The Peter & Charlie Trilogy

by Gordon Merrick

  “The children!” He turned and faced her, trembling with anguish and rage. “If you don’t know by now that he’s the one who’s kept it all going, you don’t know anything. What would we have without him?”

  “We’d have each other.” All the years of making the best of the leftovers hadn’t prepared her for the empty ring of her words. She had always accepted life passively, but now she was seized by unfamiliar anger at being made to feel that she had been given so little. She burst out, “Peter is a man. He’s forty years old. At his age men begin to turn toward youth. Judy’s perfect for him. Beautiful, intelligent, not too feminine in a tiresome way. You should be happy for him. Think what you’d be like in a few more years when the shine of youth is finally gone. Absurd—two aging men clinging to each other.”

  “You must be mad,” he said in a strangled voice. “I’m warning you. If you say any more, you’ll finish it once and for all.”

  “I’m not saying anything wrong,” she protested defensively, incapable of sustained attack. “I’ve always loved you. I’ve been loyal and done without things that most women think are essential. It hasn’t been a hardship for me. I’ve made the children my life. I’ve always loved your body when you’d let me have it. I remember your saying often enough that sex wasn’t the most important part with Peter. If that ends and you find you want boys from time to time——” She lifted her shoulders slightly. “We can manage.”

  “You are mad,” he said, staring at her. “Manage? How do you think we’d look when the shine of youth is gone? An old queen running after boys while his wife tries to cover for him with the children. Children? Do you think Peter would do anything to hurt little Petey? Haven’t you understood anything all this time?”

  “Perhaps I understand things you don’t.” The picture he presented so eliminated all care and affection between them that for a moment she floundered. She wasn’t prepared for a fight, but she sensed that if she didn’t fight now there would be nothing left to fight for when he discovered she was right. She said the first thing that came into her head. “You’ve turned yourself into a woman in your efforts to hold him. It’s an insult to your manhood.”

  He sprang at her and slapped her hard across the face. She cried out and covered her face with her hands. “You stupid bitch,” he raged. “That really does it. I could forgive you if you didn’t sound glad of what you think’s happened.”

  She lowered her hands and looked up at him. She was crying silently and her voice strained against tears. “I am. I’m glad for Peter because I love him. I’m glad for you because it’ll free you to be a man again. I’m with you, even though you don’t seem to think that means much. We’ll be all right. I know my love for you.”

  “What ever made you think I needed that? I’ve always been honest with you. I won’t stop now. Peter and I have considered you and tried to make things good for you. Peter and I. That’s where it begins and ends. Do you understand that?”

  “I don’t care what you say. Poor darling. I know it’s hard for you to believe that Peter needs a life of his own. It needn’t change anything very much. We’ll work it all out together.”

  “Work it out?” Charlie roared. “Peter hasn’t found somebody else and never will. Two aging men clinging to each other? What’s absurd about that? It’s heroic. It’s as moving as the survival of anything beautiful. Don’t ever laugh again at something that’s too big and deep for you to know anything about.”

  She folded her arms over her breast and bowed her head. As she had expected, she felt none of the elation she would once have felt at the prospect of having him a little bit more for herself. If she was right about Peter, she would do everything possible to make it as little disruptive as possible. She had goaded him only to prepare him. His violence had been spent on her, not on Peter. “I haven’t laughed in the way you mean,” she said. “I don’t know what you think I’ve said.”

  He stood over her vanquished form, indifferent to this victory. The victory toward which all his thoughts were now turned lay in proving that she was wrong. She couldn’t move him even to pity till he had done so. “I know very well what you’ve said,” he replied curtly. “I’ll go to Athens in the morning. I’ll bring Peter back with me. You can count on that. Good night.” He turned and left her, his legs trembling under him so that he moved jerkily. When he was out of sight, he hurried forward, having difficulty with his breathing. He couldn’t face the bed he usually shared with Peter. He locked himself in Peter’s study and leaned against the door, taking deep breaths to ease the constriction of his chest and stomach. Why did he do it? Why did he feel impelled to demolish her so cruelly on such slight provocation? Slight? She had sat, all smug and cheerful, predicting the end of everything he had built his life on. Only words, probably well meant. It was madness to let her make him physically sick.

  The old story. No one could threaten his dominion over his loved one, no one could trespass on the painful commitments of his heart without inviting annihilation from the destructive fury of his cold self-love. He had known only one other person capable of such ruthlessness—his grandmother, whom he had adored. Gay, witty, stylish, passionately responsive to life, with the core of steel he knew so well, and an unerring instinct for the weaknesses of others. Having been the victim of her destructive powers, he should have been able to throw off her guiding hand. To keep him for herself, she had exploited his uncertain response to girls but had failed to calculate on the power of the love that can exist between two men. When she learned of her miscalculation, she had cast him aside as ruthlessly as she had cast aside all her failures.

  She had been a Southern lady. The blood of slave-owners ran in her veins. In his, too. He had put together all that he knew and had heard of her and had arrived at a portrait of himself. Man-devouring, armored, and mad. With time, he had learned to modify the likeness. He had learned that if one demands blind unquestioning submission from others, with banishment as the only alternative, banishment must inevitably follow. He has escaped from her to that extent. The latitude he permitted, had even forced on Peter was a token of some growth of wisdom.

  He was aware of her still guiding him while he planned his next move. He would to to Athens in the morning. He had the excuse of Dimitri and the money so as not to appear to be intruding on Peter’s privacy. If he detected the faintest possibility that Martha might be on to something, he would know how to break it off without Peter ever knowing.

  Except that Martha couldn’t be right. He thought of the few minutes he and Peter had had together after the earthquake. That was when he was supposed to have been already madly in love with Judy. Utter nonsense. He would go to Athens and offer to help with the Costa affair and they would come back together the next day.

  He moved erratically about the room, still feeling drained by the scene with Martha, shaken and ashamed. It was the sort of thing they had made no room for in their lives. They bickered and squabbled, particularly about the children, but there had never been conflicts that touched their three-sided relationship. He thought of going to her and telling her he was sorry, but that might lead her to expect more and he was incapable of offering more now. He didn’t want to add insult to injury. She had probably dismissed his outburst sensibly by now as being of no importance. She knew as well as he did that their lives were too fixed to permit any surprises. He went to a window and looked down at the port. Nothing there to distract him. He would sleep eventually.

  “They’re bound to go back to the hotel sooner or later,” Peter said, smiling across the table at Judy. They were having dinner in a garden restaurant high up on the Lycabettus hill, with a view over the whole noisy little city. The Acropolis reflected moonlight palely below them, a hauntingly romantic touch they didn’t need to enhance their delight with each other. Peter added, “I’m sure Jeff will call when he gets my message.”

  When they had checked in at the Grande Bretagne, they had learned that Jeff and Mike had come in only a half hour before them bu
t were already out. When they had left the hotel for dinner, the playwright and his protégé had still not returned.

  “You don’t think Mike will get the idea that we’re chasing him?”

  “Why should he? When we talked to him—when was it? Only last night?” Their hands moved across the table and touched. “My goodness. Another age. Before. You still make it awfully hard for me to keep my mind on Mike’s pictures. Anyway, he couldn’t have been more open about them. Jeff must be the only reason for the sudden departure.”

  “I suppose. Still, the boss’s cable makes me feel as if this might not be a total wild goose chase.”

  A telegram had been waiting for Judy from Peter’s old friend saying: “Definitely informed several Bertin pictures changed hands Athens.” It had given them a fresh interest in the chase.

  “We should go back to the hotel soon. If Jeff calls at a reasonable hour I’ll go see him right away. There’s not going to be any great problem. If Mike has them and he bought them in good faith, we’ll turn them over to the police and that’ll be that. If not—well, what can he do? It’ll be a bit sticky for him if he wants to protect the seller, but we still have to call in the cops.”

  “Assuming he has them, what would he do if we weren’t around to trip him up? Aren’t there customs regulations going into the States? Wouldn’t they be seized?”

  “You never know with art. You’re supposed to declare it, but lots of people don’t. I do, but I’m in the business. If Mike wanted to smuggle them in, he wouldn’t be running much of a risk. Customs don’t bother VIPs.”

  “It sounds much easier than it ought to. I’ve always thought of Interpol as sending out tentacles. Mysterious encounters at night. The Casbah. That sort of thing.”

  “The great international art racket? It’s there, but it’s pretty prosaic and well organized. Not nearly as exciting as you are. Ready to go?”

  Peter called for the bill and they finished their coffee and left. He had taken adjoining rooms for them at the hotel. The Mills-Martins were well known there and he wanted to spare the management embarrassment. The doors were thrown open between them so they had a great deal of space at their disposal, filled with furniture of an ornate but fading grandeur. He rang for room service and when a waiter appeared within seconds, ordered a bottle of champagne. He rang Mike’s suite and was told it still didn’t answer. All the while, their eyes were on each other, summoning each other, affirming their possession of each other, inciting each other. The waiter returned with a bottle in an ice bucket and started to open it. Peter waved him away. The Greeks weren’t safe with a champagne bottle. He had once been shot by a cork in the back of the head at six paces. It had almost knocked him out. Charlie had been there to administer first aid. Charlie. He opened the bottle and filled two glasses and gave one to Judy.

  He lifted his glass and smiled at her over it. “It’s an anniversary. We’ve been together a whole day.”

  “What a day. You’re really awfully good at everything you do.” She laughed as she lifted her glass to him. “Little secretaries from New York don’t often get to loll about in hotel suites in Athens sipping champagne.”

  They drank and he moved to her side and put his arm around her. “Little secretaries from New York don’t generally look like you. If you put your mind to it, you could bathe in champagne.” He kissed the side of her head.

  “You give me the most outrageous ideas. I wouldn’t dare tell you what I just thought of. Shall we have a summing up?”

  “Of your outrageous ideas? Definitely.”

  “An anniversary roundup. Things learned during a day of bliss.”

  “What you said earlier? What you found out last night?” He moved her around so that they were facing each other. She put a hand on his shoulder. They stood chest to breast, hip to hip, thigh to thigh. He opened his mouth and she gave him hers. Peter planted his feet and pulled her closer and made a growling sound in his throat as their mouths parted. “Every time I kiss you I think of the first time I saw your beautiful mouth and I can’t believe it’s mine. That’s what I found out last night. I just can’t believe you.”

  Her eyes roamed over his face. She lifted her hand and teased the hair on his forehead. “You’re such a golden creature. You’re feeling beautifully heterosexual again. So am I, even if I can’t be so obvious about it.” They laughed at the shameless responses of their bodies as they swayed lightly against each other. “We’re not creating quite the right atmosphere for a summing up. I’d better say it while I can still speak. We’ve been in love with each other all day——” She put her fingers on his lips as he started to speak. “We’re in love with each other, after a fashion, and we’ve been trying to find out why it can’t mean the same thing for us that it would for most people. How’s that?”

  “It’s an attention-getter. I’ll say that for it.” They laughed as they released each other. He refilled their glasses and carried the tray with the ice bucket over to a grouping of furniture just inside the long open French windows that gave onto a balcony. He was grateful for the way she had stated their case, not making light of the excitement they found in each other but acknowledging some slight incompleteness in it. He had realized in the last few hours—he didn’t quite know why or when—that he had been playing a game of what-might-have-been. If he had met Judy twenty years ago, would the whole course of his life have been altered? West Point, for which family tradition had prepared him before he met Charlie and chose a life with him, marriage as a young officer, a military career with a wife and children, his huge capacity for loving a man untapped and undiscovered? Judy had made him see it as a possibility; if so, he must be two people. Nearly, but not quite. It was a possibility that he couldn’t think of as preferable to the course his life had actually taken.

  She had touched something in him no woman ever had and yet there was still the incompleteness, something withheld, some inadequacy. Simply because she was a female? Whatever it was, she had come very close to expressing it for him and he held out his hand to her. They sat side by side so that they could touch if need be and looked at each other questioningly.

  “Do you mind my saying we’re in love?” she asked, cocking her head slightly to one side. “I think we are, in a funny sort of way. I’ve found out I can love a man’s body. Good heavens, that’s putting it mildly. If I can love yours, I suppose I could love others, yet I can’t imagine this happening with anybody else. How can I be in love with you and not mind the thought of being without you?”

  It was a point that had worried him. The serenity in her voice as she posed the question made him want to hug her for letting him off that hook. “I haven’t wanted to think about that. The setup at home is so nutty already that I’ve had moments wondering about fitting you into it, but I couldn’t quite see it somehow.”

  She shook her head and looked away. “No. Even if you were free and unattached, I wouldn’t be waiting for you to propose and if you did, I think I’d refuse. That’s something else I’ve found out. I’m too independent and unadventurous. Even making love with you is too demanding for ordinary life. There’s something peaceful about being with a woman. I don’t know if there’s something missing in me or if it’s more positive than that, something extra added, something masculine that makes me have to dominate any situation I’m in. I can’t do that with you. Talk about helpless females. We wouldn’t last for long.” She put a hand on his and caressed it lightly.

  “You sound as if you know exactly what you’re up to,” he said with a hint of regret. Even though everything she said was an assurance that they had safely circumvented all the obvious hazards, he was perversely dissatisfied for it to be so neatly resolved. Integral to his male response to her was an impulse to assert and maintain his possession of her. He knew it was an impulse to be kept under control. All through the day, he had felt the twitching birth pangs of potential ties—in looks they had shared, in things she had said, in the feel of a particular part of her body, in her laughte
r and her intoxicating desire—ties for which there was no room in his life and which she had now calmly denied. She had revealed to him the stranger, more shadow than real, who cohabited with the self he knew; it was a part of him that would flourish for her alone and in a day or two must be excised, a small amputation as amputations went. It looked, although it had been her feelings that he had been at first concerned about, as if he were the one who might be hurt.

  He responded to the pressure of her hand and lifted it and kissed it. She caressed his lips with the back of her fingers. He growled. “That’s better than champagne. Have we said everything we ought to say? Is that the summing up?”

  “More or less. There’s one more thing. Would you be willing to give me a baby?” The look he shot her was startled and she laughed in her girlish way. “I’m not sure yet I want it. I think I might, but it would have to be the way I say: you giving me a baby. I wouldn’t want it as part of any elaborate arrangement like you’ve created with your family. Just mine, with the assistance of that beautiful cock. After all, you weren’t in love with Martha when you gave her a baby, were you?”

  “No, it was Charlie’s idea, and Martha agreed.” Peter managed to chuckle as he refilled their glasses although he couldn’t react casually to her suggestion. “You’re really something. A girl I’m in love with, even in a funny sort of way, having my baby. How do you think I’d feel?” She had made it clear, if he still had any doubts, that she was already thinking past him, rounding off the interlude to find what she could keep and use from it. Trust a female. It was enough to turn anyone queer; no man could be so cold-bloodedly realistic. A beautiful female fiend.

  “I wouldn’t go ahead and let it happen without your knowing,” she said sensibly. “We can think about it. By the time you get home, I’ll know. I’d understand your not wanting to take a chance on it. I think my family would be pleased even if it is a little bastard. They’re inclined to wonder about——”