She’d arrived here at some unknown time. He’d first seen her on the beach. She’d waved and said something. Then nothing for a day and a half. The storm. She’d come in, and had tried to talk to him about her life. He hadn’t allowed that, but had let her stay over when she seemed ready to go to sleep at the fireplace. So far, no problem. The next morning she’d served him coffee. Had he been more awake then he might have noticed her behaving oddly. All he saw was that she was being rather quiet. Expected. And that he’d had to pull up his sheets. Then, later that day on the beach, he’d been friendly, gone over to her blanket. That was when she brought up the morning. That was when he first began to think she was flirting. Then the dinner invitation. The dinner, all very polite and easy, with the friendly little meaningless good night kiss—a kiss he would give to anyone after a pleasant dinner unless she had third-degree burns on her face, or some signs of syphilitic degeneration. Then Dan’s boys had come and they’d met her at the harbor. A nice, brief little talk before she’d turned off and gone to the beach for a swim. Why had she left so suddenly? He’d assumed they would walk home together. So had the kids; that’s why they’d run ahead. Nothing for another day or so, then she arrived to borrow the books, and had wanted to wash his back in the hot tub. Another friendly gesture, no? “Who washes you?” she’d asked, probably having seen him wash Ken. Why make so much of it?
But he had. He’d heard her voice, the low, oboelike quaver in her voice, almost a catch at every other word, as she’d asked him. He’d felt that presence in the small distance between them, and it had been a palpable thing—real sexual tension. The sudden touch of her hands on him, the dry heat of her skin, the eagerness of her fingers, the overwhelming feeling that something was going to happen if he didn’t get up and out of the tub immediately!
Right, Jonathan. She’d scared you. An eighteen-year-old girl had frightened big bad you with her probably unconscious desire, and slight horniness. Scared you, but turned you on too. Admit it.
What had he thought she’d do anyway, with the kids in the house, not far away, with him in the tub. Really! All she’d wanted was to wash him, as she said.
No. That wasn’t true. She wanted him.
Back to the facts. Daniel was being an absolute son of a bitch. He was in London, having a ball, really on air, fucking everything that moved, being bowed and scraped to professionally, having tea with royalty and getting off all his burdens on Jonathan. Again. He’d not even asked Jonathan to go with him to England. It had been only a two-week trip at first, true. But then it had become extended in advance to three weeks, then a month, and now after only a week look at what a mess their relationship was in. Damn. That was the betrayal, not his screwing around with some Elephant and Castle bike boy.
Fact: Jonathan was horny too. Yesterday evening he hadn’t even had to fantasize in order to get hard. It had just happened, like that. He hadn’t had sex since Dan had gone: hadn’t picked up anyone at the village bar-disco, as Dan had assumed he would, if only for hygienic purposes.
Once that fact too was admitted, Jonathan needed a drink. After a minute during which he considered alternatives—opening a book and trying to read, going back to his desk and the almost accusingly unfinished score—he sat down with the drink and went on.
Men and women had sex. It was that clear. Except, of course, when there were taboos: mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, sometimes aunts and nephews. Genetic stuff. Otherwise they had sex: period. They did so past social taboos all the time, past age differences, past color and size differences, and language barriers. None of these were any problem. Men and women had sex.
Jonathan, however, did not have sex with women—or at least hadn’t in several years, and then always unexpectedly: with his roommate’s sister at their shared, off-campus apartment, Ernie talking out loud in his sleep in the next room; with another girl, Yukio, on the beach one night near a campfire, among a group of other people their age, all of them off somewhere in the dunes; once too with Daniel and that black model Jonathan had always thought was a spectacularly good transvestite until that slightly druggy night.
What was that? Three times in his life? Nothing, compared to the number of men he’d bedded and been bedded by—before and even since he and Daniel began living together. And there was an essential difference in the two experiences, beyond the obvious ones. With the women, Jonathan had always been surprised by how suddenly, totally aroused he’d gotten, how passionate they’d been, and how vague, amorphous, somehow unfocused and primitive their activity had been together. He and Dan could make love for hours, playing each other’s bodies like the various dials and panels of a great synthesizer, up to and away from climaxes, expertly, rhythmically. With other men, the rhythms might be different—faster, more jarring for rougher sex; or slower, more exotic, sinuous and twisting; sometimes enlivened by sudden role switches and mind games. All his times with women seemed completely mindless, unsophisticated, mere wallowings in the dark, too quickly over for experimentation, for the intensity to build to a level where he could begin to really enjoy it.
Then there were the different emotional perspectives. Jonathan had a thousand ideas about men, fantasies, images, words spoken, glances given, that combined worked on him constantly whether he was aware of them or not. He seemed to hold few emotional correlatives about women. He couldn’t contemplate being hurt by a woman, for example, being in anguish over one, even a woman he might love: certainly not the way he could be distressed over something Daniel did. It wasn’t the Venus and Adonis myth but that of Gilgamesh and Enkiddu—the first written love story—that appeared to guide Jonathan’s fate in love. It seemed he had to battle another man: and to love him at the same time. Daniel was his eternal mystery—not Stevie Locke, or Janet Halpirn, who he believed he could usually understand as though their skulls were transparent—their thoughts written out fully in tiny neon lettering, impossible to misconstrue. Dan, even Barry Meade sometimes, would do something that would leave Jonathan in a cold sweat of misunderstanding, outraged and confused. That’s what goaded him, infuriated him, fascinated him: not Amadea being Amadea.
That being so, conclusions were in order. Refill on the Dewar’s, please.
Seeing Stevie would not be fulfilling because it would most likely not be knock-down physically orgiastic, which was what he really needed right now. For that he’d do better to take the seaplane to town tomorrow and park his act in the Tubs with the door open.
Seeing Stevie would also not be adequate compensation for what he saw more and more as Daniel’s disloyalty to him; that could only occur if the emotional content of a new affair were equal in intensity—if only temporarily—to their own relationship. An affair with someone’s houseboy out here, say. Some number he’d looked at guardedly all summer. If any were foolish enough to have allowed themselves to still be stuck out in Sea Mist this late.
Seeing Stevie might have other consequences. Lord and Lady Bracknell might somehow or other discover it, and pull off some tacky number—from shotgun wedding to arrest for impairing the morals of a minor: was she still a minor at eighteeen? he wondered. Then too, she could get pregnant. She must be taking the pill, no? She did have a boyfriend. A boyfriend. That was another possible consequence: what if he found out? More important—and more possible than any of these—what if Stevie really developed a passion for him. That might end up being torture.
No, it wasn’t worth it. Not at all. No matter how horny he was. Too complicated, even for a flirtation. Not enough rewards in it for him. He’d go to the bar tonight or tomorrow night, and pick up someone there. Even a night passed flirting with one of the straight guys hanging around would be more satisfying. At least that would provide him with some fantasy material for when he next masturbated.
That accomplished, Jonathan finished off his drink, got up, ate a cold hamburger left in the refrigerator, looked over his score briefly, making notes about what he would be working on tomorrow, then went out onto the deck.
Stevie’s house was dark now. Gone to bed already? Or had she taken the last ferry back to the mainland? Perhaps it was better this way.
It was a clear night out, clear as the previous half dozen nights. The star-filled sky seemed divided by the thick band of the Milky Way, stretching north to south. Meteors streaked toward the horizon, bursting white and green and blue. Weren’t they the Perseids? A sliver of moon was descending to set. The surf softly crashed. He walked toward it, feeling the sand cool against his feet. He looked up, felt the enormous canopy of the heavens, then he relaxed, and began to hear a familiar melody inside him. Two bars, then another. It was Fiammetta’s song in the first act: “Why does nobody listen, when I speak of golden falcons?” A lovely arietta, that glistened and later glowed into coloratura, before ending again as a simple, moving quatrain.
He felt as though a great weight had been lifted off him. Somewhere, across the dark expanse of ocean, Daniel was sleeping, perhaps just awakening.
Chapter Twelve
The next afternoon, they were walking together barefoot along the main boardwalk leading to the village where they would buy groceries, when Stevie felt a slight snag on her foot. She looked down to see blood pumping from under a deep cut on the underpad of her big toe.
“Oh, damn,” she said. Stopping, she leaned on Jonathan’s shoulder and angled the foot back and up. The cut flapped closed, but blood continued to seep out, defining its extent neatly.
“Does it hurt?” he asked, holding her lightly around the waist for support.
“A little.” It was beginning to throb, but she thought she could handle it.
“Hold on,” he said, then, reaching into the back pocket of his shorts, he brought out a handkerchief. He leaned over her and wrapped the toe tightly in the handkerchief.
“Ouch!” she said, feeling like a sissy.
“I want to keep it from bleeding too much,” he said. She leaned against his arm, and Jonathan looked around without saying a word. Then he reached around her again, and she felt herself suddenly lifted up by her bottom, and slung into his arms.
“Hey!” she said. She faced him, looking backward. “I can walk on it.”
“Maybe. But you shouldn’t walk on it. Not until we see how bad it is.”
“Jonathan! Put me down. I feel silly.”
“You’re light,” he said, striding ahead with her. “When I get tired, I’ll make you ride piggyback.”
“Where are we going?”
“You’ll see.”
She’d said she felt silly. The truth was she felt wonderful: as light as he said she was (though she couldn’t really believe that—she weighed over a hundred pounds) and somehow privileged. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had carried her like this. She supposed the last person was her father, Lord Bracknell, putting her to bed when she was a sleepy nine-year-old. Not since then. Bill certainly hadn’t ever done it. And, of course, it was somewhat bridelike too, wasn’t it? Being carried across a threshold by the man you loved.
They had arrived at the harbor village. She’d assumed they’d go into one of the stores there and ask for bandages, but Jonathan continued walking on past the harbor.
Holding him around the neck she could look at him closely for once without having him look back and question her. She liked looking at his profile. She found it terribly handsome, and somewhat exotic—those almost Semitically open nostrils of his, the swirling little tempests of hair where his sideburns melded into his beard. From this angle, his eyes, too, seemed slightly different: not large and round, but almost almond-shaped, long, hooded over, like snake’s eyes. She could stare at him and not wish to do anything else. Just by looking at him, she would be sent off into little mental side trips, speculating on anthropology, history, color physics, anatomy, and always be able to return to his features with fresh wonder. So this is what it means to be infatuated, she told herself. How rational and yet how completely mindless it seems.
“Got a present for you, Barbara,” Jonathan said to someone.
Stevie turned her head to see they were at the little post office: a tiny shacklike edifice with a small waiting area surrounded by brass drawers occupying one wall, notices tacked onto the other. A double dutch door was ajar on top, signifying that the post office was open—it was infrequently open this late in the summer.
Hefting Stevie up, he placed her on the ledge atop the double door.
Barbara was a young mother, possibly twenty-four or twenty-five years old, whose husband, Stevie knew, was an independent contractor-builder in Sea Mist. Barbara had returned to night school college, worked here a few days a week, and took care of two small girls. Already—this early in life—Barbara’s skin was sallow, her eyes sad, her brown hair without sheen or luster.
Barbara didn’t say hello to Stevie, she merely lifted the wrapped-up foot, took off the bloodstained handkerchief, and inspected the toe, which had begun to ooze again.
“Anything serious?” Jonathan asked. He was behind Stevie, holding her by the shoulders.
She tried not to flinch too much, as Barbara roughly handled the cut toe.
“Doesn’t look bad. Nothing major. Won’t even need stitches, if you keep it closed and stay off it awhile.”
Stevie couldn’t help notice that the woman spoke not to her, but to Jonathan. Meanwhile, the two little girls in the back of the office—who had been quietly playing in a corner—came up and stared, one of them with a thumb stuck in her candy-smeared mouth.
“The kids are always going around and getting cuts like this,” Barbara was saying, rummaging through a worn oak chest of drawers for something. She pulled out an equally ravaged-looking tin first aid kit, and began to remove various objects from it: scissors, gauze, tape, and a tiny phial of some evil-looking green solution. “Damn nails on the boardwalks.” She shook the little phial, opened it, and spilled some onto a bit of wadded cotton. “This is going to hurt,” she said, prying the cut open with her strong fingers, and patting it with the burning solution.
The sudden shock of pain almost made Stevie fall back off the door ledge. Jonathan held her by the back. Her head rolled back against his chest. She thought she was going to faint.
“You all right?” Jonathan asked. All the pain was worth the concern in his voice.
“I think so,” she breathed out.
“Barbara?” he asked.
“She’ll be all right, Mr. Lash. I couldn’t put this on until it was cleaned out. Never know.”
She began spraying some fine mist from a little bottle onto Stevie’s foot, explaining it would help eliminate the pain. Then she carefully wrapped the toe with gauze and tape.
“There you are, young lady,” she said, looking at Stevie for the first time. What kind of look was that in her eyes? Certainly not compassion, Stevie thought.
“I’ve got some mail for you,” Barbara said to Jonathan, past Stevie again, as though she weren’t there.
“Don’t tell me, from Daniel?”
“A letter and four postcards. We’re only open once a week this late, sorry. So it does pile up. How does Dan like London?”
“Read for yourself,” Jonathan said. Then, “He’s working there. How’s school?”
“Lots of reading.” Barbara pointed to the stack of textbooks next to a crib.
“Well. You keep at it,” Jonathan said. “Walt told me how proud he was you decided to finish college.”
“He needs help in his business. That’s why I’m learning about it.”
“You ought to take one of your books and go read it outside, in the sun,” Jonathan suggested. “Get some color.”
“I’m looking dowdy, huh?” the woman said without a great deal of feeling.
“A little pale,” he answered gently.
The look she gave him then convinced Stevie that Barbara, too, was a little bit in love with Jonathan.
“You feeling well enough to be moved, invalid?” he asked.
She was. So he lifted her up, over th
e door ledge, and began carrying her again.
“Better wait here,” he said, pointing to a bench, “while I get the wagon and do the grocery shopping.”
“I can help,” she said.
“Face facts, Stevie. You’re out of action for the afternoon. You’re a total, instant invalid. Stay off your foot for a day or so. Let the wound close, okay? That way you won’t need to get stitches put in it.”
“All right,” she said. “But I don’t want to sit here.” It was too close to the post office, and to Barbara, who might come outside and begin talking to her.
“I’ll drop you on the bench near the harbor,” he said, shifting her to his other side. “There’s bound to be a bit more activity there. Who knows—maybe a ferry will come in, or a seaplane.”
He placed her carefully at the harbor, and she felt comfortable. She handed him her grocery list and watched him walk the hundred yards or so to the store.
That big sheepdog with the red bandanna tied around its neck was back. It had followed them from the post office. Now it nosed around under the bench, licking her outstretched hand and even—smelling the dried blood, Stevie supposed—licking the bandage on her toe until she shooed it away. The sheepdog padded over to the little wooden barrier that closed off the landing pier and sat down, its back to her, waiting as though it were expecting someone. Its master? A new master? She knew that cats searched for and went off with new masters. Buttons, her cat in the city, had once disappeared for weeks, and when it returned she discovered it had led three lives in their backyard, sleeping with and being fed by two tenants in adjoining buildings. Nevertheless, it was sad watching this dog so expectant, so patient. Feeling remorse over sending it away, she tried to get the dog’s attention by calling to it.
The sheepdog turned to look at her, it even seemed to smile the way dogs do, then turned its head away and continued waiting.
Late in the Season Page 11
