Late in the Season

by Felice Picano

  “You know how scatty Dan gets when he’s traveling. I have to make sure he’s packed underwear and socks.”

  “I know.”

  Here they were: two wives talking about the same husband, comparing notes. He liked Janet, however, which made it less banal. And he hated defending Dan to her.

  “I talked to Dan this morning, and he didn’t mention it then either,” Jonathan said. “I’ll bet he was afraid to say anything.”

  “Knowing Dan’s great love of avoiding scenes unless he has the starring role, I’d have to agree,” she said. “Well, I guess Pete will simply have to swallow his disappointment.”

  “I’ll take the kids,” he offered. He liked Dan’s and Janet’s boys, Ken, eleven, and Artie, nine. They’d spent a month out here, July, in Sea Mist, already; been out various times on weekends earlier that year and during previous seasons.

  “Not if you’re too busy to answer the telephone, Jonathan. I couldn’t. They’d drive you nuts.”

  “So? I’ll be a little busier. Put them on the seaplane after school. I’ll meet them at the dock.”

  “I can’t,” she wavered.

  “I’ll be done with my work today by the time they arrive.”

  “They do like you,” she said. “Of course they’ll miss not seeing Dan.”

  “He’ll call in the morning. He calls every day.”

  “Really?” Surprise and irritation. “He never used to call me regularly when he was away.” Then, the old Janet, more relaxed. “I suppose that’s why you two are still together after eight years. We didn’t last half that long.” A pause, then, “On the seaplane? Are you sure? They’re only kids.”

  “They’ve been on it before. We always take it,” Jonathan insisted. “Otherwise it takes all evening to get here. Believe me, Jan, bicycle riding is more dangerous. Book them for a four o’clock flight.”

  The idea grew more attractive to him as he argued for it. He hadn’t been alone with the boys in almost a year. It would give him a chance to relate with them without the ever-present Daddy of Daniel hanging over them. They were good children—Ken a little moody, preternaturally intelligent; Artie playing on his younger status, seeking attention and affection, but funny and charming too.

  “You are patient,” she said, “to put up with all of us, and our mix-ups. Maybe that’s the secret of loving Daniel.”

  “The secret of loving Daniel is to ignore him completely half the time, which he will resent, and to give him all your attention the other half, which he’ll also resent. Confused, ambiguous, he’ll eventually surrender. For example, when he calls tomorrow, I’ll act as though we’d already discussed the boys’ visit, and it’s nothing out of the ordinary. He’ll be surprised, apologetic, then more than a little annoyed by my tactic. All of which will satisfy me. End of incident.”

  “Virtue triumphant,” Janet said, laughing. “You really do have him psyched out, don’t you?”

  “We’re absolutely alike,” Jonathan said. “So it’s easy. The only difference between us is that he does it openly, loudly, dramatically. Whereas I do it quietly, covertly, more subtly. How’s Pete?” he asked, curious about the younger man Janet had been living with for the last year or so.

  “He’s fine. Got a new motorcycle. A big old thing from the fifties. Called an Eagle. Makes more noise than a Boeing 747 taking off. We ride around on it all the time. I feel the way I always thought I would when I was a teenager and used to see boys on motorcycles speeding by.”

  “How?”

  “Like a slut!” She laughed, then said more seriously, “Pete and Ken are on the outs again. If Ken says anything to you…”

  “If he does, I’ll listen, discuss it; but I won’t snitch on him.”

  “It’s not snitching! I’m his mother.”

  “Ken will think of it as snitching.”

  “Spoilsport! Here’s some background if he does say anything. Ken told Pete he was overcompensating for a real fear of lack of masculinity by doing all these dangerous sports—you know, the motorcycle, the hang gliding, the bobsledding. Pete got huffy and suggested he become gay like Ken’s father. Ken hit him, and said he was proud of his father, gay or not. You know they marched together in the Gay Pride Parade last year.”

  “Gay Daddies. I know. I marched too.”

  “Well, I made Ken apologize to Pete; but they haven’t spoken in the two days since. Pete says Ken has a lot of unresolved feelings about growing up with a male gender identity. He blames Dan for that. Blames me too.”

  Jonathan began to get angry. “Ken’s only eleven years old, for chrissakes. Why should he have any feelings about gender? He probably hasn’t even had an erection yet.”

  “Don’t yell at me. I don’t want to be referee.”

  “But if Pete’s pressuring him, making him play baseball and all that…”

  “Ken would rather be tortured to death than play baseball. Come on, Jonathan. Don’t you start with stereotypes. Pete isn’t a father. He just wants to be liked by the boys.”

  “If they’re hitting each other…”

  “Pete’s not hitting my children. He’d be out on his ass tomorrow. Only I’m allowed to strike my children in this house.” She sighed. “And God knows, sometimes I wish I could bring myself to do it.”

  “All right,” Jonathan said, calming a bit. “Maybe some time out here is exactly what the boys need.”

  “It’s what I need! Jonathan, don’t rile them up against Pete, please?”

  As he didn’t say anything, she asked again.

  “Well, I love them,” Jonathan began, “and I don’t want to see them growing up with all the sexist shit I had to put up with.”

  “And I love all of you, remember,” she said wearily. “Seaplane at four?”

  “At four,” he agreed. “You have the phone number for the reservations?”

  “Somewhere. You’re sure about this?”

  “Ask the kids. They may not want to come with Dan away.”

  “Of course they’ll say yes. They’re crazy about you.”

  “Which can’t please Pete too much.”

  “They’re lucky kids, having three fathers, I tell them.” That felt good hearing too. It would be fun here with Artie and Ken; and it would give him a chance to try to undo some of Pete’s uptightness.

  “Seaplane at four!” he said.

  “I hope you won’t be sorry,” she said before hanging up.

  Chapter Ten

  Jonathan hadn’t been out of his house all morning. Stevie wondered if he was ill—or merely hard at work. She’d restrained herself from taking him up on his invitation to check his library all day yesterday: restraint that had somehow pleased her, filled her with an air of expectation and a feeling that if she could only be patient, she would be rewarded as she had been with his kiss.

  Seeing him step onto his deck shattered that resolve. She wanted to do something to get his attention: call to him, wave, do something to make him notice her. Perhaps he was merely taking a break from his composing, a breather? Either that, or he was still composing in his mind, away from his desk, or his piano, before going back inside to write it down. Hadn’t other composers worked that way? Hadn’t Mozart composed entire overtures in his head during stagecoach rides to the cities where the operas were to be premiered? She couldn’t disturb him now, not with that possibility. Although she couldn’t think of a better time, either.

  Jonathan stepped inside again, and Stevie leaned back in her chaise longue and looked up. Another splendid, sunny, hot day. Really beautiful. Jonathan had been right about that too. There didn’t appear to be a hint of a cloud. How long could it last?

  He was outside again. In addition to his faded forest green gym shorts, he had thrown a pale blue and white checkered shirt over his shoulders, without buttoning it. Its short sleeves were rolled up almost to his shoulders. He swept a pair of sunglasses off the deck table, and walked out to the beach.

  She stood up, and waved, but didn’t call out to him.
He evidently didn’t see her, but headed away, to the surf.

  She didn’t know what to do. She couldn’t let another day pass without at least saying hello to him. Not after that night.

  She pulled on her shorts over her bikini, tied a kerchief around her head, and followed him onto the beach.

  He was far ahead, ankle-deep in the surf, looking out to sea, then walking with his head down again. He might still be composing in his head.

  Feeling foolish, Stevie dawdled farther and farther behind, thinking she might just sit down somewhere, look at the ocean, and wait until he passed her on his way back to the house.

  She’d just settled herself on a dry-looking sand cliff, cut out of the beach by the tide, when she saw him leave the water’s edge and trudge up to a wooden stairway that she knew led to the harbor area and little village.

  She would follow. Meeting there would seem even more natural than on the beach, far more coincidental.

  As she came out of the surrounding foliage onto the harbor, she saw that he had walked past the village, around the rim of the harbor and onto a jutting pier, where he sat down and lighted up a cigarette.

  It was late afternoon, on a Friday, yet the place seemed as quiet as it had all week. Only a few yachts remained bobbing slightly at tether in the little harbor, two lovely sleek sailboats, their sails gathered up around their masts like bundles of laundry, and a few smaller boats. In July, Stevie knew the harbor was noisy and crowded, filled with boats and people. Now the only activity was on a flatbed barge for shipping large deliveries that was moored to one side; the two workers on it sat out of the sun under a striped, faded awning, drinking beer, their feet straight out, their big, brown boots making them look like clumsy giants, awkward and out of place in this resort of bare feet and fragile summer shoes.

  The rest of the harbor village seemed equally still. The two stores for food and liquor were open. The grocery store looked empty. Stevie could see the checkout girl through the plate glass window, reading a magazine on the counter. In front of the liquor store, the owner’s wife was sitting out on a little deck, tanning, her sunglasses pushed off her wide, red face, her feet straight out, as though she’d been immobilized by the heat. The two little restaurants hadn’t yet opened for the weekend. Stevie supposed they would wait until just before dinnertime. The boutique where she’d bought her slacks and blouse was closed, however: its sale sign removed, its shades down and windows shuttered as though for a hurricane. A handwritten sign tacked onto one shutter thanked its customers and gave the date next spring when the store would reopen.

  Stevie decided she might go pick up a few more groceries, then wander out to the pier where Jonathan sat. Or she would…

  The telephone booth at the harbor attracted her eye. It sat right there in the middle of the dock, near the ferry loading area. She suddenly felt an awful need to talk to someone.

  “Please charge this to my home number,” she said to the local operator and waited. It was Friday, after four o’clock in the afternoon. Would Rose Heywood have already left? Or would she still be on campus? It was the first weekend of the semester. A glorious one.

  “Hello!” she said. She’d gotten the faculty office building operator and asked for Rose.

  “So do whatever you think best,” Stevie heard Rose Heywood saying. Then, in a different, impatient, more official voice into the receiver, “Yes? What is it?”

  “It’s Stevie,” she said, feeling as though she had interrupted Rose in something important. “Stevie Locke.”

  “Is that you, Stevie? Wherever are you?”

  “Not at school.”

  “I know that, dear. Wait a minute, Stevie.” She half covered the receiver and could be heard talking to someone else. Back again. “How tiresome some of these girls are. As for you, dear, I’m devastated. Where on earth are you?”

  “Sea Mist.”

  “Where?”

  “On eastern Long Island. At my parents’ summer house. I’m here all alone. Thinking.”

  “Oh, dear!”

  Stevie had to laugh. Just hearing Rose made her feel better, less lonely.

  “Are you ever coming back to us?”

  “That’s just it; I don’t know.”

  “Take the semester off, then,” Rose said. “Take your lovely boyfriend and go skiing in the Alps or off on an ocean cruise.”

  “I’m thinking about him too,” Stevie said.

  “I see!”

  She didn’t know how much she could tell Rose. She used to tell her everything last year. But then last year there wasn’t that much to tell, was there?

  “Rose, I’m in love. Or infatuated. Or something. With someone else. His name is Jonathan Lash. He’s a composer.”

  “You little beast. You ought to have told me that right away, instead of all this shilly-shallying about thinking. Is he handsome?”

  “He’s scrumptious,” Stevie said, relaxed, and realizing that of course she could tell Rose everything. Rose was…well, she was Rose, wasn’t she?

  She began a description of Jonathan that soon had Rose cooing on the other end. When she mentioned the extreme whiteness of his groin against the caramel color everywhere else, Rose interrupted.

  “How much of him have you seen?”

  “All. One morning.”

  “One morning, yet!” Rose mocked. Then, “Well, it sounds too wonderful for words. And I don’t blame you a bit for not coming back to stupid old Smith, with an Adonis like that naked around you. In fact I’m quite envious and disturbed that you called. I’m surrounded by work and schedules, while you’re off being some maiden in a bagnio.”

  “Hardly. Rose…” Stevie was aware her voice had expressed the uncertainty she really felt.

  “What’s the problem with him, dear?”

  “No problem.”

  “There’s always a problem in love, Stevie; otherwise it would soon become boring. What’s yours? Is he a quadriplegic amputee?”

  “No! Aren’t you awful. You are jealous.”

  “I admitted it. Come on, puss. What is it? If the sex is terrific, it can’t matter that much.”

  “Well…we haven’t actually made love yet,” she said, wondering how that would sound.

  “Playing coy, aren’t you?”

  “Sort of. He’s older than I,” Stevie blurted out. “About twice my age.”

  “Heavens! Perhaps he can’t make love after all! Darling, believe me, mid-thirties is hardly the age for geriatric impotence.”

  “His age is fine. I’m certain that’s part of his attractiveness to me. The way he’s aged, matured. It seems so…well, so authentic.”

  “Well, then? Don’t tell me he’s married. That’s it! He’s married. Leading you on?”

  “Not really. Sort of. His lover is in London.”

  “Does she know about you?”

  “I don’t think so. Not yet, at least,” Stevie hedged, then finally let it out: “Rose, his lover is a he, not a she.”

  Silence on the other end, then: “You are in a fix, aren’t you?”

  “Do you really think so, Rose?”

  “Well, darling, there might be extenuating circumstances you haven’t told me yet.”

  “Realistically, Rose!” Stevie was firm now. “No bullshit or anything.”

  “All right, Stevie, no bullshit. You might make love together. You might make love a dozen times, a thousand times. You might live together for years, have children and all. And I would still tell you to get away from there and come back to school. We could rig up some sort of excuse for illness for the first week of term.”

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Are there extenuating circumstances?” Rose asked.

  “Of course there are. He’s alone out here. And I’m in love with him.”

  “Darling, it would be easy for you to be excused. I’ll bear witness for your being ill.”

  “I’m really deranged, then?”

  “You don’t sound bad. It sounds quite pleasant, in fact
.” Rose tempered her previous words.

  “I’m not coming back. I’m going to keep on seeing him.”

  “Despite what I said?”

  “Despite it!”

  “Well! Good for you, Stevie. Don’t let me stop you. I’m all in favor. I’ve always been like the Red Queen anyway, as you know. I like to think of three impossible things before breakfast every day. Have fun. Don’t suffer. Unless, of course,” she added quickly, “you want to. Then luxuriate in it.”

  “Did you ever have an affair with a gay man?”

  “Yes. But it was a bit easier then. He didn’t know he was. Only found out later.”

  “Jonathan and Dan have been lovers since before we took the summer house. But it’s not impossible, is it? Admit that, Rose?”

  “Darling, if I were eighteen and footloose and attractive as you are, I’d certainly give it a try.”

  “Really? No bullshit.”

  “Really.”

  That seemed like the true, honest Rose Heywood. So Stevie decided to change the subject. “Will you come to see me in Manhattan some weekend?”

  “Of course I will. I will miss driving down there with you, though. The new crop of girls here seems more naïve than ever before. They must be recruited from remote places in hidden away valleys on the wrong side of large mountains. And your class, well, I gave them up en masse last year. Except for you, of course.”

  “And look at me.”

  “Don’t be too harsh on yourself. If you’re even considering having an affair with a beautiful, already married homosexual male twice your age, I’d say you’re miles ahead of these poor chickadees at school. Maybe you oughtn’t to come back, after all. Perhaps you ought to get a job or something. Try the real world for a while.”

  “That’s exactly what I was thinking. But doing what?”

  “I don’t know. Why not make up a list. Make up three lists. One of what you’d most like to do. Another for what you’d settle for, if you can’t do the first. And a third of what you’ll probably end up with, without a college diploma.”