"Something's wrong. I know it. My cousin and I grew up together. I know whenever something's wrong with him."
That bullshit unnerved him a bit.
"What's wrong?"
"He's sick. Even in a coma."
"Not a fire?" he asked.
"A fire?" I stupidly said, "No! No fire!"
To his relief. "If you and your cousin are so close, how come I never saw you before?"
"I don't usually visit at five A.M. Call upstairs! I promise to take any flack. In fact, I'll take the phone as soon as you—"
"I thought he's in a coma?"
"I'll talk to his roommate!"
"Oh." He lifted the phone, still hesitating. "If you were here before, how come you left?"
Who did he think he was? Hercule Poirot?
"We had to be somewhere!" I tried to hide my growing irritation.
"Where?"
"What's the difference?"
Wally said, "Across town. To demonstrate at Gracie Mansion!"
A minute of incomprehension from the attendant, then: "Oh yeah! I saw it on the news. That makes sense, you being gay and all," he added for his own benefit. Then, still testing us: "You see what some of them put on the roof?"
"He did it." Wally tapped my shoulder. "He was one of the guys who put the banner up on the roof."
"No kidding!" The lobby attendant smiled, and the smile humanized him. I could picture his mother showing around a photo of him, a few years younger, wearing that smile, proud of her son. "You got some fuckin' balls!" he added with a chuckle. "You're lucky they didn't catch you."
"They did catch me. I was in the Tombs most of the night."
"No shit!" That information seemed to do the trick;—out of sympathy or something else, he began to dial upstairs, as he asked what the jail was like.
It took a while for anyone to answer. In fact, he was about to say "See!" and hang up, and I to interfere and try to take the receiver from him, when...
"Sorry to bother you, sir. It's Stanley downstairs. Someone to see you. Mr. Dodge, really. Says he's his cousin..." To me: "Name?" I gave it, and he reported it into the receiver and hung up. "You can go up."
"We can?"
Before I could say anything else stupid, Wally took me by the shoulders and guided me toward the elevators.
"So far, so good."
In this harsh light, I thought Wally looked pale. I hoped he wasn't coming down with a cold or... I suddenly trembled with the thought.... How many times in the past decade had some gay man thought exactly that—that he was coming down with a cold or flu—only to find himself in a hospital bed surrounded by tubes and machines from which only death released him, months later?
"Hel-lo?" Wally chimed to get my attention.
The elevator arrived. We got in. He punched the floor number. The door closed and we began to rise.
"Cold feet?" Wally asked.
"I was just... It's been, you know, a while since I've thought of so many of the people from the Island, from the late seventies, 1 told you about tonight.... I still can't believe that I'll never see them again. I keep expecting to turn a corner and have Ray Ford grab me from behind and spin me around and bear-hug me till my ribs threaten to crack, and I never go to any gathering without expecting to see Dick Dunne or George Stavrinos or Vito....
"I don't get it! Nature is usually so tightfisted with what it provides. So very prudent how it husbands its resources. Why would Nature go to the trouble to create so much luxuriance in what after all was a group of nonreproductive creatures? Why create such an extraordinary generation of beautiful, talented, quirkily intelligent men, and then why let them all die so rapidly, one after the other? It doesn't make the least bit of sense. It's not natural. It's not the way Nature behaves.
"It's certainly not comprehensible in a society filled with such mediocrity. And, Wally, before you begin to argue, I do consider your generation of gays to be filled with mediocrity! What made my group stand apart was not only our attractiveness, our social cohesion, but that by the time we appeared at the Pines in 1975 or so, we were already achieved individuals, architects and composers, authors and designers, illustrators and filmmakers, choreographers and playwrights and directors and set designers and...
"Not perfect, God knows, not anything like perfect! Troubled. Hassled certainly. And why not? We'd been the first generation of gays to force ourselves or to be forced out of the closet. We had to experience the traumas of coming out, and of making the gay movement happen, not to mention the more general trauma of just getting through the roller coaster of the late sixties.... But despite that, we were almost godlike in our creative power. Face it, we pretty much created the seventies! Its music, its way of socializing, its sexual behavior, its clubs, clothing, its entire sense of style and design, its resorts, its celebrities, its language! We were always creating, always doing something! To what end?... It seems such an astonishing waste!
"And worse, it seems to never end. Tonight it's Alistair. Tomorrow it'll be... Who's left? How few of us? Why bother to leave any of us? Why not just wipe the slate clean and admit it was a mistake? A mistake to have striven for once to create something so..'. I don't know, creative and individual and wonderful, really. Perfect for everything but reproduction."
"Golden lads," Wally said quietly. "That's what Housman called the huge promising generation of young Brits mowed down in the First World War."
The elevator door opened. I teetered on the edge of another Act.
"You ready?" Wally asked.
"I don't know. I'm depressed. I'm enraged."
"Sounds right. Let's go!"
The White Woman might have been hovering at the apartment door, he answered so instantly. Strangely, given how long he'd taken to answer the lobby clerk, he didn't look in the least bit sleepy. As he ushered us in, I couldn't help but note that he was wearing the oddest pajamas. The bottoms were Bermuda shorts length, lightly ribbed, of some sheer material. They showed off his blondly downed thighs, his big square knees, thickly muscled calves, and strong-boned bare feet. The pajama top was equally sheer, a loose-fitting buttonless chemise with elbow-length sleeves, meant to be belted closed, but worn open now, exposing his fillet-of-sole skin hue and well-proportioned chest, with its flat pectorals and chessboard stomach muscles. In air the time (perhaps two years) I'd seen him with Alistair, I'd never thought of him having a body, never mind one so gymnased. I should have guessed. Aside from the occasional "sleazy number," all Alistair's mates had been strongly physical, even his wife, Doriot.
"I was just making hot chocolate," he said as he led us through the big hall past the study and living room into the kitchen. "Couldn't sleep. Guess it was the excitement from the party and all the people tonight."
I tried to peer down the hall toward Alistair's room, but the White Woman at the kitchen door blocked my view, instead guiding Wally and me into the warm, brightly lighted room. I thought I made out the closed door to Alistair's bedroom. Signifying what? I couldn't say.
"I'll bet you guys want hot chocolate." He followed us into the room, blocking our retreat.
Although the big prewar apartment was laid out lengthwise along an axis of hallway, the centrally sited kitchen and bathroom occupied their own architectural anomaly. With its high, tin-patterned ceiling and twenties built-in cabinets above the refrigerator, sinks, and stove on both sides, the kitchen jutted out from the building at a distinct right angle, forming an unexpected space large enough to hold a table and four chairs hemmed in by tall casements of narrow, mullioned windows.
By day, and in the best of circumstances (strong sunlight, a recent Windexing), one could barely make out one slab of the building and the blank wall across the airshaft, with a tempting sliver of street toward the Hudson River. Tonight all was darkness as we sat down, Wally and I, removing our jackets and placing them over the back of the fourth chair as we always did. Unsure how to proceed now that we were in the apartment, so close...
At the stove, the W
hite Woman chatted about the party, adding milk to the pan he was heating, reaching for more cups.
"None for me," I said. This night was definitely not over; I'd need all my wits about me. "In fact, if you'd reheat the coffee..."
"Sure. Meanwhile..." He handed us mugs, the sugar bowl, a blazing carmine cardboard box of Dutch cocoa. "Why don't you mix it?".
Wally looked up at me for help, and I saw his eyes slide left—indicating Alistair's room.
Our host saw the signal. "What?"
"You can do it, Wals," I teased, explaining, "He's a little spastic." I watched Wally bite his upper lip as he mixed the cocoa and sugar and milk. I hadn't been completely lying, although he wasn't spastic so much as awkward: he reminded me of a five-year-old mixing finger paints.
"You want me to reveal what I know?" our host asked.
Wally and I almost fell out of our chairs.
"Well," he tried a conspiratorial smile, "we did see it all on 'The One O'clock News.'"
"The demonstration?"
"Don't be modest. Know what Alistair said when he saw it? He said 'There goes Cuz again! Doing umbrella steps on me.'"
"Umbrella steps?" Wally asked.
I didn't know what he meant either. "Those ready?" he asked Wally. "'Cause here comes the milk."
He brought the pan over and expertly mixed the hot chocolate.
"Seems that when Rog here was a kid growing up on Long Island, they used to play a street game called 'May I?'" he went on, explaining to Wally, looking to me for confirmation. "Alistair said that in the game one person was 'it.' The other kids stood some distance off at a line and had to advance to tag him. To advance, they could take baby steps or giant steps or scissor steps or umbrella steps, just as long as they said how many they wanted to take, and—crucially—if they also asked, 'May I?'"
"Scissor steps," I explained to Wally, "meant jumping with your legs out, then sharply in. Umbrella steps meant twirling around as though you were going around the edge of an umbrella you held by the handle."
"Evidently Rog here always won 'May I?' using umbrella steps." The White Woman poured my reheated coffee. "Because they were variable, Alistair said he could never judge how many steps to allow Rog. Rog would take advantage of this to embellish his umbrella steps wildly. According to Alistair, he would fascinate any watcher, until zoom! he'd suddenly sail past the line and Alistair would find himself tagged."
"So..." Wally was puzzled. "Tonight...?"
"So tonight, by not only appearing on the news but by hanging the banner on Grade Mansion and then by being arrested on camera, Rog once again threw smoke in everyone's eyes and jumped ahead. At least that's what Alistair said. He seemed to think you did it especially for him. As a sign. Or for his birthday."
"What do you mean? What did he say?"
"Just that you'd taken umbrella steps again! But the way he said it signified that over the past few years you'd done it a lot, kept fooling him, kept shooting ahead." He concluded by looking on me fondly.
That nearly blank face almost undid me.
"Listen, I've got to..." I stopped myself. "Is Alistair asleep?"
"That's almost all he ever does anymore."
"He doesn't need anything?" Wally probed.
Orkney scoffed. "Hardly!"
I was still trying to do this without letting him know anything. So I continued to probe. "Alistair didn't say anything else... about me? For you to tell me?"
"No. Why? He expect you back tonight?"
"I guess not."
"Why did you come back?"
"Didn't you have to use the john, Rog?" Wally interrupted.
"You did get off legally tonight, didn't you?"
"Don't worry. I'm not taking sanctuary." I rose. "I will use the john."
All the night's earlier coffee flushed out. Then I quietly tried Alistair's door. Locked. Sure sign he'd taken the Tueys. That did it, no?
As I sat back down at the table, Orkney was telling Wally about whatever Asian body discipline he was involved in, which somewhat explained the pajamas. Wally was trying to be interested, but his eyes shot over to mine, screaming questions I not only couldn't answer, but couldn't even respond to.
I waited until there was a gap in their talk, then casually said, "I tried looking in but... That bedroom door stick?"
"Not that I know of."
"I couldn't get it open," I said.
He looked at first me, then Wally. "What's going on?"
When it instantly became apparent from our embarrassed silence that we knew very well what was going on and weren't about to answer, a sudden gust of cold air filled the space above the table, as is said to happen when a ghost enters a room. He never took his eyes off us as he slowly got up and pushed past me out of the kitchen. We followed and found him outside Alistair's bedroom, thumping against the door, pulling at the handle.
"It's locked!" he said, hysteria an undertone in his voice. "He never locks it! What's going on? Something's going on! Why did you two comeback?"
I decided to brass it out. As I moved toward the door, I said, "I wasn't certain he'd do it."
"Do what?" His voice began to rise. "What's going on? What do you know? Why are you here? What did you plan behind my back tonight?"
"It's probably for the best." I attempted to calm him down.
"What's for the best?" "Alistair and I discussed it in great detail long before tonight," I said. "For months. It was always a viable option. You must have known that too."
"Nooooooo!" he suddenly wailed in fall comprehension of what we were talking about. He turned around to begin kicking and thumping at the door with his bare feet and bare hands.
"You'll hurt yourself!" Wally shouted.
"Alistair! Boopsy! Open up! Wake up and open the door!" He kept hitting the door. He spun on us, his eyes wild. "I'll find the key!"
"Why not leave him? Why act like this when...?" I tried.
He was having none of it. "Murderers!" he shouted and began making what looked like karate chops at us, trying to get us out of his way.
"But Alistair wanted it!" I cried. Wally and I were backing up, less out of fear of his karate than out of embarrassment at his antics. "You know Alistair would never do anything he didn't absolutely want to do."
"You connived behind my back! The three of you!"
"Count me out!" Wally said.
"Then you two."
"Don't you understand? Alistair's not going to get better. He can't get better. He's going to get horribly worse and die horribly."
"We'll make it! We made it through the other illnesses!"
"It gets worse! Believe me! His body'll go to pieces. His fingernails will drop out, and where they were, his fingers will ooze. Old wounds will open up and bleed. His hair will fall out and his skin fester. I've seen it. I've been through it before."
"Nooooooo!" he kept wailing. His crazed gesticulations had moved us to the kitchen doorway, which he more or less got us into before he made good his escape into the living room.
"That queen is completely possessed!"
"Did you expect any different?" Wally asked.
"I guess not. What now?"
"Are we sure Alistair took the Tueys?" Wally asked. He was terrifically upset but determined to remain calm.
"Why else would he lock the door?"
Wally looked despairingly at me. I knew what his next words were going to be, so I said them for him. "Look, Wals. I know I've gone back and forth about this all night long."
"I'll say!"
"But after all, it's a person's life here. Not a carpet color. No matter what one thinks of the person. This is for keeps. And I'll be totally up front with you. I really haven't known what to do here. Actually, I've sort of counted on you to let me know."
"Me?!!"
"Sure. The more you said it was wrong, the more I thought it Was right: It was when you began to waver that I did too. No matter what any of us does tonight, Alistair's going to be out of the picture in a short whi
le. It's us I'm concerned about. You and me. Tonight... tonight we've gone through a lot and I know it's not over yet. But I really feel that this is the test. This now. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
"Yeah." He looked about five years old. "I think so."
I had to take a chance now, just in case he didn't understand fully: "I failed once, Wally. With Matt Loguidice." There. I'd said it. "I loved Matt. I really did. You were completely right about that. And I failed with him as a lover. I failed because I was egotistical and selfish and, oh, who knows, just generally fucked up, like most of us. And for some reason I'll never understand, when Matt was dying, I was given a second chance to prove myself to him. Maybe it was his doing. I don't know. It was close, though. It was almost too late. I don't want that to happen with you. I want you to tell me what to do."
Wally's face showed amazement at what he was hearing. Although there was no doubt in either of our minds that he'd been harrying me about exactly this all night long, now that I'd brought it up, he was surprised.
"A deal!" Wally said. And raised his hand to slap palms. Instead, I kissed him. "A deal. Now what? You tell me."
"We've got a choice. Let Dorky run wild and maybe end up saving Alistair's life or..." Wally showed me his fist.
"Just what we both need. An assault charge."
"It's one or the other."
We located the White Woman as he was charging out of the living room into the hall, something—the key?—in his right hand.
The next few minutes would prove if Wally and L really were a team.
"You up," I whispered. "Me down."
I threw myself at Orkney's groin, butting him and pushing him over onto his back. As he fell over, Wally wangled the key out of his hand.
We backed off and stood over him. I began to explain in what I hoped were supremely rational words what we were doing and why.
The White Woman was fit, however. Despite having the air knocked out of him, he managed to get to a half-kneeling position.
"So you see," I was saying, "nothing you can do will— Oof!"
He leapt into the air, pantherlike. Taking us unaware, he threw us into the wall behind. He and Wally were down on their knees scrabbling around the edges of the hallway carpet for the key.
Like People in History Page 46
