Read Online You Can Say You Knew Me When by K. M. Soehnlein - Free Book Online
Authors: K. M. Soehnlein
Tags: United States, Fiction, Literary, Literature & Fiction, Gay, Contemporary, Gay & Lesbian, Genre Fiction, American, Contemporary Fiction, Lgbt, Gay Fiction
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believe in the freedom of the individual, she asserted, spelling out her reasons for dumping him.
My father had gone to California to follow his beatnik dream, and remarkably, he seemed to have succeeded. Nothing in this box indicated the disdain with which he’d always spoken of his time there. After just thirty minutes I was light-headed with astonishment. This was indeed material.
And there was more. Buried beneath an old, rippled paperback edition of On the Road was a photo, an actor’s head shot, the carefully lit and formally composed image of a beautiful man’s face. Beautiful in a sparkling, pretty-boy style—dark, inviting eyes, thick lashes, glossy hair, full lips in a full smile—like Frankie Avalon or Sal Mineo, an ethnic pretty boy, softened at the edges to make teenage hearts race. The name DEAN FOSTER was imprinted at the bottom. A message was scrawled on the photo in black ink:
Rusty—
You can say you knew me when
—Danny, Los Angeles, 1961
To dip into the vernacular of Los Angeles, 1961, Dean Foster was a dreamboat, a pinup. And he was someone my father once knew. At the bottom of the box I found a dozen photos bound in twine, pictures of my father and this guy, snapped in the old neighborhood: blowing out sixteen birthday candles; dressed in suits and ties, squiring a couple of dolled-up girls to a dance; posed in front of a shiny Chevrolet, arms over each other’s shoulders. This dazzlingly handsome actor was at my father’s side for every childhood milestone. Dean Foster. Danny.
One photo was so striking I gasped out loud. It was an image of departure, dated on the reverse side, in my father’s half-legible scribble, April 18, 1960. The rear of the Chevy fills the frame, the car showing signs of wear—a broken taillight, a dented fender. Dean/Danny clutches the handle of a suitcase he’s hoisting into the trunk. His arms and the suitcase blur with motion. His heavy-lashed eyes, meeting the lens just as his image is captured, reveal annoyance. Even so, his face is spectacular, its natural Mediterranean beauty more seductive here than in the doctored studio shot. I wanted to know where he was going in April 1960. Perhaps to Los Angeles, ready to transform himself into a Hollywood actor. Or maybe to San Francisco; he might have been the someone my father said he knew there.
You can say you knew me when. But as I tried to remember if Dad had ever said anything about a Danny or a Dean, I came up empty.
The next day, I found my grandmother in the kitchen. “Nana, do you remember this guy? A friend of Dad’s?” I held up the photo of the boys in front of the Chevy.
She’d been rinsing dishes in the sink—she never used the dishwasher, considered it money down the drain —but suddenly she stopped and dried her hands on a towel. She took the photo from me. “Angelo’s brother.”
I thought she misheard. Danny did look a bit like Uncle Angelo, Tommy’s late father, but—“No, this isn’t Angelo. This is someone else. I think his name was Danny.”
“Yes, Danny, the brother of Angelo.”
I was unprepared for this. If Danny was Uncle Angelo’s brother, that made him a Ficchino, practically family—my uncle by marriage—which made it all the more surprising that I’d never heard a thing about him. “Is he alive?” I asked.
“He went to California.”
“And never, ever visits? Or calls?”
She shrugged. “I don’t keep track.”
I held up Dean Foster’s head shot. “I also found this one.”
She stopped wiping and came closer for a look. “Dear, yes.” Her stare softened. “He was going to be a movie star. We saw him once, in a picture. We all went to Times Square when it opened. Everyone from the neighborhood.”
“That must have been exciting.”
“Sure, and we dressed in our Sunday best. Danny came out of a limousine, wearing a white tuxedo jacket, with an actress on his arm.” In her broadening smile, the first I’d seen on
My father had gone to California to follow his beatnik dream, and remarkably, he seemed to have succeeded. Nothing in this box indicated the disdain with which he’d always spoken of his time there. After just thirty minutes I was light-headed with astonishment. This was indeed material.
And there was more. Buried beneath an old, rippled paperback edition of On the Road was a photo, an actor’s head shot, the carefully lit and formally composed image of a beautiful man’s face. Beautiful in a sparkling, pretty-boy style—dark, inviting eyes, thick lashes, glossy hair, full lips in a full smile—like Frankie Avalon or Sal Mineo, an ethnic pretty boy, softened at the edges to make teenage hearts race. The name DEAN FOSTER was imprinted at the bottom. A message was scrawled on the photo in black ink:
Rusty—
You can say you knew me when
—Danny, Los Angeles, 1961
To dip into the vernacular of Los Angeles, 1961, Dean Foster was a dreamboat, a pinup. And he was someone my father once knew. At the bottom of the box I found a dozen photos bound in twine, pictures of my father and this guy, snapped in the old neighborhood: blowing out sixteen birthday candles; dressed in suits and ties, squiring a couple of dolled-up girls to a dance; posed in front of a shiny Chevrolet, arms over each other’s shoulders. This dazzlingly handsome actor was at my father’s side for every childhood milestone. Dean Foster. Danny.
One photo was so striking I gasped out loud. It was an image of departure, dated on the reverse side, in my father’s half-legible scribble, April 18, 1960. The rear of the Chevy fills the frame, the car showing signs of wear—a broken taillight, a dented fender. Dean/Danny clutches the handle of a suitcase he’s hoisting into the trunk. His arms and the suitcase blur with motion. His heavy-lashed eyes, meeting the lens just as his image is captured, reveal annoyance. Even so, his face is spectacular, its natural Mediterranean beauty more seductive here than in the doctored studio shot. I wanted to know where he was going in April 1960. Perhaps to Los Angeles, ready to transform himself into a Hollywood actor. Or maybe to San Francisco; he might have been the someone my father said he knew there.
You can say you knew me when. But as I tried to remember if Dad had ever said anything about a Danny or a Dean, I came up empty.
The next day, I found my grandmother in the kitchen. “Nana, do you remember this guy? A friend of Dad’s?” I held up the photo of the boys in front of the Chevy.
She’d been rinsing dishes in the sink—she never used the dishwasher, considered it money down the drain —but suddenly she stopped and dried her hands on a towel. She took the photo from me. “Angelo’s brother.”
I thought she misheard. Danny did look a bit like Uncle Angelo, Tommy’s late father, but—“No, this isn’t Angelo. This is someone else. I think his name was Danny.”
“Yes, Danny, the brother of Angelo.”
I was unprepared for this. If Danny was Uncle Angelo’s brother, that made him a Ficchino, practically family—my uncle by marriage—which made it all the more surprising that I’d never heard a thing about him. “Is he alive?” I asked.
“He went to California.”
“And never, ever visits? Or calls?”
She shrugged. “I don’t keep track.”
I held up Dean Foster’s head shot. “I also found this one.”
She stopped wiping and came closer for a look. “Dear, yes.” Her stare softened. “He was going to be a movie star. We saw him once, in a picture. We all went to Times Square when it opened. Everyone from the neighborhood.”
“That must have been exciting.”
“Sure, and we dressed in our Sunday best. Danny came out of a limousine, wearing a white tuxedo jacket, with an actress on his arm.” In her broadening smile, the first I’d seen on
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