by James Villas
“It’s something I need to do for several reasons” was her only explanation to Goldie, “and nobody except you and Mr. Tyler are to know—nobody. I’d like for you to go along to help with the driving and other things, and it might be nice for you also to get away. But if you can’t, I’ll do it on my own. I might even do a little fishing.”
Goldie, who had never so much as seen the ocean but could remember hearing Mr. Earl and Miss Ella talking about the beach and grand hotel and going fishing back in the old days, was as perplexed by this announcement as she was convinced of Ella’s strong resolve to take the trip. No doubt she was excited by the prospect of a vacation, but even if she’d had some good reason not to be away from Charlotte, which she didn’t, there was no way she was about to allow this elderly lady whom she so admired and depended on to undertake an excursion by herself. As for all the secrecy, not to mention the worry this would cause Ella’s family, Goldie knew it was not her place to pry—at least not yet.
“Fine. So that’s decided,” Ella said. “Now remember, Goldie, this is our little secret. It’s nobody’s business but my own, and I don’t want any more problems than I already have.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Goldie answered, even more baffled by this last statement.
Ella’s next move was to call Tyler, who, having undergone some time ago both surgery to remove a cancerous part of his colon and a subsequent round of chemo, had recently been in Paris with Barry mainly to recuperate. Somehow he had kept the news of his condition relatively quiet from most people, and, as if that ordeal had not been taxing enough, what he had facing him now was all the publicity deemed necessary to promote his provocative new memoirs. He loathed having to do all the interviews and media appearances, not only because he no longer had the physical stamina but because such tedious activity robbed him of the precious time needed to write what he considered to be the most challenging novel of his career.
In the past, of course, Tyler had allowed nothing to cramp his working habits, his social style, and certainly not his occasional extracurricular sexual habits even while leading a sedate and happy life with Barry Livingston. During the first year of his relationship with the younger, strikingly handsome man, there had been little urge to indulge in sexual promiscuity in Manhattan and on the beach at night out in Amagansett, and the two quickly established a respect for each other’s disposition and professional needs that evolved into a solid, rare friendship. When, however, the bloom of carnal infatuation eventually faded, as it does in most passionate affairs, Tyler had reverted periodically to the same random flings with other young men that had once cost him a career and that he knew could be as precarious as zooming about the Hamptons in his snappy BMW convertible after one too many Negronis. Although sexual relations with Barry had long ago come to a halt, and although Barry himself had not exactly been twiddling his thumbs while on gallery trips or when Tyler spent days on end alone writing at the country house, these two men were totally devoted to one another in unorthodox ways that might make even their worst enemies envious. Despite the graying dark curly hair and slight jowls that had begun to betray a man in his early fifties, Tyler was still remarkably good-looking, and, actually, the six-year age difference between the two had never been an important factor. Nor did it really matter that Tyler’s glittery image as a darling of New York’s publishing world contrasted sharply with Barry’s reputation as a social standoff involved almost exclusively with his shrewd art transactions when not relaxing or traveling with Tyler. Some viewed Barry as a snob. Both being highly successful, the two men lived well but not extravagantly, sharing basically the same tastes even as each exercised and enjoyed a certain independence. There had been testy moments over the years, to be sure, but none so dramatic or mordant as to alter their genuine affection and need for one another.
Most of this Ella had come to accept and understand about her son, and if other family members and friends in Charlotte disapproved of and disparaged a reputed lifestyle that Tyler had never made the least effort to conceal, they’d learned to keep their opinions to themselves. More cynical minds were no doubt convinced that Ella simply tolerated a revolting situation she could do nothing about, but, in reality, she was actually very fond of Barry and enjoyed his company when she visited the two in Amagansett. What not even Tyler suspected, however, was that there were much deeper, covert reasons why his mother had rarely ever found serious fault with her oldest son and his unusual ways.
Not that she had exactly spoiled Tyler when he was growing up or failed to enforce the same discipline on him as on the other two children. But what she had nurtured in him in ways that Big Earl was incapable of doing was the more sensitive, fastidious side of his nature that made him different from his siblings and, at least in his mother’s opinion, superior to most of his classmates. Like other healthy young Southern boys in the early sixties, Tyler was automatically expected by his father to engage in sports and other virile activities, and although he loathed being on the Myers Park football team, he met the challenge the best he could and gained the necessary respect from Big Earl, his buddies, and a flock of adoring females who measured the worth of any man by his athletic abilities. Whatever resentment he felt playing the brute he kept as much to himself as he did the strange urges awakened in the locker room.
Ella had never been exactly the most literate or artistic mother on earth, but she had possessed enough insightful intention to recognize Tyler’s special intellectual talents and do all she could to guide him in the right directions when he was young. Unlike his brother and sister, Tyler never seemed to have trouble maintaining top grades in school, resulting in his eventually being elected president of the Honor Society by his junior year and receiving a merit scholarship to attend Duke University after he finished high school. Aware of his instinctive love of music, Ella not only talked Big Earl into buying an upright piano but arranged for Tyler to take piano lessons every Saturday morning while most of his male friends were out hunting, pitching ball, or just racking around. And if Earl dared to dispairingly refer to his son as “Charlotte’s Liberace” or “the keyboard Tinkerbell,” Ella was capable of delivering a tongue-lashing that would put even the most uncouth slob in his place. She encouraged Tyler to read all types of books and helped him routinely with his homework to the best of her ability. She bought him records of classical music and jazz and would sometimes sit and listen with him. And, wanting him to be as socially well-rounded as possible, she even taught him a few expert dance steps so he could impress his partners and the crowd at school proms and cotillions. The bond Ella formed with her son was solid, and although the perception that Tyler was too much of a mama’s boy and not enough a regular guy like most of his classmates could infuriate Big Earl, he knew that to interfere too much would only spark his wife’s wrath and distance himself even further from his son.
The irony, of course, was that once Tyler had finished his higher education at Duke and come to terms with his sexual makeup, and finally fled the smothering cultural limitations of the South, his life couldn’t have differed more from that of his mother. Nothing suited him more than the liberal climate of Princeton during his three-year tenure as assistant professor of English, and while he did enjoy weekend jaunts into Manhattan to dine in fine restaurants, attend operatic performances and the ballet, and indulge in the dissolute gay bar scene, on campus he was respected both by the faculty and his students as an inspired, conscientious teacher keenly devoted to his profession.
What little social life he led in Princeton revolved mainly around the occasional staid, quaint cocktail or dinner party at the home of a colleague or one of his few close gay friends. Most likely, all would have continued to go well, and Tyler might well have developed into a high-level academic, had there not been that one fateful, careless spring night when, deep in his cups after a lively birthday dinner for a faculty wife, he ventured into a downtown tavern, struck up a conversation at the bar with a handsome, well-built, equally smashed undergr
aduate junior named Mike who was on the university swimming team and, when last call was announced, persuaded him to return to his modest house just off campus for more boozing and a little jazz. Identifying himself not as a faculty member but a graduate student in English, Tyler knew he was taking a chance fraternizing too closely with the young stranger, but, after all, Mike had been openly receptive to the invitation, and, of course, nothing was more exciting about this type of seduction than the element of risk.
Back at the house, Tyler poured more Scotch for them both, put on a recent cassette of Sergio Mendes, and tried to show a convincing interest in Mike’s major in business administration. And sprawled at one end of the sofa with his legs spread open on the coffee table, Mike couldn’t have made himself more at home or seemed more at ease.
“So you’re also on the swimming team?” Tyler eventually asked from the other end of the sofa, studying the other man’s perfectly proportioned chest that filled out every inch of his polo shirt.
“Yeah,” Mike slurred, taking another big slug of his drink and shaking his feet nervously. “Mainly fifty-meter freestyle, but sometimes one hundred–meter butterfly. I’ll swim butterfly next weekend at the meet with Penn.”
“I’m impressed. That must take lots of working out,” said Tyler, who cared no more about swimming than any other sport.
“I stay in pretty good shape,” Mike almost garbled, his head now swaying slightly back and forth as the alcohol began to take its toll.
“I can see that,” Tyler said, reaching over and smacking him friskily on his firm pecs outlined in the tight shirt. “Great build.”
When Mike didn’t react but just kept on shaking his feet, Tyler next boldly squeezed his upper left arm and felt him instinctively flex his muscle.
“Hard as a rock,” Tyler complimented, noticing in the corner of his eye a mounting bulge in the man’s jeans.
“Yeah,” was Mike’s only comment as he partly drew his legs up and perched his sneakers on the edge of the table, now rocking his knees back and forth.
For an instant, Tyler debated what to say and do next. Then, deciding to throw all caution to the wind, he whispered, “And that’s not all that seems to be hard as a rock,” reaching down and groping the exposed crotch.
Mike barely flinched, but then managed to groan, “Hey, whatcha doing?” while still making no effort to offer much resistance.
“Just playing around,” Tyler mumbled as he clasped the husky bulge and the arousal became more and more pronounced in the tight jeans. “Seems like you’re ready to explode. Does this offend you?”
“Hey…you didn’t…I don’t know about this,” he pretended to object groggily, his eyes now closed and his head rotating around as he thrust his legs back over the table.
With no further comment or hesitation, and his heart pounding, Tyler proceeded to unzip and loosen the jeans, manipulate the jockey shorts, and, spitting into the palm of his hand, grasp the thick shaft tightly and stroke it up and down.
“Feel good?”
When Mike didn’t answer and Tyler could hear only his uncontrollable heavy breathing, he wasted no more time replacing his hand with his anxious mouth, and, in what seemed like mere seconds, Mike’s whole body was in rampant convulsions.
Spent, the young man now did seem to pass out, or so Tyler thought till he zipped the jeans back up and began gently caressing his flawless midsection and chest.
“Hey, what the fuck’s going on?” Mike suddenly grunted out loud, shoving Tyler’s arm away, pulling his shirt back down, and struggling to pull himself up. “What the fuck are you doing?”
Startled but trying to keep his wits about him, Tyler immediately backed away and was calmly saying “Oh, come on, Mike…. Just a little fun…” when, with no warning, the other man took a drunken swing, landed a blow across Tyler’s face, and bellowed, “Fucking faggot, keep your fucking hands off me!”
Now truly stunned, and wiping blood that was already trickling from his nose, Tyler carefully moved to the center of the room and said, “I’m sorry you feel like that, Mike. Maybe you’d just better leave.”
Finally on his feet but tottering, Mike next lunged at Tyler, again blatted “Fucking faggot,” and shoved him so violently against a tall bookcase along one wall that most of the books on the top two shelves came crashing to the floor, one cutting a nasty gash in Tyler’s forehead. For a moment, he feared the rage would continue. Then, slurring “Fucking faggot” for the third time, Mike stumbled to the front door and out into the dark early morning.
Naturally, Tyler was pretty shaken up by the brutal experience, but, thankful that the consequences of his foolish behavior were no worse, and naively confident that the episode would just blow over, he concluded that the student must be struggling with his own demons and simply tried to forget it all. What he never suspected was that Mike would return to his dorm and relate how he’d been molested to his roommate, who, in turn, reported the incident to their hall counselor, who, in turn, decided to contact the town police. Unfortunately, an ugly scandal ensued, the news made both the Princeton and New Brunswick newspapers, and, in the long run, Tyler was given the option of facing morals charges in court and causing further embarrassment to the university or proffering his resignation and leaving town altogether. Not one of his colleagues offered departmental support or the least bit of understanding and sympathy, and since all but one happened to be Jews who, in their self-righteousness, turned against a close associate who now posed a potential threat to their security, Tyler, for the first time in his life, experienced a prick of anti-Semitism that would remain with him for years to come. Actually, the only person besides a couple of closeted gay friends he was able to discuss the problem with was his mother, and, within a couple of weeks, he had quietly resigned his position and wrapped up most of his affairs, rented a small apartment in Greenwich Village, and made the last drive from Princeton to Manhattan.
Wrecking his beloved career so carelessly, and aware of the improbability of ever securing another top academic job after all the adverse publicity and gossip, Tyler naturally went through a terrible period of recrimination and gloom. Once, however, he’d adjusted to life in New York, made a few good friends, and set out to write a long novel about a Southern family’s struggle to survive the Great Depression, he began to realize that perhaps this was the direction he was meant to take all along. When the book was immediately picked up by a major publisher and went on to become a phenomenal mass-market hit, things would never again be quite the same for Tyler—professionally, socially, and, indeed, financially. Almost overnight, calls from agents and editors were routine, invitations to the town’s toniest literary and social receptions flooded in, and when the second novel, a modern psychological romance set in the Garden District of New Orleans, proved even more successful and profitable than the first, reviewers wrote of Tyler Dubose as the dashing new Updike or Cheever.
Tyler took the celebrity and wealth in stride, moving uptown to a delightful duplex apartment just off Park Avenue, promoting his books on TV talk shows and at bookshops around the country, and, when not writing or working the bars for sexual gratification, hanging out at Elaine’s and Studio 54 with the likes of Andy Warhol, Truman Capote, Bianca Jagger, Calvin Klein, and other bold-face decadents who found the handsome young Southern novelist with the melodious accent to be engaging company. Basically, Tyler was indifferent to all the attention, the one exception being that paid him the night he was introduced to Tennessee Williams at a crowded birthday reception held at the Gotham Book Mart in the playwright’s honor. Williams, who had arrived alone and smashed in what could only be described as Fidel Castro army fatigues, was, in Tyler’s opinion, not only the finest modern American dramatist but a veritable icon of the literary world. When he found himself sitting on a sofa next to the great man, every nerve in his body seemed to vibrate, and when Williams’ lecherous good eye surveyed him from head to toe, it was all he could do to maintain his composure.
; “Now, hold on just one second, young man, and let me guess,” Williams drawled in his inimitable voice after taking a big slug of vodka. “Georgia. I’d say right off the bat that the accent’s Georgia.” He let out a short cackle for no apparent reason and stared into Tyler’s dark eyes.
“You’re close,” Tyler stammered. “It’s North Carolina, though I was actually born in Charleston.”
“Ah, Charleston. Baby, that is one lovely, gracious town, and Dubose is one lovely, gracious name,” he slurred, pulling on his tight jacket as if he might be uncomfortable. “I myself am from Mississippi.” He cackled again inexplicably, then sipped more booze. “I can tell you must be in some field of the arts,” he continued, obviously unaware of who Tyler was.
“Well, in fact, I am a writer—a novelist.”
“Oh, that’s grand, just wonderful.” For a moment, he gazed out blankly into space, as if he were contemplating or remembering. “I’m also a novelist, but, I should add, a failed novelist. Heeheehee.”
Tyler had absolutely no idea how to respond to that startling remark and weird cackle, so he tried changing the subject.
“Do you get back to the South very often?”
“Well, ya see, I still have a small cottage down in Key West that I use as a retreat from the tyranny of reality and when I’m on the verge of emotional collapse, but”—he giggled again, this time almost maniacally—“well, I’ve never considered Key West to be exactly a Southern locale, do you?”
“I think I know what you mean,” was all Tyler could say.
“And, of course, no place on earth is still as dear to me as New Awyens, where I’ve spent a considerable amount of time over the years and still visit when I’m not drifting around—”
The sentence was cut off abruptly when Williams heard someone say, “May I wish the Bird a happy birthday?” and looked up at a stout, patrician-looking man whom Tyler immediately recognized as Gore Vidal.
