Gay Place

by Billy Lee Brammer

“What?” Jay asked him. The host was still pulling bottles and bottles out of the pasteboard case.

  “Dronk,” Neil said. He cleared his throat. “If I keep this up I’ll be drunk.”

  “Only way to be round friends,” said his friend who was bending over the empty case. “We’ll look after you. Won’t take any pictures.”

  “Is Andrea here yet?”

  “No … Not yet. They were somewhere crosstown. Another party, they said. I’m goin’ to lose patience with those people. ’Nother party’s no excuse …”

  “They called again?”

  “Yah, yeah, didn’t I tell you?”

  “I dun know,” Neil said. “What she say?”

  “Who?”

  “Andrea.”

  “Nothin’. Didn’t talk to Andrea. They’ll be along. They promised.”

  There was a silence between the three of them. Jay McGown had got himself seated on the drainboard, his feet dangling, banging against the lower cupboards. The host suddenly sat down inside the empty whiskey case and began slapping his kneecaps in time with the music. Periodically, he took a drink; then propped the glass in his lap and resumed slapping his kneecaps. Neil had got a silly grin on his face. He was aware of how altogether foolish an expression it was, but he couldn’t make it go way. With the three of them thus assembled, the effect from a distance was one of great, private merriment — the sort of illusion, chic and exclusive and vastly appealing to passersby, that caused others to wonder whether they were having such a good time after all. Fairly soon, a large group of people, whooping and shouting and hoping to share in the fun, had crowded into the kitchen.

  Now there were several people perched alongside Jay on the drainboard, and others were pushing in close, ducking under can openers and cuptowel racks to see. Some of them sat on the damp floor, encircling the host who was still inside the whiskey case; another of the roommates was lowering himself in the tub of melted ice. “Coo …” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oooweeool.” Somebody had a bongo drum and was beating on it in a way that irritated Neil but seemed to make the others deliriously happy. They could hardly hear the music from the other room.

  Neil finally managed to get through into the main part of the house again. Not everyone had been attracted to the wild, seemingly private goings-on in the kitchen. There were still a good many people about, but the place now gave off an appearance of a little more restraint and formality. Not much, but more than had been apparent up to that time. Stanley was dancing with Elsie; there were only three or four couples shuffling about on the living room floor, and the evening had reached a stage at which the soft-music devotees had finally won out over the jazz-ruckus people. Stanley and the girl were a little tight, but they weren’t letting each other know about it. Nor were they working at it to any perceptible degree. They were both just a little high; Neil could see that they were.

  When one song had ended and before another was begun, he moved in between then, smiled at Stanley, and asked Elsie to dance.

  She came tightly against him, and they moved round slowly with the music. He wondered if she had been giving Stanley the same business all evening, and then he wondered whether she was conscious of having any business to give. She was not a particularly distinguished dancer, but then neither was he. They just managed to move with the music, demanding no more than they and the music were capable of delivering. On the third song, just before one of the jazz buffs got hold of the phonograph and announced Brubeck as next up, they were holding close to each other, scarcely moving their feet, silent and suddenly conscious of their own possibilities.

  When the Brubeck came on, he returned her to Stanley and the three of them sat together on the couch.

  The evening wore on, past midnight, toward some kind of inescapable conclusion or anticlimax. How did it end? How had these parties always expired? Neil could not remember; or he had never taken the trouble to notice. It seemed to him that he should, for a change, but there was no indication at that moment of the party’s letting up. People had begun moving back into the main rooms from the kitchen. They moved more slowly now, but there was no lessening of their ardor and their eyes still gleamed with the anticipation of something far more desirable and possibly new to their experience coming at any moment or in the next hour or so.

  Stanley went to get fresh drinks. There were a few complaints about the absence of ice, but most of those who had gone at the liquor with any seriousness were now numb in the mouth, and they drank their whiskey straight or with tap water. Stanley made exactly that point when he returned with the three glasses; he said it was like having had a local anesthetic in the hard palate. They sat quietly, watching the dancers. Stanley leaned over and started to say something, changed his mind for an instant, and then reversed himself again.

  “I was thinking,” he said, “does Fenstemaker know much about John Tom?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Does he know much about John Tom? Did he have anything to do with him before he left the college? Was he even aware of him?”

  “He sure was,” Neil said. “He knew a good deal about John Tom. He was the one who tipped me about what might happen if John Tom stayed on at the college …”

  “How abut Elsie? Did he know about your trying to help Elsie?”

  Neil made a face from the whiskey and set his glass down.

  “What you getting at?”

  “Maybe nothing. But did he know about Elsie?”

  Neil thought a moment. He got hold of his glass and turned it round in his hand and took a drink and tried, ploddingly, methodically, to think. It was like the grinding of poorly meshed or wornout gears.

  “Is matterall fack,” Neil began, nodding his head. “… As … uh … matter … ruff … fact … I think we wrote to him couple months ago about Elsie …” He turned to Elsie, smiling. “… We had to get something — what in hell was it anyway? — we had to get the Governor’s — Guffner the State — his official … What ’n hell was it? Had to get him to confirm Elsie as something or other, good risk, responrable, respons-zable, holdin’ job and all that, so the State Department people could go ahead. So we could push on that visa business.”

  “He knew, then? He knew about that, too?”

  “Whattaya —”

  “He knew about me. I told him once. About my father. He asked me once to do some writing for him, some kind of special research report on public safety, something like that, and I told him he ought to know about my father before he signed me up. He said it was okay but we needn’t advertise the fact I was doing the work for him. And he knew about Andrea’s vacations in Mexico, of course.”

  “Whaat? Stanley, I’m not —”

  “He knew. Don’t you see. He knew about all of it. Edwards might have known — he could conceivably have stumbled across the information — even the stuff about Elsie. But Fenstemaker knew.”

  Neil put his drink down and rubbed his eyes. He looked around, but there was only vague movement, shapes and figures — painful to watch and no real faces to see. It occurred to him he had never remembered a denouement to these parties because he’d never been in any condition to witness one. He thought about all the times he and Andrea were unable to recall even driving home.

  “You … think he told Edwards? Why’d he wanta tell Edwards?”

  “I don’t know. Who’d ever know? He’s a pretty devious guy. Christ, he might have planned the whole thing this afternoon.”

  “To what advantage? It didn’t do Edwards any good.”

  “I don’t mean he told Edwards. But he could’ve got the word to him some way. Given him enough ammunition and planted the idea of making that scene at the luncheon.”

  “Ammunition for what? To what end? All this deviousness.”

  “I don’t know. Maybe to push you in — to make you finally jump and get your feet wet. To make you mad enough. He wasn’t getting anywhere the other way. And he was the only one today who kept his wits about him. You and Edwards were
acting like a couple of nuts.”

  They were silent for a period of time. Elsie lay back with her head resting against a striped bolster. The shape of her full breasts suddenly appeared under the loose-fitting blouse, like great circus tents being lofted. Neil stared for a moment, dizzy, his eyes burning from the smoke in the room. Stanley mumbled to himself.

  “What?”

  “I said I think I’ll go talk to Jay.”

  “Godalmighty, don’t go in there and tell him what you suspect. It might not be true.”

  “I’m not going to tell him anything,” Stanley said, moving slowly to his feet, attempting to get his head planted straight on his neck. “He’s going to tell me something. Maybe. If he’s drunk enough. I’ll be circumspect. He’ll never suspect I suspect. We’ll circumspect …”

  “So what if you find out?”

  “We’ll know, won’t we.”

  “Yes. We’ll know. But it won’t do us much good. He’s my goddam Siamese twin. Joined at the butt. I haven’t a prayer without old Fenstemaker.”

  “So we’ll know,” Stanley said. “To know better next time.” He excused himself and went off looking for Jay McGown.

  Neil lit cigarettes for himself and Elsie. She lay back with her head on the bolsters, looking at him, her face half in shadow. For a few minutes they made mechanical conversation, short colloquies and uncertain silences; they continued to stare at one another. Finally he bent down to kiss her, remotely conscious of being tight and a little uncertain in the stomach, but vastly excited. He leaned into the shadow; she turned her face away from him as he came close and his lips brushed her cheek and hairline and the slip of ear showing through. There was an instant during which he had to struggle to keep his balance before he pulled back. She was sitting up on the edge of the couch, looking away. She turned to him and said: “I don’t want to do that here.”

  “Suggest some other place then,” he said. “Would you prefer some other place?”

  They were sitting up straight on the couch. She was turned toward him and doing something with her hair at the back of her neck. He wanted to get his face in there again.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “What place?”

  “I don’t know, either. Anyplace. I just know I want to go someplace with you.”

  “Would you want to go to the bookstore?”

  “Yes …”

  “I’ve got a bottle of sherry there.”

  “Yes … Come on.”

  “Stanley?”

  “I’ll … Wait a moment. I’ll tell him.”

  “Tell him what?”

  “I’ll think of something. Leave him a note.”

  He left her near the door and went to search for Stanley. He was back almost immediately.

  “We’re in luck,” he said. “Stanley’s asleep. Passed out. With Jay McGown.”

  They started for the door, but at that moment it came open and several faces, misted in drink, appeared. He wondered if this would be Andrea now arriving, right on schedule: the Wrong Time. But it was not Andrea, none of her group. It was, instead, several young men and girls, with Kermit in the lead and three Negroes — two women and a man — in the middle.

  The white people were very gay, full of loud and nervous laughter, but the Negroes stood quietly in the middle of the group, not at all sure of the situation.

  “Hassah!” Kermit said. “We uz integrated! Ass raht!”

  He saw Neil and Elsie as they passed and yelled after them. “Hey Neil. Hey you Good Doctor. Come back, gate. Meet my friends …”

  Neil turned and waved and hurried on with the girl at his side. Inside the car, he fumbled in his pockets, frantic at the thought that he might have misplaced the keys. Then he found them and got the motor started, although he did not set the machine into motion immediately. Elsie had moved next to him and reached up to touch his face. Before he had half turned in the seat her lips were moving along the edge of his collar and then they kissed. She was directly against him and he had begun to wonder if they would ever succeed in getting to the bookshop when the sound of voices came to them from across the lawn. He peered out the car window and could see that Andrea and her friends had, indeed, finally arrived. They moved into the house, a great shout of approval greeting them. Almost immediately, the phonograph music rose in volume and the scene through the windows of the house was very like the one that had registered in his mind earlier that evening when he had come across the lawn and paused at the front steps. He put the car in gear and headed down the street with the girl next to him.

  Fifteen

  STANLEY CAME AWAKE GRADUALLY. He lay on his back in what he felt might be a spreadeagle position, although it could have been closer to the attitude of crucifixion. It occurred to him suddenly that it was Easter Sunday — about 3 A.M. on Easter Sunday but Easter all the same. The air was very bad in the small bedroom, and he got himself on one elbow, leaned over and raised a window. He inhaled deeply for about a minute.

  Then he lay back on the bed. The party was still going on around him — that would be a small triumph — but Jay was nowhere to be seen. He remembered finding Jay asleep on one of the twin beds, and, failing to rouse him, lying down to rest for just a few minutes himself. He lay on the bed now, uncertain about his own capabilities. He did not think he would be able to stand on his feet for just a while yet. For no apparent reason he remembered the opening lines of a novel he had glanced at in a cut-rate bookstore in 1947. It had something to do with a rather fast young woman coming awake and feeling as if somebody’s band of soldiers had marched through her mouth during the night, relieved themselves, and marched right out again. He decided that was precisely the feeling inside his own mouth.

  “You better, Stanley?”

  “Umnpf.”

  “Well I’m sorry to hear that.”

  It was one of the hosts. He grinned at Stanley; he had managed to get a very satisfactory buzz on while avoiding the pitfalls that had victimized all others around him. He was awfully damned proud of himself, Stanley decided.

  “Where’d Jay go?” He had succeeded in shaping this question in his head and speaking it aloud, but it had been an awful effort.

  “Jay’s gone … Wandered out of here about a half hour ago. But don’t let that give you any ideas. You’ve got to hang on, wait for a second wind. We’ve got a whole new group of people coming in.”

  “Ouuumn.”

  The interloper turned and went back into the main part of the house. Stanley could hear him repeating his statement, loudly and clearly, in the other rooms. Within minutes, others had begun to repeat it and soon it had evolved into a catchphrase of spiritual uplift for late hangers-on. He raised himself halfway and sat on the edge of the bed. Someone showed a face through the door for just a moment and said: “Hey, don’t leave yet. Nobody leaves. There’s a whole new group of people coming in.”

  “Yeah, yeah …” Stanley said.

  He stood for a moment and then walked very carefully into the bathroom where he drew the lavatory full of water and washed his face. Then he dried himself and proceeded toward the main section of the house.

  The crowd had thinned out some, but there were still twenty to thirty people composing the party, laughing, talking, standing and half lying down in states ranging from ebullience to despair. He looked from room to room for Jay and Stanley and the girl. He saw Andrea and her friends, dancing in the room with the phonograph. The Negroes stood along the wall, watching, and Kermit sat nearby, engaging someone in an impassioned and obviously one-sided conversation. He walked into the kitchen and washed out a glass, filling it with ice and water.

  “Howze Washington?”

  “Fine. Very pretty this time of year.”

  He had never seen the person in his life; he was certain of it. The young man had sidled up next to him and begun picking up whiskey bottles scattered along the drainboard, holding them to the light, and setting them down again. “Dead soldiers,” he said, smiling, pleased with so apt an obser
vation.

  “Yes,” Stanley said. “Lots and lots.” They had surely never met before. The fellow was a perfect stranger.

  “Goddammit. The Scotch is gone.”

  “There’s bourbon,” Stanley said. “I see a bottle there.” He pointed to where it was, still in its pasteboard carton. “And there’s gin in the refrigerator.”

  “It’ll get cloudy,” the young man said.

  “Perhaps they keep it cold for martinis. It’s probably part of their own stock.”

  “Whattaya mean?”

  “This other here is — was — the lobby’s.”

  “Who’s the Lobbys?

  “What?”

  “Who are they? The Lobbys.”

  “I don’t know,” Stanley said. He was suddenly very bored with this young man. He stood there drinking his water, hoping the visitor would get himself some whiskey as quickly as possible and leave the kitchen.

  Another young man appeared.

  “Any Scotch?”

  “No,” the first one said. “There’s bourbon here, and some gin in the refrigerator —”

  “Getting cloudy,” Stanley put in.

  “And this other here was the Lobbys’. All of it.”

  “I know,” the second one said. “But you shouldn’t talk about it.”

  “Who are they? Why shouldn’t you talk about it?”

  “What?”

  Oh Jesus, Stanley thought. He turned to leave, but the first young man caught his arm. “Stanley — do you know Jake?”

  “I know Stanley. I’ve heard a lot about him,” the fellow named Jake said.

  Stanley searched his mind for something other to say than that he hoped it was all good. He thought of nothing, but only stood there with his glass of water, smiling at Jake and Mr. X.

  “Is your boss here tonight?” Jake said.

  “He was,” Stanley said. “He seems to have given it up and gone home.” He wondered about Neil and Elsie in a casual way — about whether he had taken her straight home, for example. He thought of calling at Elsie’s but then he knew he might wake her, and that would not be good at all. A foreign girl might not understand or be in any mood to indulge even the best intentioned drunk, and he wanted very much to get started right with Elsie. He had a picture of Neil and Elsie looking in on him and finding him resting comfortably in the bed. They would not have wanted to disturb him. Neil had simply driven her home.