Rose, protected by the thin walls of her cubicle, held the half-eaten sandwich in the air halfway to her mouth, then realizing that that gesture—that ceasing to eat—might give her away to Carole, quickly took another bite. Soft bread and lukewarm tuna salad clotted in her mouth, gagging her. Carole shook her head, silently mouthed, “That woman,” and Rose excused herself to go to the bathroom.
In the bathroom, Rose blew her nose and wiped her eyes. She looked at herself in the mirror. She did not look like Penelope. She had a thoughtful child’s eyes, high cheekbones, thin lips. All in all a gentle, trustworthy, maternal face, but one, she thought, with an edge of impishness, an edge of sophistication. Her hair was graying, her eyes ringed with shadow. She wondered: Have I ever been attracted to women? then decided the question was absurd, an evasion. She was not Penelope. Penelope’s situation was not her situation.
“My situation,” Rose said to herself. Unacknowledged, locked inside her imagination, it remained unreal. She was determined to keep it that way. She wanted not to know the truth but to avoid it, to continue as long as possible under the delusion that she might just be imagining things. Like a sleeper whose blanket has fallen away on a cold night, she was always shivering, her eyes clenched shut against the reality of waking. Nothing had changed in her practical, day-to-day life, after all. She still went to work on the same bus, still cooked dinner for Owen, sat with Owen reading in the living room and sometimes watching television. Visibly, their lives were the same.
But it was the invisible that worried her. Did she bear some extra chromosome, she wondered sometimes, some bizarre, deleterious gene, emit some strange pheromone that made men love other men? Looking at herself in the mirror, she tried to see the flaw in her face, the gap between the teeth, tried to recognize herself as evil. Maenad, harpie, castrating bitch. Synonyms assailed her, the endlessly rich vocabulary of what evil women might do to men. When she thought of Penelope’s husband, caught in bed with three Indonesian prostitutes, envy flared in her.
Sometimes Rose caught a glimpse of herself in mirrors or reflecting shop windows and didn’t recognize herself. She was surprised by what she saw: a face that was startlingly normal, almost not hers, a face that could have belonged to anyone. Now, in the bathroom, she searched for that stranger’s face and couldn’t find it. Instead her face seemed so inexorably her own it made her choke; staring at herself in the mirror, she was overcome by the claustrophobia of selfhood, a suffocating consciousness of her entrapment in that face in the mirror—complacent, unemotive, ragged with worry, a face that would change, liven, deaden, according to nothing more or less than her own grief or joy, her mind, her will. She rubbed her cheeks, pulled at her eyelids, straightened her mouth into a thin line. Even the act of masking, of molding the face into studied normalness, was a matter of will. But at least she looked normal.
She headed out into the hall. By the copy machine, two editors greeted her with lifted coffee cups: “Hi, Ducky.” She nodded to them and kept walking, circling the office with a pretense of purpose. She could not, somehow, sit down. She was remembering how Owen had cried so fiercely that night, and later. And anyway, where had he been, where had he been going every Sunday afternoon for twenty years? He was always silent during sex, never praiseful. Maybe he just hated her. Maybe that was all. She had had her own life, after all, as she reminded herself now, and it had had nothing to do with Owen, that secret life in which she had been so fiercely needed and desired by a man. Owen never knew that across the office, at the other end of a complicated circuit of hallways and doors, was an editor with whom she had had a five-year affair. She and Nick had met often on their lunch hour, and sometimes, when Owen was working late, in the early evenings, taking a room at a big midtown hotel, usually the same room, on the twenty-fifth floor. There was always the smell of room deodorizer and Carpet Fresh and Nick’s aftershave in the air, while they made passionate noontime love. But then Nick’s wife had gotten sick; it was not cancer. Relieved, he and Nadia had gone off to the Bahamas for two weeks, and when he came back, Nick was sorry, he couldn’t anymore, he felt too guilty. Nadia had almost died. He realized how much he loved her. He worried about her finding out, about hurting her. Rose understood. No hard feelings.
All that had ended seven years ago. These days she and Nick nodded at each other in the hall or talked in editorial meetings with a surprisingly genuine casualness in which there was masked neither denial of the past nor particular good feeling. They had both gotten heavier, softer. Different bodies had conducted that affair, which was mostly a matter of bodies anyway—bodies, and the romance of making love at noon in a midtown hotel, then getting dressed, eating something quickly, like a hot dog, heading back (separately, of course) to the office. Nick always put his shirt and tie on before his pants, Rose remembered. She would help him tie his tie, and sometimes reach down in a friendly way between his legs. It had excited her, the sight of him like that, in his shirt and tie, naked from the waist down. These days, occasionally, when she saw him in the hall, she would wonder: What does his body look like now? It was a faint kind of curiosity, not unpleasant at all. It almost moved her.
And perhaps Owen knew. Perhaps he knew, and hated her. Peculiarly, the possibility was a relief to her, since at least it meant it was her he was crying for; at least it meant she had had a life, had mattered to him, was something more than an excuse, the victim of his lifelong lie. She was fifty-two years old. Her husband cried all the time, several times in a day, sometimes for no visible reason, and was drinking too much for the first time in his life. Her son—but why was so much of her anger directed at Philip? He was trying as hard as he could with her, called her often, clearly wanted to love her, to help her. Still, she could not look him in the face without wanting to slap him. He had to tell everyone; he had to break open that door in their lives which they would have been far happier having kept shut. Such anger was her right, she thought. Pain gave her the privilege of anger.
In the oncoming dark, around five-thirty, she wandered by Nick’s office and lingered outside, looking at the framed book jackets that lined the wall. She did this sometimes, curious, she supposed, to see what he looked like. He was standing by the window, watching night settle like a fine, hovering mist over midtown. He was a tall, soft man who should have been dark, who should have bronzed on islands, but who had instead chosen the pale life (and acquired the pale skin) of the bookworm, the perpetual library-dweller, white skin at odds with his black hair and eyes. Languorously he turned, saw her, smiled. “How’s it going, Rose?”
“Fine,” she said. “I hadn’t seen you for a while, so I just—thought I’d drop by.”
They went out for a drink. He told her how one of his sons had won a major award in graphic design at college, how another was starting medical school at Downstate in the fall. There was a daughter somewhere in the background, but she was a problem: drugs, obesity, abortion. He laid out the woes like an agenda for a meeting. The daughter was living in Seattle, in a house so filthy her mother had felt obliged to go out and buy Pine-Sol and Lysol and Ajax—but he didn’t want to go into it all here, and poured some more Perrier into his glass.
“How’s Nadia’s health?” Rose asked.
“Fine, fine. No problems since that first surgery. She asks about you sometimes, by the way.” They had met only once, at an office party. Nadia was a kind, smiling woman who had aged faster than Nick, had had to suffer for years looking too old for him.
“And your family?” Nick asked.
Rose shrugged. “Not much to tell,” she said. “Philip’s still working at the same job. Owen—well, he’s depressed a lot of the time. There are some hard things going on.”
“Do you want to talk about them?”
Rose smiled tightly, shook her head no.
Afterwards, on the streetcorner outside the bar where they could not have gotten a cab if their lives depended on it, Rose said, “Nick, I just wanted to let you know, I think about you these days. Oft
en. More often than I’d have guessed I would.”
He smiled. “I think about you, too,” he said. But she knew it for a lie.
Finally they found a cab. She climbed in, gave the driver the address. A triptych of little girls’ faces stared at her from above the rearview mirror. Siren, witch, hag, Rose thought, and had a vague recollection of having ridden in this very same cab only a few months before.
At the corner she got out, overtipped the driver, and hurrying back toward where the doorman rubbed his hands together and whistled, caught a glimpse of her face in a store window—the face of a worried, older woman, someone she might pass on the street and feel sorry for, someone, at an easier time in her life, she might have felt grateful not to be.
From the depths of his office, at five o’clock, Owen dialled, listened to ringing.
“Hello, Macho Man, can I help you?”
“I saw your ad in Honcho. I—well—I—I’m interested—”
“Which of the men do you want to talk to?”
He paused.
“Bruce,” he said.
“Okay, let me just check—yes, Bruce is available. Now, have you used Macho Man before?”
“No.”
“Okay, then I’ll just explain how it works. Our rates are thirty-five dollars for the first half-hour, thirty for the second half-hour. You can pay with MasterCard, Visa, or American Express. After you give your card number and your phone number, I’ll call Bruce and he’ll call you. We pay for all phone charges that way.”
Owen took a gulp of bourbon. “Okay,” he said. He read out his office phone number. He read out his American Express number.
“Okay, Mr. Benjamin, now I’ll just get an approval code on that card number and Bruce will call you back. Is there anything special you want me to tell him?”
“No,” Owen said.
“All right, you’ll be hearing from him shortly.”
Owen hung up, poured more bourbon into his glass. After a few minutes the phone rang.
“Yeah, this is Bruce.”
Owen laughed involuntarily. “Hi, Bruce.”
“What’s your name, cocksucker?”
“Bowen.”
“Asslicker. You want to suck my cock?” Bruce said.
Owen took another gulp of bourbon. “Sure,” he said.
“You better do better than ‘Sure,’ ” Bruce said. “ ’Cause I want it bad.” He growled. “I’m sitting here in my hardhat, I just got off an asskicking day at the site. I’ve got on my oldest pair of jeans, my cock is aching, it’s so hard inside my jock. My wife won’t go near me. I ain’t had a piece of ass for weeks. You know how that makes your cock feel?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I know you know. So you’ll help me out, buddy, won’t you?” Bruce said. “You gonna take it out for me?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Yeah, that’s right. You’re taking it out, you’re licking it—oh yeah, that feels good, you fairy cocksucker. Better than my wife can do, let me tell you. Yeah, that’s right. Suck my thick rod. Suck your hardhat daddy’s thick rod.”
Owen started to cry.
“Hey,” Bruce said, after a moment. “Hey, easy there. What’s wrong?”
Owen cried. “Hey, man, chill out,” Bruce said. “Are you okay?”
Owen tried to control the sobs heaving through him. He blew his nose, noticed his wedding ring, burst into tears again.
“Are you okay?” Bruce said. “What’s going on? Did I do something wrong?”
Owen cried. “I’m sorry,” he managed to say. “Go on.”
“Hey, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to upset you,” Bruce said, and Owen cried.
“Bowen? Bowen?” Bruce said. “Is that your name? Listen, do you want something more vanilla? Do you want me to hang up or what?”
No answer.
“Bowen?” Bruce asked. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
Owen hung up.
Philip had just come back from work and was in the shower when the phone started ringing. He leapt out, nearly slipping on the wet floor, terrified in case it was Eliot.
“Philip, it’s your father,” Owen said, surprising him with the familiarity of his voice. It had been a long time since they had spoken on the phone.
“Dad,” Philip said, pulling a towel around himself, “how are you?”
“Fine, fine,” Owen said. “I was just sitting here in my office after a day’s work and I started thinking—it certainly has been a long time since I called my son. So I thought I’d give you a ring.”
“Well, that’s great,” Philip said, “just great. I’m very happy you decided to.” He settled himself uncomfortably into a chair. “So—are you well?” he asked.
“Let’s not talk about me,” Owen said briskly. “I called to tell you—well, I just wanted you to know, your being gay—is okay by me. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with it, is there?”
Was he drunk? Philip sank farther into the chair. He could not be sure if he was drunk. His father never drank much—at least not as far as he knew.
Soapy water dripped from him, like cold sweat, and he realized he had to give an answer. “Well,” he said, “as far as I’m concerned, the only thing that’s wrong is hiding the truth. That’s what I feel.”
“Exactly,” Owen said. “So I say, bravo.”
“Bravo?”
“Yes. Bravo.”
He was drunk. “Dad,” Philip said, “this is a real surprise to me. I mean, it just never occurred to me you might call me like this. I’m very touched, very happy.”
“I’m glad,” Owen said. “Because that’s why I did it.”
“It’s very important to me to have your approval. It always has been. But do you know—is Mom feeling any better about all of this?”
“Oh, your mother,” Owen said, and Philip closed his eyes. “You know your mother. Creature of moods. I’m sure she’ll be fine soon.”
Philip was quiet a moment. “Yes,” he said. “I suppose.”
Then there was some sort of confusion on Owen’s end of the line—a wet crashing, a gasp. “Dad?” Philip said. “Dad? Are you there? Are you okay?”
“What? Oh, fine, son. Just fine. I just dropped the phone for a second. Now listen—I want you to tell me something. Can you always tell when someone is gay, just right off?”
Philip gulped again. “Well,” he said, “I mean—it’s hard to say. Sometimes, I guess—”
“How can you tell?”
“Because gay people give off signals to other gay people, I guess—little signals that individually, maybe, aren’t noticeable, or aren’t noticeable to someone who isn’t attuned to picking them up. I mean, it’s like they give off a little sexual buzz around men but not around women. Do you see what I mean?” He himself hardly knew what he meant.
“The reason I’m asking,” Owen said, “is because there’s a young English teacher here—well, to be blunt, I can’t tell what he is.” He laughed strangely. “But he’s very charming, very nice, and—well, if he is, you know—gay—I think you might like him.”
Philip didn’t answer.
“Philip?” Owen said. “Philip? Are you all right? Is that a bad thing of me to say?” His voice suddenly grew much softer. “Oh, I knew it was a mistake,” he said. “Forget it, just forget I called.”
“No, no,” Philip said. “It’s just—well, it’s just a little bit of a surprise to find myself being fixed up by my father. I’m just a little taken off guard, Dad.” He laughed, actually pronouncing the syllables: “Ha-ha.”
“I knew it was a mistake,” Owen said. “Just forget about it.”
“No, Dad, I don’t want to forget about it, really,” Philip said. “I—I appreciate your thinking of me.” He tried to steady his breathing. “What more can you tell me about him?”
“Not much. His name is Winston Penn. He’s Southern, I think. Very handsome, charming—that is, at least he seems that way to me. I mean, the women here, they’re all crazy about him, but he doesn’t se
em to have a girlfriend, which is why I wondered—”
“Well, you never can tell.”
“No,” Owen agreed. “You never can tell.”
Again, there was some sort of catastrophe on Owen’s end of the line. “Listen, Dad,” Philip said, “I really appreciate your thinking of me—but if he isn’t gay, it could be embarrassing, very embarrassing, for you as well as me—and anyway, even if he is, if he’s so handsome and wonderful, I’m sure he has a boyfriend already.”
“You’re right,” Owen said, still sniffling a little. “Which is why I wouldn’t think of doing anything too deliberate. But it doesn’t have to be an official date. I was just thinking—maybe I’d invite him to dinner one Sunday, when you come over—well, who knows. I’d like to do this for you. I very much like this young man, and—well, I’d be happy if you like him too. But I’ll think about it. We’ll see.”
“I do appreciate your concern, Dad, even if it may not sound that way.” Philip paused. “I mean, it’s very special having a father who would do something like this—so special it’s even a little surprising for me. But I feel very lucky to know my father cares so much. To be honest, it’s more than I ever expected.”
He smiled, as if Owen could see him.
“It’s nothing,” Owen said.
A beep sounded. “Just a second,” Philip said, and pushed down the receiver buttons. Brad was on the other line. “Hold on a second,” Philip said. “Have I got a story for you.”
He clicked back to his father. “Dad,” he said. “I have to take this call. Can I call you back tomorrow?”
The Lost Language of Cranes Page 22
