Willing (Diary Challenge on ds-flashfiction)
Pairing: Turnbull/Kowalski
Rating: PG
Size: about 5100 words
Note: Three snippets from Renfield Turnbull’s 1998 diary that hopefully make a coherent story together
Willing
February 10 1998
Dear Diary,
It is becoming worse. I have now started to feel truly homicidal, and it is a terrible feeling. It is also a feeling unbecoming a Mountie, especially when it concerns a fellow officer. But how can he be so blind?! How can he not see that he has the power to make Him happy and not use it? How can he allow His misery to continue?
These are rhetoric questions, as you will understand. I am not looking for answers. I could think of some explanatory ones myself.
The Constable may not be inclined to homosexuality, and therefore not desire Him. As much as this sounds plausible on a rational level, it does not serve to ease my anger. It is beyond me how any man can resist Him. I can’t shake the thought that even men who never tended towards homosexuality before must find themselves reconsidering at His sight. But I am, of course, greatly biased and by no means a fair judge.
I am what the Americans seem to call ‘gay’. I have known this since eighth grade, even though I have never ‘been’ with another man-and so have you (and/or your other volumes). I have written dozens of pages about my shock-and my delight-when I discovered I had strong and unfamiliar feelings for Tommy Waters.
Tommy was the most popular boy in my class (you know this already, but you also know that I tend to repeat myself. I confide in you about my thoughts and feelings, and they have the tendency to recur frequently. Bear with me, please, Diary). Mine was not the only crush he evoked; I believe all the girls in our class were in love with him. (I don’t know about the other boys.)
Tommy was very handsome (or, in my view, very beautiful). He had blond hair and piercing blue eyes. His gait was confident and happy, and his smile was capable of disarming even Mrs. Lemon.
Tommy was bright, which usually is not an asset in high school, not with regard to peer relationships that is, but his attitude about it seemed only to increase his popularity. He was neither ashamed nor proud of his intelligence. There was nothing wrong with being smart, and being less smart was just as all right, he seemed to think. It appeared a highly contagious thought.
The fact that he was nice to me might have caused my infatuation just as much as his stunning beauty did. Tommy used his influence to keep our classmates from bullying me.
I was an easy victim to bully. Every remark made to me, every question asked-other than the ones that required a factual answer-caused me to blush and stutter and feel utterly embarrassed. (Nothing much has changed since eighth grade, obviously.)
Tommy told his peers to leave me alone, smiling broadly at them, his voice a promise of things that were much more fun to do.
We weren’t friends, of course, but sometimes Tommy chose to talk to me. I listened while he spoke of everything and nothing.
I enjoyed listening to him. I liked it that he didn’t seem to expect me to say anything during our ‘conversations’, that I was allowed to look at him, listen to him, and await in great anticipation if this were to be a good (and horrible) day and he would touch me.
His touches didn’t mean anything, I never allowed myself to think otherwise (that didn’t keep me from writing numerous pages about the duration and the exact location of his hand on my arm, as you no doubt will recall). But despite my well-developed self-preservation skills, I couldn’t help tensing and blushing.
I think he knew about my feelings and found them amusing. When his hand brushed my arm, he used to catch my eye, which obviously would turn my face at least three shades deeper red. He would chuckle softly, and say something about homework or one of our teachers to give me time to recover.
I’m convinced he didn’t mean to hurt me, and yet he caused me pain. There was sweetness in the ache however: he paid attention to me.
Tommy to me was the embodiment of perfection, my feelings for him the epitome of passion-until I met the new Detective Ray Vecchio.
I was struck by lightening when He entered the new Consulate building. I pretended not to notice Him, of course, for when one lacks social skills, or any personal assets for that matter, one has to resort to self-preservation.
I feigned to be completely absorbed in my task of finding a good place for the Queen’s portrait in the new Consulate, asking Constable Fraser for his advice in the matter, and pretending not to notice that both he and the…the Angel who just painted my world an entirely different and much brighter colour were looking for something rather frantically. In the process of doing so, He passed me twice at a very close range.
When I wrote my diary entry that night, I could still feel the spot on my back where His shoulder had touched me when He ran up the stairs.
The entry consists of four pages, all describing His beauty, His way of moving, the sound of His voice (He said, “Is this guy for real?” referring to me; He said, “Here they come,” referring to the fire department-I have to admit that I panicked a little at that) His eyes (the most beautiful blue I have ever seen) the blondness of His hair, the fascinating way it stood on end. The entry ends with an obvious conclusion. It says ‘I think I have fallen in love today. With the new Detective Ray Vecchio.’
I have written many pages about Him since. The last three months of my 1997 diary required a separate volume, while even in high school I wrote two volumes a year at the most. I have written about His smile, His chuckle, His temper, and of course His infatuation with Constable Fraser.
I wasn’t surprised when I first noticed it. Constable Fraser is obviously a man of great beauty, high intelligence and noble character, and even though I was never in love with him myself, I had no trouble understanding why He felt so strongly drawn to my fellow officer. The Constable had my boundless admiration until I realized that he was hurting Him, and started to want to throttle him.
Constable Fraser seemed oblivious to His feelings. At first, He stayed optimistic-and rightfully so, I thought. If anyone would be capable of lowering the Constable’s defences, it would be Him. His smile could melt mountains, and melting Mounties wasn’t beyond His abilities either, I was living proof of that. It truly baffled me that my fellow officer appeared immune to his charms.
I wanted Constable Fraser to make Him happy with a vehemence unbeknownst to me. I realize that I might have become very jealous had he done so, as I am capable of strong emotions. I also realize that my anger with the Constable may very well in part mask jealousy. He is in love with my fellow officer, not with me.
But He seems so sad lately. He seems to have abandoned hope, and my heart breaks when I see Him like that. I don’t see His smile anymore when He visits the Consulate. He seems to have lost His volatility, and His attitude towards Constable Fraser is one of total passiveness. It is completely unlike Him and it makes me want to yell at the Constable, “Tell Him you love Him! Tell Him! It’s all He wants to hear!”
I don’t do it of course, and I realize that one explanation for Constable Fraser’s apparent cruelty could be that he is afraid to make his feelings known. It is a fear I can relate to very well, but I strongly feel that he should muster the courage on His behalf nonetheless.
Whether the Constable does not declare Him his love because he doesn’t love Him or because he is afraid is unimportant. He is making Him unhappy and he should be punished for it.
I realize that this is a very unkind ending of an entry, Diary, and I hope you’ll understand that I am ashamed of myself. But I can’t help feeling the way I currently feel and I know you wouldn’t want me to be dishonest.
Love,
Renfield
*******
July 17 1998
Dear Diary,
My sincerest apologies for not having written to (in) you for almost three weeks. In my defence, I can only say that I had also your interest at heart for as you will remember, my last entries were rather boring. They merely spoke of missing Him, worrying about Him, thinking of Him, and of being mad at Constable Fraser for hurting H Ray.
I must stop doing this. I must stop referring to Ray as if he were a deity. He is not. He may resemble an angel (or match my vision of one), but I know he isn’t God. I am not of the Jewish religion and there is no reason for me to treat Ray’s name as if it were too ineffable to write down.
At first, I referred to him as ‘Him’ because I didn’t know his name. He obviously wasn’t Ray Vecchio, but it was only after a couple of weeks that I learnt his name was in fact ‘Ray’. I wrote it down on paper many, many times. It was a true compulsion and-I am ashamed to say-the main reason the last three months of my 1997 diary required its own volume.
One of my New Year resolutions was to break the compulsion and to avoid writing ‘Ray’ in you, my 1998 journal. I succeeded, but it became a compulsion in itself. It is truly ridiculous and it should stop.
I don’t see him anymore, and I miss him terribly. Writing down his name is a way of having him near.
Ray
Ray
Ray
Ray
Ray
You are right, Diary, I am hopeless.
I am left with so very little. All I ever had was the sight and the sound of Ray, and it was all I needed. All I wished for was to see him happy.
It pained me to see him miserable, but I have to admit that the feeling was mixed with selfish hope. I indulged in dreaming. I knew that Ray was capable of feeling attracted to men, and although I didn’t seriously think I stood a chance of ever gaining his affection, the notion that he was gay (or at least bisexual) made my dreams more vivid. They were fueled by his visits to the Consulate, but they are no longer.
Six weeks ago, Ray stopped visiting (as I have told you, obviously). At first, I just waited for him to return. Then I inquired with the Constable as to his absence. He looked at me with a pensive look on his face, not feeling guilty at all, apparently.
How very hypocritical of him. Something was wrong with Ray, and it was beyond obvious that no other than Constable Fraser was to blame for his misery.
“Detective Vecchio needs time to come to terms with…things.” The Constable’s voice trailed off and he made a gesture with his hand that indicated he would not elaborate on the subject, but I have to admit that there was an unexpected softness in his tone.
For a moment, I felt ashamed about my anger and I startled when Constable Fraser asked me why Detective Vecchio’s absence was of such interest to me. I blushed and stuttered under his searching stare and I left the room as soon as possible, muttering something about filing the new DXS/24 forms.
I found myself hard pressed to shake the thought that the Constable knew the nature of my feelings for Ray. I know that my fellow officer has the reputation of being clueless (although his is not as formidable as mine) but I also know that the relationship between Mounties and gullibility is by no means as straightforward as the Americans seem to think. Constable Fraser may not have great insight in his own psyche, I am reasonably certain that he understands the human mind in general better than he cares for people to believe.
I wonder about the Constable’s cryptic remark about Ray ‘needing time to come to terms with things’. Perhaps the two of them decided not to see each other socially to give Ray time to overcome his unrequited love.
I hope he will succeed. I hope I will see him again soon. I pray that he will not consider a transfer the only possible solution to his misery.
I am still angry with my fellow officer. Despite all thoughts spent on the subject (I know I have been boring you), I am at a complete loss as to why the Constable does not reciprocate Ray’s feelings. I would. I would do so instantly. And so should he.
Perhaps he has feelings for Inspector Thatcher. There sometimes is an awkwardness between them that causes one to wonder. I don’t think they will ever become a couple, although one might say that they deserve each other as they are both very repressed.
I know that I sound like the proverbial pot calling the kettle black, and a jealous one at that, but I have an excuse not to express my feelings. There isn’t a chance in the world that Ray would ever be interested in me, while Constable Fraser can have anyone he wants (provided he learns to make his desire known to the object of it) and Inspector Thatcher is, I believe, an attractive woman.
I just miss Ray so much.
This is not a cheerful entry, Diary. Worse, it is full of self-pity. I apologise profusely and I thank you for your patience in putting up with my lamenting.
Love,
Renfield
******
December 24 1998
Dear Diary,
It is six in the morning and I have hardly slept, but I am wide-awake and very excited. I am also very frightened. Tonight will be Christmas Eve. A very special Christmas Eve.
I haven’t told you about yesterday (I was too elated all day to sit still and write) but you already know that the last part of this year has been infinitely better than the first. I am nonetheless going to provide you with a summary of the main events (you wouldn’t expect differently of me).
Ray visited the Consulate again on August 23. He seemed in a reasonably cheerful state, which caused me to believe (with the necessary reluctance, of course) that he had overcome his feelings for Constable Fraser.
His volatility had returned, although perhaps not to full force, and he treated the Constable to the same friendly mockery my fellow officer had received in the earliest stage of their relationship.
“You’re unhinged, Fraser,” he would often say, just as he used to before.
Something had changed, though. To my surprise, Ray seemed to have decided to make me an ally in the mocking of the Constable.
“He’s unhinged, isn’t he, Turnbull?” he would ask me.
It is conduct unbecoming a Mountie to show disloyalty to one’s fellow officer. Besides, I don’t think of Constable Fraser as a man who is not in full possession of his mental faculties-except in the respect of not loving Ray the way he deserves to be loved, of course.
“I’m afraid I don’t agree with you, Ray,” I would say, praying that he wouldn’t hold it against me.
He would mutter something about Mounties all being the same, and treat the Constable to one of his ‘Pitter patter, let’s get at’ers’ while he walked towards the Consulate door. Before he left, he would turn his head and smile at me.
Usually, it took at least five minutes before I was able to breathe normally again.
Sometimes Ray visited me while Constable Fraser was on sentry duty. He would declare that he was “just waiting until Fraser can come and play”, find an extra chair and sit in front of me at my desk. Then he would ask me what I was doing.
Not all Consulate affairs are top secret, but I would put away any form as soon as Ray entered the lobby and I never told him in detail about my tasks.
At first, this caused some awkwardness between us-more on my part than his, I believe. He would just look at me and grin a little, causing me to break out in sweat and not know where to look.
When he asked me once, “What’s up?” I nearly choked to death.
He stared at me, baffled at first, but then knowing.
I blushed various kinds of red and felt very transparent, and very, very embarrassed.
American is such an expressive language.
The next time Ray visited me, he resorted to a safer topic. He asked if I liked to read. Recalling his theory that all Mounties are the same (they are not, of course), I knew where the question was coming from, but I told him that I wasn’t a very keen reader.
He seemed surprised. “Then what do you do when you’re not…” He made a hand gesture that if translated into words would say ‘doing whatever it is you’re doing here’, but he finished his sentence by saying “working”.
I told him that I liked to cook, and noticed that this evoked some mild interest. When I added that I also liked to build model cars however, his eyes widened significantly.
“You do? What kind?” he asked.
“I prefer oldtimers,” I said. I tried not to whisper, but I failed miserably.
“Oldtimers, huh?” He shifted a little in his chair and leaned closer to me. “Like what? Like Pontiac GTOs, for example?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
Early August, I had been fortunate enough to find a do it yourself kit for a 1967 Gran Turismo Omologato. Putting it together felt like masturbating.
Touching the tiny parts carefully, brushing just enough glue on them, pressing them together with the exact right pressure-it felt like caressing Ray. He owns a 1967 GTO, and I have never been as aroused during a building process as I was during the nights I put together a model of his car.
“Did you do a GTO?”
“Yes.” God, his eyes saw everything.
“A 1967?”
I nodded. “I painted it black,” I said quickly, before he could ask.
I felt like when I was a child, on the scarce occasions I was invited to play Hide and Seek with other children. I never managed to keep myself hidden. The tension the idea of being found brought about was too great. I always jumped in front of the seeker as soon as I heard him or her approach, and yelled, “There I am! You found me!”
I averted my eyes when I made my confession. I didn’t dare to look at Ray’s reaction.
He was silent for an excruciating long time. When I finally looked at him, he was staring at me. “I’m flattered,” he said.
I was baffled.
Ray visited me rather often, sometimes when Constable Fraser wasn’t even there. Inspector Thatcher had adopted the habit of requesting my fellow officer to accompany her to official gatherings. (Perhaps at some point she will find the courage to express her feelings after all.)
The main subject of Ray and mine conversation was cars, a great shared interest. Sometimes I had a feeling Ray wanted to talk about something else, but he never did so, and I was grateful for it. He clearly liked to talk about cars with me, but I was by no means certain that I could keep his attention if the subject of conversation would be a different one.
The above constitutes a long prelude to the events of yesterday, Diary, and I hope you’ll forgive me the reiteration.
Ray paid me a morning visit. Constable Fraser and Inspector Thatcher weren’t there, as they were shopping for clothes. The Inspector had insisted that the Constable needed a new suit to wear to the Christmas party of the Bulgarian Consulate for which she had received an invitation. (Is it too farfetched to make the comparison with married couples?)
Perhaps my superior officer is hoping the party guests won’t notice the bruises on the face of the man escorting her if he is wearing a new suit. (The bruises Constable Fraser got from his tryst with Mr. Warfield’s personnel are healing nicely, but they are still visible.)
“Hey,” Ray greeted me. “How’s your gun?”
He didn’t mean anything by that remark, of course, but I couldn’t help blushing. This was in part caused by the fact that said gun was under my desk.
It is a toy ray gun (as you know, Diary). Ray gave it to me at the Christmas party that was held by the 27th police precinct three days ago. That is to say, it was a gift to him from Detective Dewey, but he stated that he “already got one of these” and passed it on to me.
I quickly hid my glee behind a holler of, “Hit the deck! Assassin Santa coming through!” and some wild gestures with the gun, but I couldn’t help wondering about the meaning of Ray’s present. Detective Dewey had referred to the gift Inspector Thatcher gave Constable Fraser-a sword-as Freudian (and rightfully so, I believe). Did the gun Ray gave to me bear similar symbolism? Did I have the right to think along these lines?
I was greatly confused and ashamed of my thoughts and I avoided talking to Ray altogether during the party.
The next day, I brought the gun to work and put it under my desk, so I could look at it and touch it whenever I wanted to (provided no one was watching me) and think of Ray.
“It’s…it’s fine,” I said, in response to his inquiry after the gun’s well being.
“I thought it would be, yeah,” he said, giving me an inquisitive smile. (Can a smile be inquisitive?)
He didn’t fetch a chair. Instead, he sat on the edge of my desk.
It was unnerving. His buttocks on the desktop, my hands on the desktop as well. In a way, because of the desktop, I was touching him. (Yes, I know, I am pathetic.)
He was touching me. (“Oh, God,” was all I could think.) He was touching my shoulder. “Are you all right, Turnbull?”
I was. I wasn’t. I was sweating. I had difficulty breathing. He was so very, very close. His thigh was not thirty centimetres from my hand. I had to look up to see his face, so beautiful. His eyes, so piercing. His mouth, so…kissable. (“God, Renfield, stop it,” I told myself.)
“Are you all right?”
Such a soft, concerned tone. He was so nice to me. Why was he so nice to me? Did his motives resemble the ones Tommy Waters had twenty years ago? Did they differ? I didn’t dare to think about that option.
He touched me again, and I tensed.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Yes. If he didn’t help me to keep my hopes in check, if he fueled my dreams of ever holding him, kissing him, by being so kind, and if it then turned out they would always stay dreams I would hurt.
I didn’t answer his question, and he got off the desk (to my great disappointment and relief) to fetch a chair.
“You know I was in love with Fraser, don’t you?” he said, sitting down.
I nodded and I braced myself for the impending conversation.
“Fraser is great,” Ray stated. “I’ve never met somebody like him. He’s beautiful, and smart, and kind, and funny at times…” He smiled. It was a tender smile, and it made me I feel fiercely jealous. “To me, it was the ‘at first sight’, ‘head over heels’ kind of thing. I was happy at first. I was glad that I had fallen in love again after my divorce.”
He looked at me, and despite the misery Ray’s words caused me, I mustered a nod. I knew about his erstwhile marriage to Assistant State’s Attorney Kowalski.
“I thought that at some point, he would fall in love with me too. ‘Cause if I felt like that, how could he not feel the same?” He smiled ruefully. “Childish, huh?”
No, not childish. Sensible. How could Constable Fraser not feel the same? Trying to find a satisfactory answer to that question had taken most of my time during the past year.
“But he didn’t, and that sucked. That hurt,” he rephrased himself quickly.
For a moment, his face adopted a very sad expression. He was remembering the pain he had suffered, I understood.
“Ray,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, ‘s okay. It wasn’t easy for Fraser either. He doesn’t like to hurt people.”
Oh, of course, I thought rather wildly. Constable Fraser The Perfect At Any Time, Under Any Circumstances. (You are right, Diary. Thoughts like these are utterly unbecoming a Mountie.)
“So we decided on not seeing each other more than strictly necessary for a while,” Ray was saying. “It gave me time to think.” He paused. “And I realized that Fraser is not into men. He is hardly into women.”
I couldn’t help throwing a glance at the door of Inspector Thatcher’s office, and Ray laughed. (He has such a wonderful laugh.) “Yeah, she might be the one lucky exception.”
He looked at me. “I also realized that Fraser isn’t perfect.” I noticed that his voice sounded very matter of fact. The conclusion caused no amazement apparently-at least not anymore. “Fraser has loads of virtues, of course, but he’s also manipulative, overbearing, and obsessive. Not to mention that he’s always right, which really sucks. Bothers me,” he said quickly. “I reckoned that if Fraser and I were lovers, we would always have alpha-beta fights.”
Pack ranking, I thought. Of course.
“It’s hard to be with somebody who’s always right,” Ray said. “Even if he is your working partner it’s no fun, but at least you can tell yourself it’s okay because he’s helping to reduce the crime rate in your district like nobody’s business and you should just shut up. If he is your friend, it is a little more difficult, but if he’s in the middle of a lecture on something, you can always say, “Fraser, it’s getting late. I’ll give you a ride to the consulate.” If he is your lover, you can’t do that. The only two things you could do then were to either kick and scream to make him back off, or to turn into someone you’d hate to be.”
Submissive, I thought. The mere notion of Ray being submissive made me slightly nauseated.
“It took me some time to realize that, but when I did, things turned for the better,” he said. “Suddenly I noticed that Fraser was not the only one in the world-not even the only Mountie.”
He smiled. I blushed. I didn’t know how to interpret his words, his tone. I didn’t know what to say. But I didn’t avert my eyes.
“Hey,” he said, as though we hadn’t already been talking for ten minutes.
I wanted to say something-anything-but I couldn’t.
“Would you be willing to believe that I like you, Renfield?” he asked gently.
Oh, God. Believing that he liked me would entail a great emotional risk, but telling him that I wouldn’t be willing to do so would be a lie. There was nothing I’d rather do.
“Yes. I would be willing,” I said.
He laughed, and I felt greatly embarrassed about my choice of words, but he made a soothing sound and smiled.
“I like you,” he said. “In fact…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but started a new one. “You know, I have rather fragile self-esteem. I couldn’t expose it to Fraser in a love relationship even he would want us to be lovers ‘cause it would break, but I think…” He smiled again. “I think it would benefit from quiet admiration.”
I stared at him. Interpreting his words along wishful lines still posed a risk of being hurt, but the tone of his voice and the soft look in his eyes made it very difficult for me not to do so.
I am very capable of admiration. I can admire like nobody’s business (as the American phrase goes).
“Do you have plans for Christmas?” Ray asked.
When I shook my head, he offered me an invitation to dinner on Christmas Eve.
“I’m not a good cook,” he said. “Would you be willing to help me?”
Oh, God. An invitation to have dinner with him at his house. The intimacy of preparing a meal together. I could only nod.
He smiled. “Would you be willing to pick the recipe?”
“Yes,” I said, sounding embarrassingly hoarse.
“Good. Now, you could make me a list of the groceries we need, or we could do the shopping together.”
I stared at him. God, he wasn’t toying with me, was he? I swallowed.
“Am I coming on too strong?” he asked softly. “It’s not my intention to scare you away, you know. On the contrary. I was just afraid that if I’d be too subtle I wouldn’t get through to you.” He flashed me a smile. “You seemed to find it very hard to believe that I like you, despite the fact that I visited you at least twice a week in the past four months." He smiled again, softer this time. "Just as hard as you find it to hide that you like me.”
A hot wave of emotion washed over me. I blinked. Oh, God, Ray.
He chuckled. “It’s going to be fine, Renfield,” he said. “Now, to summarize the plan: we’ll go grocery shopping together, we’ll follow the recipe you pick to prepare the meal, we’ll have dinner together, and then…you can set the pace.”
God, what was he promising me?
He clarified himself by touching my hand-such a burning caress-and saying, “Don’t forget that I’m willing too, Renfield.”
This all happened yesterday, Diary. You will understand that I haven’t slept much. I am elated. I am nervous. I will close the Consulate at noon today. Ray will come and pick me up. We will do the groceries. We will prepare our meal and have dinner (I have decided on Coniglio Arrotolato) and then…it will be either a beginning or the end. I am still not certain what will happen. But I will let you know.
Love,
Renfield
END
Rating: PG
Size: about 5100 words
Note: Three snippets from Renfield Turnbull’s 1998 diary that hopefully make a coherent story together
Willing
February 10 1998
Dear Diary,
It is becoming worse. I have now started to feel truly homicidal, and it is a terrible feeling. It is also a feeling unbecoming a Mountie, especially when it concerns a fellow officer. But how can he be so blind?! How can he not see that he has the power to make Him happy and not use it? How can he allow His misery to continue?
These are rhetoric questions, as you will understand. I am not looking for answers. I could think of some explanatory ones myself.
The Constable may not be inclined to homosexuality, and therefore not desire Him. As much as this sounds plausible on a rational level, it does not serve to ease my anger. It is beyond me how any man can resist Him. I can’t shake the thought that even men who never tended towards homosexuality before must find themselves reconsidering at His sight. But I am, of course, greatly biased and by no means a fair judge.
I am what the Americans seem to call ‘gay’. I have known this since eighth grade, even though I have never ‘been’ with another man-and so have you (and/or your other volumes). I have written dozens of pages about my shock-and my delight-when I discovered I had strong and unfamiliar feelings for Tommy Waters.
Tommy was the most popular boy in my class (you know this already, but you also know that I tend to repeat myself. I confide in you about my thoughts and feelings, and they have the tendency to recur frequently. Bear with me, please, Diary). Mine was not the only crush he evoked; I believe all the girls in our class were in love with him. (I don’t know about the other boys.)
Tommy was very handsome (or, in my view, very beautiful). He had blond hair and piercing blue eyes. His gait was confident and happy, and his smile was capable of disarming even Mrs. Lemon.
Tommy was bright, which usually is not an asset in high school, not with regard to peer relationships that is, but his attitude about it seemed only to increase his popularity. He was neither ashamed nor proud of his intelligence. There was nothing wrong with being smart, and being less smart was just as all right, he seemed to think. It appeared a highly contagious thought.
The fact that he was nice to me might have caused my infatuation just as much as his stunning beauty did. Tommy used his influence to keep our classmates from bullying me.
I was an easy victim to bully. Every remark made to me, every question asked-other than the ones that required a factual answer-caused me to blush and stutter and feel utterly embarrassed. (Nothing much has changed since eighth grade, obviously.)
Tommy told his peers to leave me alone, smiling broadly at them, his voice a promise of things that were much more fun to do.
We weren’t friends, of course, but sometimes Tommy chose to talk to me. I listened while he spoke of everything and nothing.
I enjoyed listening to him. I liked it that he didn’t seem to expect me to say anything during our ‘conversations’, that I was allowed to look at him, listen to him, and await in great anticipation if this were to be a good (and horrible) day and he would touch me.
His touches didn’t mean anything, I never allowed myself to think otherwise (that didn’t keep me from writing numerous pages about the duration and the exact location of his hand on my arm, as you no doubt will recall). But despite my well-developed self-preservation skills, I couldn’t help tensing and blushing.
I think he knew about my feelings and found them amusing. When his hand brushed my arm, he used to catch my eye, which obviously would turn my face at least three shades deeper red. He would chuckle softly, and say something about homework or one of our teachers to give me time to recover.
I’m convinced he didn’t mean to hurt me, and yet he caused me pain. There was sweetness in the ache however: he paid attention to me.
Tommy to me was the embodiment of perfection, my feelings for him the epitome of passion-until I met the new Detective Ray Vecchio.
I was struck by lightening when He entered the new Consulate building. I pretended not to notice Him, of course, for when one lacks social skills, or any personal assets for that matter, one has to resort to self-preservation.
I feigned to be completely absorbed in my task of finding a good place for the Queen’s portrait in the new Consulate, asking Constable Fraser for his advice in the matter, and pretending not to notice that both he and the…the Angel who just painted my world an entirely different and much brighter colour were looking for something rather frantically. In the process of doing so, He passed me twice at a very close range.
When I wrote my diary entry that night, I could still feel the spot on my back where His shoulder had touched me when He ran up the stairs.
The entry consists of four pages, all describing His beauty, His way of moving, the sound of His voice (He said, “Is this guy for real?” referring to me; He said, “Here they come,” referring to the fire department-I have to admit that I panicked a little at that) His eyes (the most beautiful blue I have ever seen) the blondness of His hair, the fascinating way it stood on end. The entry ends with an obvious conclusion. It says ‘I think I have fallen in love today. With the new Detective Ray Vecchio.’
I have written many pages about Him since. The last three months of my 1997 diary required a separate volume, while even in high school I wrote two volumes a year at the most. I have written about His smile, His chuckle, His temper, and of course His infatuation with Constable Fraser.
I wasn’t surprised when I first noticed it. Constable Fraser is obviously a man of great beauty, high intelligence and noble character, and even though I was never in love with him myself, I had no trouble understanding why He felt so strongly drawn to my fellow officer. The Constable had my boundless admiration until I realized that he was hurting Him, and started to want to throttle him.
Constable Fraser seemed oblivious to His feelings. At first, He stayed optimistic-and rightfully so, I thought. If anyone would be capable of lowering the Constable’s defences, it would be Him. His smile could melt mountains, and melting Mounties wasn’t beyond His abilities either, I was living proof of that. It truly baffled me that my fellow officer appeared immune to his charms.
I wanted Constable Fraser to make Him happy with a vehemence unbeknownst to me. I realize that I might have become very jealous had he done so, as I am capable of strong emotions. I also realize that my anger with the Constable may very well in part mask jealousy. He is in love with my fellow officer, not with me.
But He seems so sad lately. He seems to have abandoned hope, and my heart breaks when I see Him like that. I don’t see His smile anymore when He visits the Consulate. He seems to have lost His volatility, and His attitude towards Constable Fraser is one of total passiveness. It is completely unlike Him and it makes me want to yell at the Constable, “Tell Him you love Him! Tell Him! It’s all He wants to hear!”
I don’t do it of course, and I realize that one explanation for Constable Fraser’s apparent cruelty could be that he is afraid to make his feelings known. It is a fear I can relate to very well, but I strongly feel that he should muster the courage on His behalf nonetheless.
Whether the Constable does not declare Him his love because he doesn’t love Him or because he is afraid is unimportant. He is making Him unhappy and he should be punished for it.
I realize that this is a very unkind ending of an entry, Diary, and I hope you’ll understand that I am ashamed of myself. But I can’t help feeling the way I currently feel and I know you wouldn’t want me to be dishonest.
Love,
Renfield
*******
July 17 1998
Dear Diary,
My sincerest apologies for not having written to (in) you for almost three weeks. In my defence, I can only say that I had also your interest at heart for as you will remember, my last entries were rather boring. They merely spoke of missing Him, worrying about Him, thinking of Him, and of being mad at Constable Fraser for hurting H Ray.
I must stop doing this. I must stop referring to Ray as if he were a deity. He is not. He may resemble an angel (or match my vision of one), but I know he isn’t God. I am not of the Jewish religion and there is no reason for me to treat Ray’s name as if it were too ineffable to write down.
At first, I referred to him as ‘Him’ because I didn’t know his name. He obviously wasn’t Ray Vecchio, but it was only after a couple of weeks that I learnt his name was in fact ‘Ray’. I wrote it down on paper many, many times. It was a true compulsion and-I am ashamed to say-the main reason the last three months of my 1997 diary required its own volume.
One of my New Year resolutions was to break the compulsion and to avoid writing ‘Ray’ in you, my 1998 journal. I succeeded, but it became a compulsion in itself. It is truly ridiculous and it should stop.
I don’t see him anymore, and I miss him terribly. Writing down his name is a way of having him near.
Ray
Ray
Ray
Ray
Ray
You are right, Diary, I am hopeless.
I am left with so very little. All I ever had was the sight and the sound of Ray, and it was all I needed. All I wished for was to see him happy.
It pained me to see him miserable, but I have to admit that the feeling was mixed with selfish hope. I indulged in dreaming. I knew that Ray was capable of feeling attracted to men, and although I didn’t seriously think I stood a chance of ever gaining his affection, the notion that he was gay (or at least bisexual) made my dreams more vivid. They were fueled by his visits to the Consulate, but they are no longer.
Six weeks ago, Ray stopped visiting (as I have told you, obviously). At first, I just waited for him to return. Then I inquired with the Constable as to his absence. He looked at me with a pensive look on his face, not feeling guilty at all, apparently.
How very hypocritical of him. Something was wrong with Ray, and it was beyond obvious that no other than Constable Fraser was to blame for his misery.
“Detective Vecchio needs time to come to terms with…things.” The Constable’s voice trailed off and he made a gesture with his hand that indicated he would not elaborate on the subject, but I have to admit that there was an unexpected softness in his tone.
For a moment, I felt ashamed about my anger and I startled when Constable Fraser asked me why Detective Vecchio’s absence was of such interest to me. I blushed and stuttered under his searching stare and I left the room as soon as possible, muttering something about filing the new DXS/24 forms.
I found myself hard pressed to shake the thought that the Constable knew the nature of my feelings for Ray. I know that my fellow officer has the reputation of being clueless (although his is not as formidable as mine) but I also know that the relationship between Mounties and gullibility is by no means as straightforward as the Americans seem to think. Constable Fraser may not have great insight in his own psyche, I am reasonably certain that he understands the human mind in general better than he cares for people to believe.
I wonder about the Constable’s cryptic remark about Ray ‘needing time to come to terms with things’. Perhaps the two of them decided not to see each other socially to give Ray time to overcome his unrequited love.
I hope he will succeed. I hope I will see him again soon. I pray that he will not consider a transfer the only possible solution to his misery.
I am still angry with my fellow officer. Despite all thoughts spent on the subject (I know I have been boring you), I am at a complete loss as to why the Constable does not reciprocate Ray’s feelings. I would. I would do so instantly. And so should he.
Perhaps he has feelings for Inspector Thatcher. There sometimes is an awkwardness between them that causes one to wonder. I don’t think they will ever become a couple, although one might say that they deserve each other as they are both very repressed.
I know that I sound like the proverbial pot calling the kettle black, and a jealous one at that, but I have an excuse not to express my feelings. There isn’t a chance in the world that Ray would ever be interested in me, while Constable Fraser can have anyone he wants (provided he learns to make his desire known to the object of it) and Inspector Thatcher is, I believe, an attractive woman.
I just miss Ray so much.
This is not a cheerful entry, Diary. Worse, it is full of self-pity. I apologise profusely and I thank you for your patience in putting up with my lamenting.
Love,
Renfield
******
December 24 1998
Dear Diary,
It is six in the morning and I have hardly slept, but I am wide-awake and very excited. I am also very frightened. Tonight will be Christmas Eve. A very special Christmas Eve.
I haven’t told you about yesterday (I was too elated all day to sit still and write) but you already know that the last part of this year has been infinitely better than the first. I am nonetheless going to provide you with a summary of the main events (you wouldn’t expect differently of me).
Ray visited the Consulate again on August 23. He seemed in a reasonably cheerful state, which caused me to believe (with the necessary reluctance, of course) that he had overcome his feelings for Constable Fraser.
His volatility had returned, although perhaps not to full force, and he treated the Constable to the same friendly mockery my fellow officer had received in the earliest stage of their relationship.
“You’re unhinged, Fraser,” he would often say, just as he used to before.
Something had changed, though. To my surprise, Ray seemed to have decided to make me an ally in the mocking of the Constable.
“He’s unhinged, isn’t he, Turnbull?” he would ask me.
It is conduct unbecoming a Mountie to show disloyalty to one’s fellow officer. Besides, I don’t think of Constable Fraser as a man who is not in full possession of his mental faculties-except in the respect of not loving Ray the way he deserves to be loved, of course.
“I’m afraid I don’t agree with you, Ray,” I would say, praying that he wouldn’t hold it against me.
He would mutter something about Mounties all being the same, and treat the Constable to one of his ‘Pitter patter, let’s get at’ers’ while he walked towards the Consulate door. Before he left, he would turn his head and smile at me.
Usually, it took at least five minutes before I was able to breathe normally again.
Sometimes Ray visited me while Constable Fraser was on sentry duty. He would declare that he was “just waiting until Fraser can come and play”, find an extra chair and sit in front of me at my desk. Then he would ask me what I was doing.
Not all Consulate affairs are top secret, but I would put away any form as soon as Ray entered the lobby and I never told him in detail about my tasks.
At first, this caused some awkwardness between us-more on my part than his, I believe. He would just look at me and grin a little, causing me to break out in sweat and not know where to look.
When he asked me once, “What’s up?” I nearly choked to death.
He stared at me, baffled at first, but then knowing.
I blushed various kinds of red and felt very transparent, and very, very embarrassed.
American is such an expressive language.
The next time Ray visited me, he resorted to a safer topic. He asked if I liked to read. Recalling his theory that all Mounties are the same (they are not, of course), I knew where the question was coming from, but I told him that I wasn’t a very keen reader.
He seemed surprised. “Then what do you do when you’re not…” He made a hand gesture that if translated into words would say ‘doing whatever it is you’re doing here’, but he finished his sentence by saying “working”.
I told him that I liked to cook, and noticed that this evoked some mild interest. When I added that I also liked to build model cars however, his eyes widened significantly.
“You do? What kind?” he asked.
“I prefer oldtimers,” I said. I tried not to whisper, but I failed miserably.
“Oldtimers, huh?” He shifted a little in his chair and leaned closer to me. “Like what? Like Pontiac GTOs, for example?”
I swallowed. “Yes.”
Early August, I had been fortunate enough to find a do it yourself kit for a 1967 Gran Turismo Omologato. Putting it together felt like masturbating.
Touching the tiny parts carefully, brushing just enough glue on them, pressing them together with the exact right pressure-it felt like caressing Ray. He owns a 1967 GTO, and I have never been as aroused during a building process as I was during the nights I put together a model of his car.
“Did you do a GTO?”
“Yes.” God, his eyes saw everything.
“A 1967?”
I nodded. “I painted it black,” I said quickly, before he could ask.
I felt like when I was a child, on the scarce occasions I was invited to play Hide and Seek with other children. I never managed to keep myself hidden. The tension the idea of being found brought about was too great. I always jumped in front of the seeker as soon as I heard him or her approach, and yelled, “There I am! You found me!”
I averted my eyes when I made my confession. I didn’t dare to look at Ray’s reaction.
He was silent for an excruciating long time. When I finally looked at him, he was staring at me. “I’m flattered,” he said.
I was baffled.
Ray visited me rather often, sometimes when Constable Fraser wasn’t even there. Inspector Thatcher had adopted the habit of requesting my fellow officer to accompany her to official gatherings. (Perhaps at some point she will find the courage to express her feelings after all.)
The main subject of Ray and mine conversation was cars, a great shared interest. Sometimes I had a feeling Ray wanted to talk about something else, but he never did so, and I was grateful for it. He clearly liked to talk about cars with me, but I was by no means certain that I could keep his attention if the subject of conversation would be a different one.
The above constitutes a long prelude to the events of yesterday, Diary, and I hope you’ll forgive me the reiteration.
Ray paid me a morning visit. Constable Fraser and Inspector Thatcher weren’t there, as they were shopping for clothes. The Inspector had insisted that the Constable needed a new suit to wear to the Christmas party of the Bulgarian Consulate for which she had received an invitation. (Is it too farfetched to make the comparison with married couples?)
Perhaps my superior officer is hoping the party guests won’t notice the bruises on the face of the man escorting her if he is wearing a new suit. (The bruises Constable Fraser got from his tryst with Mr. Warfield’s personnel are healing nicely, but they are still visible.)
“Hey,” Ray greeted me. “How’s your gun?”
He didn’t mean anything by that remark, of course, but I couldn’t help blushing. This was in part caused by the fact that said gun was under my desk.
It is a toy ray gun (as you know, Diary). Ray gave it to me at the Christmas party that was held by the 27th police precinct three days ago. That is to say, it was a gift to him from Detective Dewey, but he stated that he “already got one of these” and passed it on to me.
I quickly hid my glee behind a holler of, “Hit the deck! Assassin Santa coming through!” and some wild gestures with the gun, but I couldn’t help wondering about the meaning of Ray’s present. Detective Dewey had referred to the gift Inspector Thatcher gave Constable Fraser-a sword-as Freudian (and rightfully so, I believe). Did the gun Ray gave to me bear similar symbolism? Did I have the right to think along these lines?
I was greatly confused and ashamed of my thoughts and I avoided talking to Ray altogether during the party.
The next day, I brought the gun to work and put it under my desk, so I could look at it and touch it whenever I wanted to (provided no one was watching me) and think of Ray.
“It’s…it’s fine,” I said, in response to his inquiry after the gun’s well being.
“I thought it would be, yeah,” he said, giving me an inquisitive smile. (Can a smile be inquisitive?)
He didn’t fetch a chair. Instead, he sat on the edge of my desk.
It was unnerving. His buttocks on the desktop, my hands on the desktop as well. In a way, because of the desktop, I was touching him. (Yes, I know, I am pathetic.)
He was touching me. (“Oh, God,” was all I could think.) He was touching my shoulder. “Are you all right, Turnbull?”
I was. I wasn’t. I was sweating. I had difficulty breathing. He was so very, very close. His thigh was not thirty centimetres from my hand. I had to look up to see his face, so beautiful. His eyes, so piercing. His mouth, so…kissable. (“God, Renfield, stop it,” I told myself.)
“Are you all right?”
Such a soft, concerned tone. He was so nice to me. Why was he so nice to me? Did his motives resemble the ones Tommy Waters had twenty years ago? Did they differ? I didn’t dare to think about that option.
He touched me again, and I tensed.
“Are you afraid of me?”
Yes. If he didn’t help me to keep my hopes in check, if he fueled my dreams of ever holding him, kissing him, by being so kind, and if it then turned out they would always stay dreams I would hurt.
I didn’t answer his question, and he got off the desk (to my great disappointment and relief) to fetch a chair.
“You know I was in love with Fraser, don’t you?” he said, sitting down.
I nodded and I braced myself for the impending conversation.
“Fraser is great,” Ray stated. “I’ve never met somebody like him. He’s beautiful, and smart, and kind, and funny at times…” He smiled. It was a tender smile, and it made me I feel fiercely jealous. “To me, it was the ‘at first sight’, ‘head over heels’ kind of thing. I was happy at first. I was glad that I had fallen in love again after my divorce.”
He looked at me, and despite the misery Ray’s words caused me, I mustered a nod. I knew about his erstwhile marriage to Assistant State’s Attorney Kowalski.
“I thought that at some point, he would fall in love with me too. ‘Cause if I felt like that, how could he not feel the same?” He smiled ruefully. “Childish, huh?”
No, not childish. Sensible. How could Constable Fraser not feel the same? Trying to find a satisfactory answer to that question had taken most of my time during the past year.
“But he didn’t, and that sucked. That hurt,” he rephrased himself quickly.
For a moment, his face adopted a very sad expression. He was remembering the pain he had suffered, I understood.
“Ray,” I said.
He shook his head. “No, ‘s okay. It wasn’t easy for Fraser either. He doesn’t like to hurt people.”
Oh, of course, I thought rather wildly. Constable Fraser The Perfect At Any Time, Under Any Circumstances. (You are right, Diary. Thoughts like these are utterly unbecoming a Mountie.)
“So we decided on not seeing each other more than strictly necessary for a while,” Ray was saying. “It gave me time to think.” He paused. “And I realized that Fraser is not into men. He is hardly into women.”
I couldn’t help throwing a glance at the door of Inspector Thatcher’s office, and Ray laughed. (He has such a wonderful laugh.) “Yeah, she might be the one lucky exception.”
He looked at me. “I also realized that Fraser isn’t perfect.” I noticed that his voice sounded very matter of fact. The conclusion caused no amazement apparently-at least not anymore. “Fraser has loads of virtues, of course, but he’s also manipulative, overbearing, and obsessive. Not to mention that he’s always right, which really sucks. Bothers me,” he said quickly. “I reckoned that if Fraser and I were lovers, we would always have alpha-beta fights.”
Pack ranking, I thought. Of course.
“It’s hard to be with somebody who’s always right,” Ray said. “Even if he is your working partner it’s no fun, but at least you can tell yourself it’s okay because he’s helping to reduce the crime rate in your district like nobody’s business and you should just shut up. If he is your friend, it is a little more difficult, but if he’s in the middle of a lecture on something, you can always say, “Fraser, it’s getting late. I’ll give you a ride to the consulate.” If he is your lover, you can’t do that. The only two things you could do then were to either kick and scream to make him back off, or to turn into someone you’d hate to be.”
Submissive, I thought. The mere notion of Ray being submissive made me slightly nauseated.
“It took me some time to realize that, but when I did, things turned for the better,” he said. “Suddenly I noticed that Fraser was not the only one in the world-not even the only Mountie.”
He smiled. I blushed. I didn’t know how to interpret his words, his tone. I didn’t know what to say. But I didn’t avert my eyes.
“Hey,” he said, as though we hadn’t already been talking for ten minutes.
I wanted to say something-anything-but I couldn’t.
“Would you be willing to believe that I like you, Renfield?” he asked gently.
Oh, God. Believing that he liked me would entail a great emotional risk, but telling him that I wouldn’t be willing to do so would be a lie. There was nothing I’d rather do.
“Yes. I would be willing,” I said.
He laughed, and I felt greatly embarrassed about my choice of words, but he made a soothing sound and smiled.
“I like you,” he said. “In fact…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but started a new one. “You know, I have rather fragile self-esteem. I couldn’t expose it to Fraser in a love relationship even he would want us to be lovers ‘cause it would break, but I think…” He smiled again. “I think it would benefit from quiet admiration.”
I stared at him. Interpreting his words along wishful lines still posed a risk of being hurt, but the tone of his voice and the soft look in his eyes made it very difficult for me not to do so.
I am very capable of admiration. I can admire like nobody’s business (as the American phrase goes).
“Do you have plans for Christmas?” Ray asked.
When I shook my head, he offered me an invitation to dinner on Christmas Eve.
“I’m not a good cook,” he said. “Would you be willing to help me?”
Oh, God. An invitation to have dinner with him at his house. The intimacy of preparing a meal together. I could only nod.
He smiled. “Would you be willing to pick the recipe?”
“Yes,” I said, sounding embarrassingly hoarse.
“Good. Now, you could make me a list of the groceries we need, or we could do the shopping together.”
I stared at him. God, he wasn’t toying with me, was he? I swallowed.
“Am I coming on too strong?” he asked softly. “It’s not my intention to scare you away, you know. On the contrary. I was just afraid that if I’d be too subtle I wouldn’t get through to you.” He flashed me a smile. “You seemed to find it very hard to believe that I like you, despite the fact that I visited you at least twice a week in the past four months." He smiled again, softer this time. "Just as hard as you find it to hide that you like me.”
A hot wave of emotion washed over me. I blinked. Oh, God, Ray.
He chuckled. “It’s going to be fine, Renfield,” he said. “Now, to summarize the plan: we’ll go grocery shopping together, we’ll follow the recipe you pick to prepare the meal, we’ll have dinner together, and then…you can set the pace.”
God, what was he promising me?
He clarified himself by touching my hand-such a burning caress-and saying, “Don’t forget that I’m willing too, Renfield.”
This all happened yesterday, Diary. You will understand that I haven’t slept much. I am elated. I am nervous. I will close the Consulate at noon today. Ray will come and pick me up. We will do the groceries. We will prepare our meal and have dinner (I have decided on Coniglio Arrotolato) and then…it will be either a beginning or the end. I am still not certain what will happen. But I will let you know.
Love,
Renfield
END