He went through the drawings with fingers that still fumbled uncontrollably and made a selection of six or eight in which Peter’s sex was not shown or only faintly hinted at. He pushed the rest back under the clothes and carefully covered them and closed the drawer. He wanted more time to think, but he knew it had to be done now; there was no time to lose. He hurried for the door. Peter was entering as he went out.
“Wait. I’ll be right back,” he said as he brushed past him. He ran down the stairs and found C. B. in the gloomy living room sitting at her desk writing letters. He went over to her, holding the drawings conspicuously under his arm.
“Have you seen Peter? It’s about time to go to the beach.” His voice was working right. It sounded perfectly natural.
She hastily removed the pince-nez she wore for writing and looked up at him. “I thought he went up with you. What have you there? More drawings?”
“What? Oh, yes.” He looked at them as if he had forgotten he was carrying them. It was an accomplished performance. “Some things I’ve been doing of Peter. It’s good practice and he’s a damn good model. Life-class stuff. Want to look at them?” The muscles of his arms seemed to lock as he offered them, but he had to get through this step if he was to achieve his purpose.
“I’d love to, my dearest.” She took them and put them in front of her. “Lovely. Lovely. Brilliant,” she commented as she turned them over. “You’re right. He’s a splendid model. You’re getting better every day, my dearest.”
Seeing them spread out in front of her, exposed to her gaze, made his head roar again. There was nothing wrong with them, he told himself desperately. Everybody knew that men thought nothing of being naked together. His heart seemed to have crowded into his stomach. His entrails heaved. He felt as if his whole body would collapse under the iron control he was exerting over it. All his muscles were engaged; he had to say the next part easily and lightly. “It’s a funny thing. I have a bunch of drawings upstairs that a girl gave me who was at that life class I went to a couple of years ago. They’re—its hard to describe. They’re not improper or anything, but she always got things a little wrong. The proportions are distorted. The general impression is sort of weird. The thing is, somebody’s had them out.”
“Really?” she sat back and looked up at him. He was watching her closely. The slightest oddity in her expression would be capable of demolishing his control. He met her gaze and prayed he could survive this moment. She looked only mildly interested.
He managed to make his shoulders shrug. “It doesn’t matter. I’d practically forgotten I had them. They were shoved in with some old sweaters and things. I found they’d been moved the other day.” His mind raced. Was that an error? Would Rosie report that she had found them yesterday evening? It couldn’t matter.
“Perhaps Peter ran across them.”
“No. He’d never look in those drawers. Never mind. I wouldn’t have kept them, but it seemed wrong somehow to just throw them away.”
“Yes, rather cruel with somebody else’s work, although I’ve never been convinced of the propriety of a girl working with a nude male model. I suppose one of the darkies thought she ought to turn out your drawers. I think Rosie is inclined to be a bit of a snooper.”
She hadn’t indicated by the faintest twitch of a muscle that she was in any way upset or even curious. If she had heard anything, she must have found his story convincing. If a report were brought to her now, she would be prepared to dismiss it.
“Well, I might as well go find Peter.” He gathered up the drawings and made his departure, revealing nothing of what was going on inside him. His pace accelerated as he left the room. He made it to the foot of the stairs. He stumbled against the newel post and gripped it. He thought he was going to vomit. He breathed deeply and waited for the heaving of his stomach to pass. Never, never, never, his mind repeated. He could never allow her to have the faintest suspicion of the things that had taken place upstairs. If there was ever even a possibility of her discovering them, Peter would have to go. He couldn’t bear the thought of her catching him in an impure act, let alone an abnormal one. He must always remain her ideal, for his sake as well as for hers. As his strength returned, he found himself trying to think of an absolutely secure hiding place. If he couldn’t find one, the drawings would have to be destroyed. At last, he was able to mount the stairs.
As he recovered, he was able to assure himself that he had got through it quite successfully, but something still gnawed at the back of his mind, some wrong note, something that didn’t quite fit.
He was halfway up the stairway when it struck him. He put his hand out to the railing for support as his legs failed him again. She had talked about nude male models. How had she known? He hadn’t said anything about male nudes. All of his body began to react once more while he insisted to himself that she couldn’t have kept such a straight face if she really knew anything. The drawings of Peter had been spread out in front of her; it was a normal association of ideas. That was the only possible explanation. His legs steadied under him, he took a few deep breaths and continued up to the top floor.
After consultation with Peter, he gathered together all the drawings and locked them up with the one of himself in Peter’s suitcase, which in turn they locked up in a cupboard in the guest bathroom Peter rarely used. Sketching was permanently abandoned.
TIME wore away their remaining days. Soon, they could no longer talk of “almost a month.” It was weeks, and when there were no longer fourteen full days, they lost the comfort of the plural.
They stopped at the drugstore in the village one day to let Peter buy some toothpaste. When he came out and they had started off, Peter asked, “Darling, why do so many people refer to you as C. B.’s nephew? Mr. Haines just did.”
Charlie had always been aware of this deception of C. B.’s and had accepted it as harmless coquettry but it embarrassed him to have to explain it to Peter. It made him feel ashamed for her. He shrugged. “Oh, it’s just an old misunderstanding. She doesn’t both to set people straight.”
“It’s a lie, really, when she doesn’t. It’s hard to think of C. B. lying.”
“She doesn’t, in any real way. She couldn’t possibly. It’s against everything she believes in.”
“I know.” He remained silent for a thoughtful moment and then shifted in his seat, underlining a shift of mood. “Do you realize how many days it is today? I don’t see how I’m going to stand it. If only I could just stay and then we could all go to New York together.”
“You insist on having birthdays. C. B. promised you’d be home for it and things are tense enough already with your family. She couldn’t let you stay. It’ll only be three weeks.”
“Three weeks. Golly. I wish you hadn’t told me that story about your football captain. You might as well be prepared for great gooey love letters every day. I’ll try not to be too awful, but I’ve never written a love letter. They’re apt to be wild. Please don’t mind. You’ve got to write me, you know.”
“Of course.”
“Every day?”
“Twice a day if you want, baby.”
“Oh, darling.” He leaned forward and kissed the hand on the wheel.
“Stop it,” Charlie warned roughly. “People might see.”
Peter drew back quickly. “OK. We’re not going to be apart for three weeks. Everything’s lovely. There’s just going to be a sort of a little blank in there somewhere and then we’ll be in New York together.”
All their talk was of New York now, the apartment, furniture, whom they would see, what they would do. Peter resolutely limited his references to the impending separation, and Charlie was grateful to him for it. He had dreaded a succession of increasingly tearful scenes. The days sped by, spent almost exclusively in each other’s company. Suddenly, Peter’s departure was upon them.
THE last night began very much like their first. They were unable to sleep, unable to leave each other alone, unable to have enough of each other. Somet
ime during the night, Peter said, “There’s just one thing I ask of you. Please God, take care of yourself. Don’t let anything happen to you. That’s all. I’m not going to talk about it any more. You’re my life. You know that.”
Charlie suddenly rolled over onto his stomach and was seized by madness. He bit the pillow and pounded it with his fists. He was making a strange noise in his throat. Startled, Peter stretched out beside him and put an arm around his shoulders.
“Oh, darling. Please,” he begged as the strange seizure continued. “What is it?”
Charlie’s head lifted and swung from side to side. “I can’t stand it,” he cried in a strangled voice. “I don’t want you to go.”
“Oh, darling.” Peter nuzzled his neck. He was immediately close to tears. “How do you think I feel? I’ve done my best not to show it.”
“I just can’t stand it,” Charlie cried again. He butted his head into the pillow and his fists flailed. His whole body was shaking so violently that Peter flung a leg over his to quiet him. The strange whimpering noise rose in Charlie’s throat.
Peter hugged him closer. “Please, darling. Don’t. It’s the same for me. God, how wonderful. Please, my dearest.” Responding to the urging of their bodies and the pressure of Charlie’s hands, Peter found himself on top of him, belly down, sprawled on Charlie’s back. His sex was cradled in the cleft between Charlie’s buttocks, his arms were locked around his heaving shoulders. The buttocks were working, trying to grip Peter’s sex. Then a feverish hand was on him, spreading lubricant between them, seizing his sex, guiding it. As Peter realized what was happening, he was torn by a great cry. “Oh, God. It’s not possible. I can’t,” he sobbed. He felt his sex entering the beloved body, sliding deeper into it. Charlie’s hips lifted, and Peter’s body lunged forward in total penetration. He uttered a hoarse shout.
“Oh Christ! I don’t believe it. Jesus Christ! Please.” Gripped by instinct, incapable of thought, he performed a few long experimental thrusts, stunned at the power they generated in him, and then he felt himself beginning to dissolve in an orgasm. He fought it. His hands were tangled in Charlie’s hair, his teeth clamped on his shoulder. The wave mounted and crashed over him. He felt himself bursting into Charlie, all of himself streaming into him in great demolishing jets. Charlie’s hips heaved, his hands gripped Peter’s buttocks, drawing them to him. Their bodies leaped and writhed in unison. When Peter finally relaxed his grip on Charlie’s hair and their breathing was more normal, he let his whole weight flow over Charlie’s body. Even as he had performed the act he had felt something basically alien in it, but the thrill of it had filled him with intimations of an exuberant mastery of life unlike anything he had ever known.
“That’s really it,” Charlie said at last. He seemed to speak out of a deep peace. “That’s all of it. You’ve got to come back to me. We’re all one now.”
“If it never happens again,” Peter murmured, “it’s—well, if it’s at all the same for you, I want you to fuck me more than ever, always. I’m beginning to understand things, darling. All to do with making you happy.”
“You do. So beautifully. It’s incredible to feel you inside me. You’d better let me up, my sweetheart.”
Peter pulled away with a moan and rolled over onto his back. Charlie’s hand was immediately on his chest.
“Don’t move. Just lie there. I’ll take care of everything.”
He leaped up and was gone. He returned with washcloth and towel and tended Peter, who appeared to be dozing. When he was finishing, he felt Peter’s eyes on him. He looked up and his lips parted to take a quick breath at the unabashed love he saw in their limitless depths. Peter rolled his head slowly back and forth.
“You’ve given me everything. I thought I was doing fine an hour ago, but I didn’t even exist.”
“We’re all one, darling,” Charlie repeated gently. “Come on. You’ve got to wash. I came all over the place. I’ve got to change the sheets.”
“I know. I’m lying in it. I don’t want to wash it off.”
“Come on, my baby. We’ll take a shower together. It’ll be all right if we wash it off together.”
Somehow, they managed to dress when morning came. They exchanged a long kiss at the door and were almost back in bed together. Peter broke away. “I know. We’ve got to stop. I’m not going to be able to look at you again, so—so long. Be seeing you.” He hurried out of the room.
Somehow, they were able to face C. B. over breakfast, they were all in the car, they reached the station, the train pulled in, Peter was gone.
“We’re going to miss him,” C. B. said in the car on the way home. “However, I will enjoy having these last few weeks just with you.” She took Charlie’s hand and lifted it to her lips.
Dazed, bereft, he snatched it from her. “Look out. Somebody might see us,” he warned.
She looked at him with astonishment and then burst into youthful laughter. “Why, you act as if we were a courting couple.”
His face was burning. There was nothing he could say that wouldn’t make it worse. He managed brief laughter. “That was pretty silly,” he said. He returned his hand to her, and she gathered it to her bosom so that his slightest movement would have become an unwanted intimacy.
SOON after lunch, telling himself that he might as well get the first letter over with, Charlie wrote to Peter:
Peter—baby—
It somehow just doesn’t make sense writing it.
At lunch, C. B. said, “What an utter charmer. I’m going to miss him. How nice to think we’ll all be together again so soon in New York.” She took the words out of my mouth, except that I might have expressed it a bit more strongly.
The house seems very strange without you. I don’t think I’ll spend much time in it for the rest of my time here. I guess I’ll go over to the club in a little while and sit around. How exciting. I’m looking forward so much to New York that maybe I can get through the next few weeks in a trance. I’m not looking forward to tonight. I’ve never been really drunk. Maybe I’ll bring a bottle up here and try it.
I’m dying to hear how everything is there and how your plans have been received and everything. I know nobody can change your mind so I’m not really worried. Don’t forget to try to get a rug from your mother. We really need one.
I’ve been through the drawings before I locked them up for good and picked out the most prim and proper one and I’ve pinned it up near the foot of the bed where I can see it from everywhere. It’s not the one I’d like to put up, as you can imagine. I’m looking at it now. To an expert eye, it’s not really all that prim and proper because it keeps moving.
I’ll keep you posted about everything here, but I don’t suppose there will be much to tell you. I’m discovering that being in love isn’t all fun. I’d better not write any more now. God, last night was wonderful, except for thinking about today. Write soon.
Your champ
Charlie’s letter crossed Peter’s first:
My love—
I could go on saying that about nine hundred and seventy-six times, but I guess it might get monotonous for you. It’s worse than anything I imagined. I’ve been without you for one night and it’s absolute torture, it seems like six months already. I haven’t done myself for years, old Late-Starter Pete, but I sit around thinking about you and you’ve seen often enough what that does to me. So I have to do something about it and it’s awful and such a waste because you’re not here.
I know one thing. You’ve taught me how to laugh. It’s amazing. I go around roaring like a hyena, and my dismal little brothers and sisters think Big Brother has finally lost his marbles.
I thought the picture was going to be such a big help, but every time I try to look at it I start bawling my head off so I’ve had to lock it up again. I don’t guess I’m making much sense, laughing one minute and crying the next, but that’s the way it is. I think about your football captain and it scares me so. It really did happen to us, didn’t it, my d
arling, my dearest, my big lover? It isn’t something that we’re just going to build up in our minds and then find out it’s no good? You’ve got to tell me it can’t be like that. I keep thinking maybe I shouldn’t write you at all, I shouldn’t even think about you—ha-ha—and then when we’re together again it would be as if we hadn’t been apart at all. Don’t you dare think anything like that. I’ll die if I don’t hear from you all the time. Maybe it’ll be better when I actually have a letter from you.
It seems my father isn’t speaking to me. I’m allowed in the house just to humor my mother, and the sooner I leave the better. So I’ve Sacrificed All for Love. Thank Goodness. Mother is really being very decent about it. She says she has a rug we can have. Also some fairly lousy silverware. I’ll bring it for the servants.
How is this for a love letter? It turns out that a love letter is just saying what you think to someone you love. I love you more than anybody has ever loved anybody ever. I’m thinking about your cock and having it inside me. I’m thinking about you having my cock in your mouth. I wish we could do both at once. That would be something. I don’t even dare think about night before last, because it was too incredible. I want you all inside me and me inside you so we couldn’t tell where one of us began or ended. I want you so, it kills me. I want you to call me baby. I’m not going to sign this so you’ll have to guess who it’s from.
FROM here on, memory grows erratic. The past is people moving against a vague background of events. The physical background comes in flashes: sunlight filtering through trees, surf breaking on a beach; that was at the beginning, then dirty snow piled up in a city street, a bar, a room. Was somebody running for President? Was there a war on? Well, yes, a World War broke out in Europe about this time, but we scarcely noticed it. That would come later. What was running on Broadway? What courses did Peter take? When did the draft start? How long did Charlie work for the publishing house? I don’t remember. I could look it all up, but it doesn’t matter; let the anachronisms fall where they may. The people are there, impervious to time, passionately acting out their lives while the world moves dimly around them. A short stretch of dirty New York street on a hot September afternoon fills the mind’s eye.
The Peter & Charlie Trilogy Page 10
