Finally I go to the Museum of Modern Art to visit my old friend, Cézanne’s The Bather, a painting I’ve sort of had a thing for since I first saw it as a teen.
The museum is crowded but I’m able to stand right in front of the masterpiece. A teenage boy painted in somber shades of blue stands at the edge of the water in his swimsuit with his hands on his hips. He looks down, avoiding eye contact with the observer. He is shy and unsure of himself but also present in his surroundings. He is almost naked but not in a sexual way. He is exposed but also without pretense, without a facade.
I used to identify with this boy so much. I used to think it was a portrait of me but now I have much more in common with the suits of armor a few dozen blocks uptown at the Met. I’m rarely vulnerable like the boy in the frame before me. I’m always wearing a shield that has been polished and maintained over the years but I wonder if there is still a boy underneath.
I used to think the painted boy was weak, like I was as a kid. But I realize now he isn’t weak at all. Being a man isn’t something you become or something you show people. I don’t know what it is. I used to think it was the most important thing in the world. If I was a man, I could be safe. I wouldn’t have my fate decided by the people around me. If I could be a man, in the way the world wanted me to be, maybe I would be worthy of love.
I always thought that was the thing that stopped Tack from being with me. I wasn’t worthy. I thought he was embarrassed of me. I’ve spent my whole life trying to be worthy and now I don’t even know what that is. What’s worse, I don’t think it even matters.
I think about Jules and their lack of interest in defining themselves. If I wasn’t so worried all summer about showing Tack who I’ve become, maybe I’d have found a way to tell him the truth about everything. Maybe I would be at The Hideaway Inn right now sitting on the porch with both of them.
I take in the blues and greens of Cézanne’s brushstrokes. I just stand in front of the painting like it’s only me and the canvas and nothing else exists in the world. I study it not for the composition or use of color but for what it says to me privately.
“Sir, I think you may need this?” A frail woman with a walker says to me, pulling out a tissue from her sleeve.
“Excuse me?” I say, breaking the spell.
“Here,” she says. “Take as many as you need.” She gives me her compact package of tissues and walks away. I hold them in my hand and suddenly see a drop of water dampen the tissue waiting to be pulled from the pack. For a moment I think the ceiling at the museum has a leak but then I realize it’s a tear. I’ve been standing in front of the painting crying and I didn’t even know it.
Chapter Thirty-Four
After the museum I go back to my suite. I don’t have the appetite for roaming the jungle like I used to. Instead, I fall asleep. My phone rings and wakes me from another nap. I look at my watch and see I have slept most of the evening away.
“Hey, Barry,” I say, trying not to sound like I just woke up. This is the call I have been waiting for.
“Vince, how’s it feel being back in the city? I bet you pounded every guy in a flannel shirt within a fifty-mile radius of that town.” He laughs loudly into the phone.
“Something like that,” I say, rolling over on the bed. I can’t tell if I’m not in the mood for Barry’s ribald humor or completely over it.
“I’m downstairs at the bar with a whiskey neat with your name on her. Get that sexy ass down here.”
“Fuck you,” I say in our usual jib-jab banter. “I’ll be down in a few minutes.”
When I get to the bar I see Barry talking to a sweet-faced bartender who can’t be more than twenty-six—less than half Barry’s age. I used to think Barry had so much power. He was so good at his job that businesses overlooked the fact that his personality was so overbearing.
“Good evening, sir. What can I get you?” the bartender asks me. I can’t tell if he is grateful to have someone distract Barry.
“Hey, college boy. I’ve dropped enough tips here to pay your tuition for a year. I know Pretty Boy is...you know, pretty,” Barry says, gesturing to me, “but don’t forget who is greasing your tip jar.” He isn’t drunk but I can tell he has had enough to loosen him up even more than normal. I’m beginning to see how insecure Barry is underneath all his bravado—insecure and lonely.
“I think my friend already has one for me. Thank you,” I say.
“Good to see you, buddy.” Barry shakes my hand the way we were taught. He grabs my forearm, looks me in the eye and grips hard. This is how a man shows power in business. Usually my grip is like a vise but today I don’t feel the need.
“I’ve got the contracts with me all signed and ready to go. I also have a bunch of ideas for managing the chain from New York and I’ve looked into FunTyme’s foreign assets. I thought I could run some of my ideas by you and you could get me in to see some of the key players this week.”
“Slow down. First tell me about the guys you’ve been doing this summer. I bet there are some hot farm boys out in the middle of nowhere,” he says and takes a swig of his drink. I close my eyes for a second and rub my temples to stop the phrase “hot farm boys” from entering my mind. There’s only ever been one hot farm boy for me and I destroyed any chance of ever having that work out. I need to change the subject and focus on business.
“Actually, I’ve been working really hard. I haven’t had time for much of that,” I say.
“Yeah, right. Vince Amato the power top taking a break. No one is going to believe that.”
“Well, they should,” I say firmly but not harshly. I’m determined to change the subject. “I’d really like to talk about finding a position at FunTyme that would allow me to make a considerable contribution either in New York or at one of their abroad offices.”
Barry takes the last swallow of his drink and pushes the empty glass away. “You won’t let up. All business today, huh?” he says with a newfound soberness.
“Just want to make sure we are on the same page. I’ve always gotten my work out of the way before play.”
Barry raises his eyebrows at me. “Well, not always, buddy.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Vince, look, everyone knows you have a reputation. You were found fucking in the conference room at your last job.”
“I know,” I say, looking down. That seems like a million years ago.
“Personally I think you are a total stud but that’s hard to live down.”
“Look, that’s all in the past. How long do I have to pay the price for that? I made a mistake. It was all consensual. I’m ready to sell. I just want to be part of the package.”
“I’ve got to be honest with you. I thought there might be some opportunity for you on this deal and I tried to push your name. I really did. I should have told you before you came back to the city but the truth is, they want the inn, they don’t want you. I thought maybe Pete Squills would be on your side because I thought the two of you had a thing but he was one of the guys against you.”
“What?” I know I have the skills to be a part of FunTyme. I didn’t know Pete was part of the management team. Then I remember ignoring his texts after he wouldn’t get the hint that I didn’t want our one-night stand to be anything more than that. “That asshole,” I mutter.
“Yeah, well, he pretty much feels the same way.” Barry moves his almost empty glass to his mouth.
So much for my big comeback.
“I’m sorry, buddy. It’s not gonna happen. But look on the bright side. They want the inn. You’ll make some nice coin on that deal.”
I take the whiskey he ordered from me and down it without as much as a blink. “Do me a favor, Barry. When you go back to the management team tell Mr. Squills that I don’t give a fuck if I never see him or his lousy toupee ever again.” Barry looks surprised. “Come on, it look
s like a Beanie Baby died on his head.”
Andrew must overhear me because he laughs to himself as he wipes out a glass far away from Barry. I’m glad at least someone is laughing because I’m not. I walk out of the bar and head up to my room. But by the time the elevator reaches my floor my anger at Barry and the situation has turned to sadness. I was kidding myself to think I could just push the reset button. I can’t really see myself prowling hotel bars with Barry when my heart is still in New Hope with Tack and his kid. I’ve replayed the past three months in my head over and over identifying dozens of moments where I could have told Tack how I really felt and confessed that my original plans had changed. I was so intent on showing him what a successful man I’ve become that I didn’t bother to show him the rest of me. The part that needs his love more than anything else.
I walk into my room, head right to the minibar and twist off the tops of whatever booze I can find. I’m not a big drinker but this particular shit show calls for something to numb my brain. I’m not even close to being buzzed. I don’t even get a glass. I want to down these little bottles immediately. I grab the first one, some fancy-assed vodka, and twist the top off but my grip is so overly tight that the little metal top cuts deep enough into my hand to make it bleed. At first it seems superficial but I quickly realize I should at least find a Band-Aid.
As I dig around in my suitcase for a bandage of some sort I feel something about the right size for my toiletries kit but the wrong shape. What is this? Like a magician pulling something out of a hat I grab the object to reveal a book.
I don’t remember packing a book. I can tell from the back of it that it’s quite old. When I turn it over I know exactly what it is. The shock of it knocks me out more than the entire contents of the minibar would be able to.
It all comes flooding back to me. I can see the steps by the school. I can see Tack walking past it. I can see leaves blowing over it and almost feel the rain that falls on it as the storm begins. In my hands is Baldwin’s The Fire Next Time. This must be a copy.
But then I open it and I see my handwriting:
To Tack. From Vinny.
The blue ink is faded and I immediately remember how I practiced making a curly design on the V in my name before I signed the book. Right under the original inscription is a new one.
It says:
Vince, I’m sorry. No more masks. I love you. Tack. Page 43.
My hand scrambles into my pocket and I grab the packet of tissues the old woman gave me at the museum. I swear I’m going to camp out in front of that Cézanne to wait for her so I can thank her because my face is so covered in tears that I can’t read the text of the book. I wipe away as many as I can, turn to page forty-three and read the underlined text: “Love takes off masks that we fear we cannot live without and know we cannot live within.”
I always thought Tack left the book on the table under the trees and that the janitor or somebody went to throw it out the next day. Not only did he go back to get it but he kept it all these years.
I thought I was repeating the past but the past turns out not to be what I thought it was. I don’t need to pay for the past and I don’t need to be ruled by it. What I need to do is accept the past for what it was and allow the present to be what it needs to be.
Tack loves me. Tack has always loved me and his love makes me feel like I can be The Bather—vulnerable but this time safe.
Now I am full-out crying, something I haven’t done in a very long time. I feel the tears melting away my mask and let it dissolve without the slightest sign of a fight.
Chapter Thirty-Five
“Are you sure this bus stops in New Hope?” I ask before boarding.
“Son, what do those lights above the windshield say?” The driver is in no mood.
“I want to make a hundred percent sure,” I say.
The driver looks me up and down over the top of his glasses. “I guess you aren’t so confident without your fancy suit and expensive shoes.” I’m just wearing a T-shirt and a pair of old jeans. I was hoping the driver wouldn’t remember me. I guess being an asshole makes you memorable.
“Sorry about all the attitude last time,” I say. My voice comes out a bit higher and definitely more humble than usual. It’s more sincere than polished but it feels comfortable in my throat.
“Uh-huh,” the driver says.
“And can you tell me if this is an express to New Hope or the local.”
“Express. You in a hurry?”
“Yeah, I’ve waited almost fifteen years for a happy ending and I can’t wait a second longer.”
“Well, in that case I’ll try not to miss the exit.” He cracks the smallest smile and I hop on the bus.
I’m not usually able to sleep on cars or planes but the last day has been so draining emotionally that I’m out as soon as we hit the highway.
“New Hope. Last stop New Hope,” I hear the driver say as he honks the horn. I walk down the aisle and the driver says, “You almost missed it.”
“Almost, but I’m awake now. I think I’m finally awake.”
I step off the bus and it takes me a second to adjust to the sunlight. Main Street looks magical in late summer since the ancient oak trees create a lush canopy of green and the shops spill out on to the sidewalks with end of season sales. It used to feel like Manhattan was the center of the universe but I think I’ve found the center of my world. It’s here. Maybe it’s always been here and I never knew it. Or maybe this is something new. It doesn’t matter. I just know I have to build my life in this place, with Tack.
When I open the door to The Hideaway, it’s empty. I call out for Tack, Anita or even Clayton and no one is anywhere to be found. I grab my bag and pull out the tightly wrapped package of brand-new knives I bought at a culinary shop in Chelsea before boarding the bus. I dropped a small fortune on them but I wanted Tack to know I’ve been paying attention and show him I recognize his talent.
“Tack? Anita?” I call out. Have they all abandoned ship? Couldn’t they at least stick it out a few more days? I see a Post-it note on the floor that must have fallen off the door. I bend over to pick it up and read it. “Anita—Had to go to Lambertville Urgent Care with Jules. Still no word from Vince. Tack.”
I don’t think.
I walk out of the inn and toward the bridge. The Lambertville Urgent Care is just on the outskirts of town. I start walking but as soon as I hit the bridge I get a sudden rush of adrenaline. I’m so worried that something might have happened to Jules that my entire body kicks into the next gear and I run the rest of the distance. Lambertville is a blur until I get to the entrance to the urgent care. “I’m looking for Tack O’Leary and his child, Jules. I’m a friend. A close friend of the family.” I am covered in sweat and completely out of breath. The man at the desk probably thinks I need to be admitted.
The door to the treatment area swings open and I see Tack. He’s talking to someone in scrubs but when the door swings again I see that person walking away and Tack turns towards me.
I push past the door and stand in front of him. His face is stained with tears but his eyes still sparkle with the essence that is Tack.
“I saw the note. How’s Jules? What happened? Are they okay?” I ask. I grab Tack’s forearms and we are face to face.
“What are you doing here? I thought you left for New York,” he says. The shock of seeing me is sinking in and we are locked together in a hold I’m not sure I ever want to break.
“I did. I came back. It’s not important right now. How is Jules?”
“They’re fine. They’re going to be fine. They left with Evie in my truck about ten minutes ago. I just finished the paperwork. They were at camp, climbing a tree in their tutu which they know is a no-no,” Tack says and a wave of relief comes over me as he makes one of his stupid jokes. “But they banged their arm. The nurse practitioner said they will be fine. Wh
ich is more than I can say for the nurse practitioner.”
“What?”
“Well, after the exam the nurse said, ‘Well, boys will be boys’ and got an earful first from Jules and then from Evie about gender stereotyping. I refrained from punishing the poor guy any more.” He laughs again and I can see the color even out in his face. “I’ve been in this place too long. I need to get out of here,” he says.
“Let me get you home,” I say. Tack’s blond bangs are damp with sweat and matted against his forehead. I take my hand and move them back off of his face and he closes his eyes as I do it. When they open again I take his hand in mine and we walk out together.
Even though we have so much to say to each other we walk in silence almost all the way to the bridge back to New Hope. I’ve learned there are some things that can’t be expressed in words. They can only be felt and experienced. With the bridge in sight, I take Tack’s hand in mine again. He doesn’t say anything and neither do I. We walk hand in hand up the esplanade to the bridge’s walkway like the only two people in the world.
He squints in the light of the setting sun, cocking his head just enough so that the taut skin on his neck stretches in a way that only Tack could make attractive.
“We need to talk. I found the book in my bag in New York.”
Tack looks up at me. His eyes are soft and gentle, familiar and inviting. “I slipped it in there before you left. I wanted you to know how much it has meant to me over the years.”
The Hideaway Inn Page 18
