talking to the table. He said, “And you know what? When that happens, when I think that I’ve just zoned out and I find him staring at me… the look on his face?
“It scares me.”
“Holy mother of Christmas,” Freddy said when I walked back into the bar after having made sure that Paul got safely into his cab. By the time we had finished talking, Paul was a wreck, and I didn’t trust him to make it home in one piece.
“I know,” I agreed.
“That story had everything in it but the bloodhounds snappin’ at his rear end.”
“I know.”
