Free A Pinchbeck Bride by Stephen Anable

fobbing her off, saying we needed a second opinion on the matter, and that all the architects were already out of town, summering on the Vineyard or Nantucket. Plus, the party in August, the fundraising bash, “An Evening with the Mingoes,” in planning now for two years, would be a time to alert the public to our needs…
    The second week of June, Rudy Schmitz telephoned just as Roberto and I were taking a post-coital shower. Rudy invited me to his home on Beacon Hill for “an informal brainstorming session. Seven sharp tomorrow evening.” When I asked whether any other trustees were going to attend, he flattered me by saying, “Only the best and the brightest.”
    It turned out Rudy owned a townhouse on Mount Vernon Street, all mellow rose brick with black shutters, blossoming window boxes, and a granite stoop sporting its original boot scraper. I rapped the knocker, a gleaming brass crab. Rudy gave me a kiss on my mouth: “Welcome!” I could taste the nicotine that sustained him, helped him achieve his slender physique.
    The interior of the house shocked me: it had been gutted like the carcass of a steer in a slaughterhouse—to yield an off-white shell composed around a spiraling modernistic iron staircase. Above the red marble fireplace was a Warhol silkscreen of a sexy young Rudy with dreamy, lavender-smudged eyes and naked shoulders. A massive saltwater aquarium contained bored-looking fish gliding among fan coral and seaweed.
    “Please don’t hate me. This house was a ruin when I bought it. The termites had been running rampant for years.”
    I had come to this meeting in a blue blazer and tie, but Rudy was the most casual I’d ever seen him, in a workingman’s undershirt and black denim shorts with lots of pockets with Velcro flaps. He was hairier than I’d expected, with wide bony feet pink with bunions. He must just have removed his shoes. He led me through a high-tech kitchen, outside, to an intimate garden where Jon Kim waited, in nothing but orange surfer’s jams splashed with white, Hawaiian-style flowers. Jon laughed self-consciously.
    “Jon, this is a surprise.”
    Jon had the muscular chest I’d imagined, so defined it might have been molded plastic.
    “We’ve played hooky today. We went down to Horseneck Beach. The ocean was like bathwater.”
    This revelation made Jon laugh a little more, even less convincingly. He hadn’t removed his wedding ring, but I couldn’t help wonder if he and Rudy were conducting a little fling, knowing gay Asians often admire older men. And Jon had been recruited to the Mingo House board by Rudy Schmitz. Had he been “recruited” into Rudy’s bed as well?
    I took one of the canvas-backed director’s chairs all marked “RUDY.” Rudy had made chicken-salad sandwiches and offered me a bottle of Sam Adams summer ale. “I met Jon at the opening of Tank.” Rudy twisted the cap from a fresh Sam Adams. “His company was scouting for a place to hold their Diversity Day party.”
    “What an, um, incredible place. The aquarium in Rudy’s living room was
the small one
from Tank. Pretty amazing.” Jon removed the toothpick from his chicken-salad sandwich and took an extra-large bite from it, perhaps to excuse him from further conversation.
    Rudy was staring at Jon’s chest with what could only be described as lust. “Jon is on board with me. With my feelings about Mingo House. We both believe it isn’t
sustainable
as a museum.”
    Jon swallowed, took a deep draught of his ale, and coughed. “Unsustainable. Yeah.”
    “Jon, I thought you said we needed a major fundraising campaign, going after grants, that sort of thing…Wasn’t that why you asked for my help to begin with, Rudy?”
    “That was before we got the news about the roof.” Rudy made a steeple out of his hands, joined them together in a pseudo-pious gesture. “The roof situation is seismic, Mark, seismic.”
    “But we’ve had a record number of people flocking to Mingo House. Thanks to poor