The Peter & Charlie Trilogy

by Gordon Merrick

  THEIR routine was disrupted a few weeks later on one of the Saturdays Peter had come to hate. The announcement was made by C. B. after lunch, when Henry had removed the empty coffee cups from the veranda. (Its repercussions were to echo through their lives, though at the time it seemed only a small domestic crisis.)

  “We’re to be without a cook for the next few days,” she said, looking over her shoulder and putting a finger to her lips. “I’ve been dying to tell you. It seems we have a great singer in our midst.” She twinkled with contained mirth.

  “Really? Who’s that?” Charlie asked, responding to her high spirits.

  “Sapphire, if you please. Mrs. Hall, as I think we must call her from now on. She’s to have an audition with the Metropolitan Opera on Monday morning.” She uttered a peal of laughter.

  “No, seriously,” Charlie interjected, laughing with her. “What’s she up to?”

  “Ah, that remains to be seen. I understand the darkies so well. I pretended to take it all absolutely seriously. ‘That’s very nice, Sapphire,’ I said. ‘How long have you been interested in an operatic career?’” She erupted once more with laughter. “‘I’se always sung in de church. Mr. Otto Kahn, he say I got a big future. That’s what he say.’ She was very severe with me. I’d made her sit down. There’s nothing that flusters them more than treating them as equals. Mr. Otto Kahn! I suppose she’s read his name somewhere in the paper.”

  “And you’re letting her go?”

  “Of course. They’re like children or very nice animals. It’s a scientific fact that their craniums are smaller than ours. One must humor them up to a point. Since she isn’t taking Henry with her, I presume she intends to return. I can’t wait to hear all about Mr. Otto Kahn’s reaction.” She and Charlie laughed together some more. “There’s the dance tonight. You two had better go early and have dinner at the club. Rosie can manage something for me.”

  Later, when the boys were alone, Peter returned to the subject. “Darling, why does C. B. think it’s so funny for Sapphire to be a singer?” he wondered out loud.

  “Oh, I suppose she knows it’s all just a fake.”

  “I don’t see why it should be, necessarily. Lots of Negro singers have started out as somebody’s cook. I don’t think she should laugh at her.”

  “Naturally, she doesn’t laugh at her to her face,” Charlie said with a dismissive tone. He didn’t like criticism of C. B., and he was accustomed to Peter taking conversational directions from him. “You heard her. She said she treated the whole thing completely seriously.”

  “Yes, but—well, I know Negroes too. They’re not necessarily like children.”

  “Oh, come off it. She’s letting her go, isn’t she? Lots of people would’ve made a big stink about it.”

  “Yes, I suppose so.”

  The brief conversation left a little cloud between them that dinner at the club did nothing to dispel. Peter loved any new experience with Charlie, and dining out tête-à-tête with him was a major one, but it was Saturday and it didn’t turn out as he had hoped. Peter had come to feel that if they could get through Saturday without disaster, they could count on another week of perfect harmony. They were surrounded by people from the moment they arrived. Charlie table-hopped, and others returned the visits. Peter had acquired many admirers of his own without being aware of it; nobody really meant anything to him except Charlie. Together they proved a powerful magnet. As the meal was ending, Peter pressed his knee against Charlie’s. “Let’s go look at the tennis courts,” he said. The line had particular significance for them; it referred to the time they had indulged themselves on the lawn.

  “Don’t be silly,” Charlie replied curtly. “I have a date with Betty Pringle.” He threw down his napkin and was gone.

  Betty was a pretty girl in an ordinary, rather doll-like way, but she was a good dancer and had a reputation for being fast; that is, she was said to be willing to neck and pet more boldly than most of the girls. As the evening progressed, Charlie found himself devoting all his attention to her. The dance floor was soon crowded and other youths frequently cut in on them, but he returned and she welcomed him with giggles, accepting him as her special date for the occasion. When the music was slow, she pressed herself against him in a way that immediately aroused him. He knew that she must feel it. They danced, they paused for cold drinks, they danced again. He caught glimpses of Peter from time to time, but whenever he seemed about to approach, he took Betty by the arm and led her back to the floor.

  They were dancing a slow tango and she clung to him; Charlie responded more positively than ever. She made an extra little pelvic movement, acknowledging him. He broke away and smiled down at her.

  “What about going for a drive,” he suggested.

  She looked up at him, all innocence. “Do you think we should?”

  “Why shouldn’t we?”

  “It is getting awfully hot in here. Dance us over to the door. My mother’s here somewhere.”

  When they were out, she took his arm primly. “We mustn’t be gone long,” she said. He ran her across the lawn to where the car was parked. They got in and he started off with a roar. This was part of the club-dance ritual, as familiar to him as the feel of the wheel in his hands, yet he was aware of change, of growing up. A year ago they would have kissed perhaps and played with each other a bit with their hands. Now he knew that anything might happen. His sex told him there was nothing wrong with him; he could play this game as well as any guy. He made no attempt at conversation, but let her fill the silence with chirpy little remarks such as, “The stars. They’re so beautiful!” and “I love to drive fast at night.”

  He drove out along the ocean toward the deserted beach he and Peter had been frequenting. When he reached a point where they were unlikely to be disturbed, he turned in among the dunes and stopped. He switched off the lights and casually put his arm around her shoulder and pulled her to him and kissed her. She didn’t resist. Her mouth felt small and pursy after the soft, rich generosity of Peter’s. He lifted his hand to her breast in a conventional caress. She made a quick movement, and he found himself holding a small bare breast. He started to cover it tactfully, but her hand urged his head downwards and he bent his head and took the nipple in his mouth, feeling it pucker as he did so. She slumped lower in her seat and placed his hand between her knees. He ran it up under her dress along her thighs, encountering obstacles as he did so, stockings, buckles, straps, and reached the warm moist emptiness of her crotch. He ran his thumb along the edge of some undergarment, stroking hair. She quivered under his touch, writhing and uttering small gasps of pleasure.

  “You can do it with your finger if you want,” she whispered.

  His sex was caught in a fold of his trousers and was becoming intensely uncomfortable. He lifted his head. “Just a minute,” he said, and put his mouth once more on hers. He withdrew his hand and busied himself with his own needs. The buttons were stretched taut, but he managed to undo them and work himself out of the tangle of clothing. Freed, the whole hard length of him rose between them and he felt genuine desire. Perhaps she would let him really have her. It would be wonderful to drive it into her, there where it belonged. The thought made his breath catch and his heart race wildly. His hand was trembling as he found hers and lifted it and placed it on his sex. There was an instant of stunning contact, and then she pulled her mouth from his and screamed. Briefly, he took it as a tribute, but she screamed again and began struggling frantically with the handle of the door.

  “Oh, you—you—you filthy—” she was gasping. “Oh, you made me—you made me touch it. That thing! You made me touch it. Oh—”

  He leaned across her and grabbed her hands and held them. “What’s the matter with you? What’re you trying to—”

  “Don’t you touch me. Help! Go away. Take it away from me.” She tried to fight him off. Her voice rose to a shout. “I’ll tell my father. He’ll take you to the police. He’ll have you thrown out of the club. You dirty—He
lp!”

  “Stop yelling, you silly fool. There’s nobody around for miles.” He held her wrists in a hard grip. He wanted to break them. Her bare breast hung from her dress. Her skirt was gathered around her thighs. She was disgusting. His momentary bewilderment was replaced by searing rage. He would crush her. He would destroy her. Girls were all alike. They didn’t know what they wanted, unless it was to make a fool of you. They lifted their skirts, they bared their breasts, they screamed if anything came of it. They didn’t give a damn about male needs. The last time, What’s-her-name had made such a fuss that he’d been unable to keep an erection. The other time, it had been rape. That’s what they really deserved. These thoughts flashed through his mind with the speed of hate. He held her wrists and wanted to make her scream with pain. His voice was hoarse with rage when he spoke. “Go on. Tell your father. I have a few things to tell him myself. What am I supposed to touch? A hairy pee-hole. That’s supposed to be wonderful. ‘You can do it with your finger.’ God. Talk about filth.”

  As he spoke, a wail rose in her throat until it broke into sobs and she seemed to shrink as her body was shaken by them. He released her wrists and rearranged himself in his trousers and buttoned himself up. The hand that had been under her skirt felt contaminated. He didn’t like to touch himself with it. As her sobbing continued, his composure returned. He had given her a little of what she deserved. He began to feel a small glow of satisfaction.

  “OK, Miss Hairy-pee-hole. What shall it be? Shall I take you home or back to the club?” Her sobbing redoubled in force, and he almost laughed. “Considering the condition you’re in, I guess it’d better be home.” He started the car and turned and headed back. Her sobs slowly diminished and died. He was aware of her adjusting her bodice and straightening her skirt. They continued in silence until he reached inhabited streets and pulled up in front of her house. She opened the door.

  “Don’t you ever dare speak to me again,” she said shakily. “I’ll get back at you if it’s the last thing I do.”

  “Well, if I’m not supposed to speak to you, I won’t bother to say goodnight. Go on. Get out. And don’t try stirring up any trouble. I can talk too, remember.”

  She slammed the door. He chuckled as he shot the car into gear and sped off toward the club.

  He went first to the lavatory and washed his hands thoroughly and removed a smudge of lipstick from his cheek. Then he went out to look for Peter. The dance was on the wane. There were fewer people about, which simplified his search. Peter wasn’t dancing. He wasn’t in the bar. He wasn’t in any of the public rooms. He wasn’t on the big brightly lighted porch. Charlie went down the steps that led to lawn and the tennis courts. He passed under trees into deep shadow. It occurred to him that Peter might have gone home, but even as he thought it he rejected it as extremely unlikely. Peter wouldn’t leave him unless he was sick. He heard voices off to his right, and he veered in their direction. In a moment, he recognized Peter’s voice. He slowed to approach more cautiously. He made out two forms seated on the grass under a tree. He was only a few yards from them when two heads turned, catching the light.

  Charlie swung around and started back, almost running in the direction he had come from.

  “Charlie,” Peter called. There was the peculiar tremor of delight that was always in his voice when he spoke his name. Charlie speeded up. He circled the building and leaped into the car and was off. His thoughts and feelings were in such a tumult that he couldn’t sort them out. His throat ached. His eyes were burning. He gripped the wheel, his muscles straining, as if it offered him his only hope of salvation. Even after he had parked the car in front of the house, he remained in the same position, clinging to the wheel. He had recognized Peter’s companion. The one member of the club whom everybody referred to openly as a “pervert.” A man whom mothers warned their sons against.

  He became suddenly conscious of time passing, and he flung himself out of the car and raced into the house and up the stairs to his room. He started to lock the door, but changed his mind. Not that he wanted to see Peter again. He could rot in hell. He tried to undress but couldn’t. He wanted to lie down, but the empty bed repelled him. He paced, all his body feeling stiff and unmanageable. His muscles were tensed to the breaking point. He wanted to let out a great roar of pain and fury. Nervous tension expressed itself in blinding rage. Jesus Christ. Why should this sort of thing happen to him? That goddamn girl. He had let her off too easily. He should’ve really frightened her so she wouldn’t dare talk. God knows what the bitch might accuse him of—rape, indecent exposure, anything. Nobody would pay any attention, but word might get to C. B. And Peter out on the lawn with a queer. If he discovered that they had so much as touched each other, he would kill him. Kill him. Kill him for making him feel like this.

  He heard a car below, and his heart leaped up and began to hammer painfully against his chest. He remained motionless, listening. He heard the car stop, the gentle closing of a door, footsteps on gravel, and then nothing until there was another flurry of footsteps before his door and Peter burst into the room.

  “Why did you—” he began, and then stopped as he saw Charlie’s face.

  “Did your boyfriend bring you home?” Charlie demanded with a sneer.

  “Oh darling—”

  “Stop calling me that.” He took a quick step forward and hit Peter hard across the face with his open hand. Peter rocked with the blow, but remained standing defenseless before him. “I’ve had enough of this whole thing. You can have Jimmy Harvester. Did he give you a good fuck, or was it the other way around?”

  “He understands about us, which is more than I can say for anybody else.”

  “Understands about us? Jesus Christ. So you had a nice heart-to-heart talk, did you? Just you two girls together. You dirty little pansy. Goddamn it, I won’t have you blabbing about things that concern me.”

  “They concern me too.”

  “Do they, now? Well, they won’t concern you for long. You’re leaving here tomorrow. Do you understand? C. B. will be interested to hear about the friends you choose for yourself.”

  Peter’s face worked. For an awful moment, Charlie thought he was going to cry. He made a visible effort to pull himself together, a remote look came into his eyes, and he turned and walked out, leaving the door open behind him. Charlie stared after him. So that was that. If he came crawling back asking for forgiveness, he would really let him have it. His hand still tingled from the blow. He went to the door and started to close it, but left it slightly ajar. He could see the light under Peter’s door across the hall. He undressed, but instead of going to bed as he intended, he put on a dressing gown as if he were expecting company. He went to the door. The light was still on. With Peter there, nearby, he found that his mind was beginning to work more clearly. What exactly had he been so angry about? Peter had been out in the dark with Jimmy Harvester. That was enough. But what if they had just been talking? Outrageous, but not really sufficient grounds for making him leave. The thought of his not being here left him with an emptiness so profound that he shook his head and put his hand out to a chair to support himself. There was nothing he could tell C. B. that would make his leaving reasonable, so it was out of the question anyway. He had no intention of going to him, but if he came back, as he was bound to do, he wouldn’t be quite so belligerent.

  He went to the door again. The light was still on. What in hell was he doing? He paced, staying near the door. Thinking back, he had to admit that Peter hadn’t betrayed the slightest trace of guilt, not even when he had first came upon them. “Charlie.” The call was in his ears, eager and welcoming. Perhaps he should go see what was going on across the hall. If he waited much longer, Peter might go to bed and—That was all over now, at least for the time being. He wasn’t going to have a boy calling him “darling” all the time. He gave a tug to the cord of his dressing gown and peered around the door. Then he pushed it open and walked quickly across the hall and entered Peter’s room without k
nocking.

  He was wearing the clothes Charlie hadn’t seen since the day he arrived. His suitcase was open on the rack, and he was putting something in it. He looked up without surprise or any other emotion.

  “What in hell are you doing?” Charlie demanded.

  “Did you want something?”

  “Yes, I did. I want my clothes,” Charlie said, hastily improvising. “But what do you think you’re up to?”

  “I wasn’t going to steal your clothes. You told me to leave. I’m leaving.”

  “You’re going to go marching off into the night? You really are a total ass. How would I explain that to C. B.?”

  “You’ll manage. It’ll probably have something to do with the friends I choose for myself.”

  “Oh, of course. Why don’t you call Jimmy Harvester and ask him to rescue you? The damsel in distress. Jesus.” He strode across the room and seized the suitcase and flung it upside down on the floor.

  “That’s pretty stupid.” Peter picked it up and replaced it on the rack. He began to gather up his belongings. Charlie grabbed the suitcase again and hurled it across the room. “Now listen,” Peter said. “You’d better get out of here. This is still my room.” He took Charlie’s arm in a strong grip and started to lead him toward the door. Charlie seized him in a headlock and began to force him to the floor. Peter wrenched himself free. Charlie went for him again. They struck out at each other, hurting but careful not to do any real damage. They grappled. They were evenly matched. They broke free and hit each other and grappled again. A chair was overturned. Peter slipped and Charlie was on him. He wrenched himself free again and backed to the end of the room. They were both panting.

  “You better stop,” Peter said. “C. B. will hear us.”

  Charlie was held by the cold challenge in his eyes. There was none of the soft, familiar yearning in them. He looked competent and manly and dangerously purposeful. “Will you stop this idiotic business of clearing out tonight?” he asked.