The Peter & Charlie Trilogy

by Gordon Merrick

  “You, of course.”

  “Well, then we’ll have to tell him.” He brushed past him and began to gather up his clothes. Anne had left him firmly aroused; he smoked a cigarette and waited for the feel of her hand on him to pass so that he could put on his shorts. He felt suddenly as disoriented as if he had survived a fit of madness. If everything that mattered in life was finished, why go on with this ugly little comedy? He pulled his clothes on. Jean-Claude had disappeared into the bathroom. He considered slipping away, but Jean-Claude’s submission drove him to devise some ultimate outrage. He wanted to rub Peter’s nose in the squalid mess he’d made of their lives. He called. The boy appeared in the bathroom door, fully dressed.

  “Have you got your swimming things?” Charlie asked, letting his eyes slide past him. “I want to spend some time on the beach. You’ve got to get that bare patch sunburned like the rest of you.”

  “We’ll go where everybody can see us together?”

  “Of course.”

  “Oh, mon amour—”

  “Let’s get the hell out of here. Come on.”

  They went out into the hot day. Jean-Claude drove his car out of a shed at the side of the house and they set off, Charlie leading, back around the town and out through the vineyard to the rented villa. As he approached it, his heart began to beat so fast that he had trouble handling the car. He got out with difficulty and waited for Jean-Claude to join him and they went to the house together. Peter was waiting for them under the grapevine that covered part of the terrace.

  “I see. I might have known it,” he said to Charlie, without looking at Jean-Claude. “I guess I did, when Yvonne said you’d gone to town. Well?”

  “Oh, we’ve had our moment of truth. I planned to beat the hell out of Jeannot, but it turns out you’re the one who deserves the beating.”

  “Is that what you’ve come for now?”

  “No. Beating’s not much fun. I worked things out more interestingly. Tell him what happened, Jeannot.”

  “This morning? Everything?”

  “Of course. Just because he’s a sneak and a liar doesn’t mean we have to be.”

  “He made love to me. It is the great experience of my life. We are all his now—you, me, even Anne.”

  Peter hadn’t taken his eyes off Charlie. “You really have to make your points, don’t you?” he said. “It couldn’t be a quiet death, could it? You have to jump up and down on the corpse and cut it up into little pieces.”

  “I suppose you’re referring to your sad little affair with Jeannot. Tell him how you feel about him now, Jeannot.”

  “It’s very difficult. I think now I’ve been in love with Charlie all along from the beginning. I think I loved you because you are his. I—”

  “Drop it, Jeannot,” Peter said without looking at him.

  Charlie could see the hurt going back deep into his eyes. He could barely force himself to look at him; tears stung his eyes and his throat ached with them. “Well, that about covers it,” he said, grinding his voice out with difficulty. “If you two want a little farewell kiss, I’m going upstairs to get some things.”

  He left them and returned in a few minutes carrying swimming trunks and a towel and a clean shirt and shorts for later. He found Peter standing beside the door with his hands in his pockets. Jean-Claude was on the other side of the terrace and sprang into place beside him, as if for protection.

  “What’re you planning to do?” Peter asked in a dead voice.

  “We’re going to spend the day together. And the night too, probably. What do you think, Jeannot?”

  “Oh, yes, mon amour.”

  “If you go, you won’t find me here when you get back.” Peter said in the dead voice.

  “That’s the risk we take, I guess. I probably would’ve said the same thing last week if you’d told me your plans for Nice. Come on, Jeannot.” Charlie took his arm and they left the terrace.

  “Charlie,” Peter cried out.

  The voice cut into his heart. He gripped Jean-Claude’s arm and speeded up. He dropped into the car and took a long difficult breath. “Let’s go out beyond Tahiti where we don’t have to wear anything,” he suggested with a harsh attempt at making it sound like something he wanted to do.

  They lay out on the enormous sweep of beach, naked under the sun, with their swimming trunks tucked between their legs to protect their sexes. At a distance, they could see other naked figures, groups of men and girls, couples in various combinations. Charlie waited for the sun to anesthetize him. Everything hurt deep inside him. Seeing Peter had knocked all the props out from under him, shamed him, crippled him. It was finished, nothing could ever make it right again, but he hurt in the very roots of his being.

  Life was over, but he was still alive. What was he going to with all the time that was left? He had already told himself and could go on telling himself that he should forgive Peter one transgression when he himself had committed so many, but reason didn’t prevail. Feelings weren’t subject to will; he couldn’t will himself to want Peter. The thought of Peter eagerly taking this big, deranged boy in his arms told him that he would never want him again. And how did he know that Jean-Claude was the first? It was the loss of trust that hurt the most, the discovery that the perfect truthfulness he had always believed in was an illusion. If he could manage an intrigue here, he could have done so over and over again in New York. The pain was real, stemming from an abnormal heartbeat and whatever organs pumped bile into the stomach, if that was what it was, but also from a blockage of the mind, a weight on his soul, so that he couldn’t think clearly and he hurt all over, a pervasive pain, dull but almost unbearable.

  He shifted about on the sand so that he came into contact with Jean-Claude. He recoiled, although he scarcely registered whose body he had touched, and went on feeling, rather than thinking, about Peter. He had never reproached him in thought or word for anything he might have done when they were apart. Fastidious. Peter was much too fastidious to be capable of whoring, but when he had been on the town during Charlie’s ill-fated marriage he had made no bones about accepting expensive gifts from his lovers. He had done whatever he had done (Charlie had never known what) to have a very large sum of money settled on him by a rich benefactor. Charlie had met the benefactor and had known that Peter couldn’t have been involved with him physically for pleasure, so perhaps there had been a touch of whoring, but Peter had been on his own and Charlie had felt it was none of his business.

  Charlie’s later exploration of the homosexual world, when he had still been successfully celibate, had been an attempt to bridge a gap in their shared experience. The bars he went to were bars he had heard Peter mention. When he found a new one, he wondered if Peter knew it. He observed the never-ending hunt for new partners; he repulsed the advances of many attractive young men. He gained his first insight into what Peter’s brief life away from him had been. Even if Peter’s part in the bad trouble with Hal had been less innocent than he had always believed, he would have understood. Loneliness wore down resistance. Solace was so readily at hand. All the more reason to set the highest standards and, at least when life was running its normal course, adhere to them. All the more reason why he could find no forgiveness in himself now.

  When he had received Peter’s distraught telegram from California, he had immediately sent Milly away even though he had just arrived to spend the night. Milly had been sweet and understanding: he had already lectured Charlie on fidelity. “I’m glad it happened with me, but it shouldn’t have happened with anybody. I feel guilty for enjoying it so much.”

  The telegram had inevitably reminded him of something Tony had said when Charlie had asked how he had managed to escape the draft. “I told them I was a faggot. Anybody who doesn’t is nuts. They catch you with a cock in your mouth and you go to prison for the rest of your life. No thanks.”

  Fear had clutched at his heart. The telegram seemed reassuring on this score, but he wanted to pray for the first time in his life, he
wanted to do penance, anything to get Peter through safely. Tony dropped in on him the next day in the casual way he had of turning up at any hour of the day or night.

  “I’m afraid I’m not going to be seeing you any more,” Charlie said when they were seated in Peter’s stylish living room.

  “Oh? Your new kid Milly going to monopolize your time?”

  “I said good-bye to him yesterday.” He handed Tony the telegram and studied him as he read it. His eyes could never get their fill of his beauty. The tilted nose, the prominent cheekbones, the hollows beneath them, the full red lips, the long line of jaw punctuated by a dimple in the chin were all full of unexpected quirks and curves and angles, as if drawn by a quick nervous hand, and yet achieved perfect harmony. His rich chestnut hair lay smooth against his head, unlike the preposterous pompadour he had worn when they first met. He lifted his bold eyes to Charlie.

  “Christ, honey. It’s what I’ve always said. You know the other guy?”

  “He’s an old friend. An officer.”

  “An officer? Then it’s probably all right. I know of cases. They usually try to cover it up. Two GI’s is really bad. I’m sorry.” He rose and went and sat on the arm of Charlie’s chair. “Anyway, a guy like you wouldn’t want a hustler hanging around indefinitely. We’ve had some wild times. I’ve never known anybody like you before. You’ve taught me a lot of things. How to speak better. How I should dress, if I had the dough. My hair.” He laughed. “Maybe I’ll find some rich guy to keep me. You’ve given me ideas. Hey, Charlie.”

  “Yes?”

  “Nothing. I just like to say your name. You’re a wonderful guy. You know what I’d like?”

  “When you look at me like that, I can make a good guess. No, slave.”

  “OK, master.” They laughed. “I won’t have any trouble remembering what it’s like. So that’s it? No more playing around? Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll work out. How about a kiss?”

  “That’s different. It’s a crime against nature not to kiss that mouth when it’s available. You didn’t have to suggest it.”

  When Charlie released him, Tony laughed again. “It’s lucky I didn’t fall in love with you. Is it all right if I call in a week or so just to find out if Peter’s all right?”

  “Thanks, sweetheart. That would be nice.”

  And from that moment it had never entered his head again to make a sexual move toward anybody but Peter. He wondered what had become of Tony. After ten years, even his startling beauty must have begun to fade. He hoped he had found his rich friend.

  He felt Jean-Claude’s hand on him and brushed it away. How was he going to spend a whole day with this miserable boy? Maybe he couldn’t, but he certainly wasn’t going home. He thought of Peter’s threat to leave. Let him. His rage, his lust for revenge, had become a cold painful rejection of everything they had known and made together. Except that he wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t; their lives were too intertwined. It would take days just to untangle their finances. Peter had put quite a lot of money in his name over the years to establish a fiction of independence. He had no intention of keeping it, but Peter would have to tell him how to give it back. He didn’t understand anything about stocks and things. Luckily he had the show coming up in the fall. He could get by, probably better without Peter, who wouldn’t let him do portraits and hack work, which was where the easy money was. Renounce love. Strip his life down to bare essentials. Work. His mind approved the prospect, but his pain didn’t ease.

  He sat up and wiped sweat out of his eyes and looked around, hoping to see somebody he knew. There was no one close enough to recognize. He saw three male figures strolling along the edge of the sea headed in his direction. He watched their approach and identified one of them as a cute American boy they had met here and there. When they were within hailing distance, Charlie lifted an arm and waved. All three waved back and the American called. Jean-Claude heard and sat up and saw them. he snatched up his trunks and wriggled into them.

  “Put yours on, mon amour,” he said.

  “Why?”

  “You are mine now. I don’t want everybody to see you.”

  “You haven’t acquired exclusive rights, you know. Besides, I’m covered.”

  “You may think so. I can see a great deal.”

  “Maybe somebody else would like a look.”

  The three had almost reached them. The American broke into a jog for the last few yards and dropped to his knees between them, arranging for a leg to almost touch Charlie’s. He greeted them both, but his eyes kept darting to Charlie. He had a lively face and a trim, smooth body and his trunks had an aggressive swell. Jean-Claude knew the other two, who were Dutch, and introduced them. They all chatted of the weather and of parties they had been to or were going to.

  “Where’s your friend?” the American asked Charlie. “I’ve always seen you together before.”

  “Yeah. It must get monotonous.”

  “You’re a beautiful pair. Is your friend’s hair natural?”

  “Sure.”

  “You’ve got a beautiful tan. It’s so even all over.” This was an excuse for the American’s eyes to linger on his body and drop to his haphazardly covered sex. When he looked up, his eyes conveyed an open invitation. Charlie smiled into them. Christ, he thought, is this what life would be again? Sure, he could probably have a good time in bed with this boy. What then? The Dutch pair, too, perhaps? One of them, certainly, who was also eyeing him. And after that, some more experiments of the sort that Tony had arranged, that Guy had proposed yesterday? The utter desolation of it filled him with dread. He must save himself somehow. The American put a hand on his knee as if to balance himself, and the leg finally slid over and touched his. Charlie shifted slightly so that the trunks fell away from his sex. The hand tightened on his knee, and the fingers began an invisible caress. Jean-Claude, who was watching, raised an arm to make a nervous swipe at his hair.

  “But look,” one of the Dutchmen exclaimed, “Jeannot has shaved his armpits.”

  Jean-Claude dropped his arm quickly and Charlie laughed. “I did it. Isn’t it sexy?”

  “I’ve thought of doing it and didn’t dare,” the American said. “Do you really like it? I think I’ll do mine.”

  “You see, Jeannot? I told you you’d start a fashion. What’re you all wearing trunks for? Nobody does at this end of the beach.” He plucked his own from between his legs and tossed them aside.

  “You are right,” the Dutchman who had been eyeing him said and promptly slipped his off.

  “I don’t know—” the American said.

  “Go on. It’s much more comfortable.”

  The American ducked forward and muttered, “You do things to me.”

  “That’s very flattering. Go ahead. Nobody’ll mind.”

  The American stood and did as he was told, turning his back to the others. His sex slanted forward stiffly. Charlie looked up at him and smiled. “Very nice,” he said.

  “It’s not too—”

  “Not at all. You’re still decent. Come on, Jeannot. Everybody else is starkers. What are you waiting for?”

  Jeannot’s eyes burned at him. “But no, mon amour. You know—”

  “Don’t be silly. If you sit there all dressed up, you’ll embarrass the rest of us.”

  “No. No, I—”

  “Come on, men. He’s hiding something from you. I happen to know what it is. You’ve got to see it.” He glanced at the American. “Grab him.” He made a pass at Jean-Claude’s trunks that wasn’t supposed to accomplish anything. The American crowded in close to him, letting his sex brush against him as Jean-Claude clutched at his trunks and tried to wriggle away. The Dutch pair joined in, trying to get a grip on Jean-Claude’s arms. The American’s hands appeared to be tugging at the trunks, but they were finding opportunities to make quick exploratory contacts with Charlie’s body.

  “Go on, get him,” Charlie whispered. “We’ll have it later.”

  As Jean-Claude’s strugg
les became more frenzied, the others warmed to their task. They were all shouting and laughing. The American had got the message and was really concentrating now. When Charlie saw them all engaged, he sprang away and pulled on his trunks. He gathered up his things in one swoop and went pounding off down the beach.

  “Shar—lee,” Jean-Claude screamed after him. He heard shouts and laughter and then only the thud of his feet as he ran on at a fast, steady pace.

  The physical exertion made him feel cleansed and free, free at least of Jean-Claude. The boy would doubtless fall in love with all three of them before the scuffle was over. His hunger for revenge was appeased; Jean-Claude was no longer any concern of his. He squinted down the beach, trying to pick out the low shack of Tahiti Beach, where the road to town ended at the sea. He had a long way to go. He couldn’t run indefinitely. Would he be in time? In time for what? Peter wouldn’t go anywhere. He didn’t know how long he had been away, but he didn’t think it could have been much more than an hour. Running and walking, he should be able to make the house in another half-hour. Say two hours in all. Just time enough for Peter to finally face what he had done and explore the extent of their loss. What would the realization of it do to him? He would survive. His grasp of life was too sunny and jaunty and assured for him to ever dream of doing himself harm, no matter how much of the assurance derived from their being together. He would suffer.

  All of Charlie’s protective instincts were aroused at the thought; he wanted to get to him quickly to comfort him. In a frantic moment, he might rush off in the car just for the sake of doing something. He was inclined to drive too fast. An accident. He tried to accelerate his pace but his apprehension made breathing more difficult. His chest was already heaving painfully. Goddamn Peter for all of this. What comfort could he offer? He couldn’t alter the facts. And who was to comfort him? He hoped he would never feel anything for anybody ever again.

  When he reached the beach installations, he turned in toward the road, looking neither to right nor left so as not to be delayed by anybody. He heard his name called once—Guy?—but didn’t pause. When he reached the road, he slowed to a walk. He had to catch his breath. He forced himself to maintain a good pace, in spite of his panting. He still had several miles to go. He heard a motor and turned and saw an old Rolls Royce convertible approaching, overflowing with laughing, shouting boys and girls. It coasted up beside him and hands reached out to him, pulling him aboard. He jumped onto the runningboard and the car started forward. Hands continued to pull at him, trying to get him into the car.