“What’s happening?” Owen said. “Where did you go? Why did you cut me off?”
“I didn’t, it’s just my call waiting.”
“I don’t understand,” Owen said. “You were there and then you were gone. Did you cut me off? I don’t understand.”
“It’s nothing, Dad,” Philip said. “It just means I have another call. Listen, I’ll talk to you soon, okay?”
“Okay. Goodbye, son.”
“Goodbye.”
He pushed down the buttons on the top of the phone, and Brad returned. “My God,” Philip said.
“What’s wrong?” asked Brad.
“I just had the strangest conversation with my father.”
“What about?”
“Well, he was asking me a whole lot of questions—things like, ‘how can you tell if someone’s gay.’ And then he suddenly announces there’s this young teacher at the school he thinks is gay, and he wants to fix me up with him.”
“You’re kidding.”
“No I’m not kidding. I mean, what should I think? I want to run away from him. I know that’s terrible. Isn’t this a good thing—doesn’t it mean he’s really taking my being gay seriously?”
“I guess it does,” Brad said.
“You sound doubtful.”
“I’ve just never heard of a parent doing anything like that.”
“It’s not something you could imagine your parents doing?” Brad spoke often and lovingly about his parents.
“I would die of embarrassment if they ever tried to fix me up,” Brad said. “I think they would die of embarrassment, too. Which simply means, they have their limits, and they’re happy to take advantage of my embarrassment since it means they can stick to them.”
“There is something a little weird about it.”
“Maybe your father’s secretly gay and has a wild homosexual life,” Brad said, and laughed.
“Brad!” Philip laughed. “He’s my father. He’s married to my mother.”
“It’s probably one of those mid-life things,” Brad said. “Maybe he’s just fascinated by homosexuality because he’s bored, because it’s something different that he doesn’t know anything about.”
“Yes,” Philip said. “That’s probably what it is.”
Owen thought of Winston Penn as he wandered out of the Harte School into the evening street. He ran into Winston every day, if not in the lunch room, then outdoors, during sports hour. Most afternoons he was obliged to take prospectives and their parents on a tour of the school, and sometimes to the playing fields on Randall’s Island, where Winston coached lacrosse. “Look at our lacrosse team,” he’d say, in mock astonishment. “The coach this year is Winston Penn, one of the younger members of our English Department. In general, the faculty volunteer to coach the sports with which they’re well acquainted.” Then the parents would look on approvingly at those ruddy, athletic boys and their handsome young coach. The boys followed Winston like puppies.
Owen often sat with Winston at lunch. Most of the younger faculty were snobbish about their youth and kept to themselves in cliquish circles, but Winston even sat through lunches with old Herr Klappert of the German Department, listening to his excruciating memories, waiting patiently through his coughing fits. It was no secret that some of the fruitier members of the faculty were besotted with Winston. In particular the calculus teacher, Stan Edersheim, was shameless. Owen felt contempt for Stan, with his ascot and Don Ameche mustache, and never for a moment drew any parallel between his loud, obvious infatuation with Winston and Owen’s own more restrained admiration. Often when he arrived at the lunch room he was dismayed to discover that Stan had gotten there first and was monopolizing Winston, leaning close to him, loudly laughing at his jokes. Then Owen would slog through his lunch with the head of the History Department, sometimes catching Winston’s eye to give him a conspiratorial smile. But Winston actually seemed to enjoy Stan’s company. Once, in fact, when Winston was eating lunch with Owen and Stan came in, Winston got up from the table and shouted across the room, “Stan, my man!” and Stan came over to join them. Immediately Stan started in with stories about famous old actresses. “I said to her, ‘So, honey, are you planning to work on Passover?’ She said, ‘Stan, you know I don’t do game shows.’ ” Owen spooned his soup and felt sick—was Stan whom he was doomed to become?—while at the same moment a flash of heat passed through him as he remembered that under the table, wrapped in flannel, dry now, inactive, were those same blond legs he had watched with such admiration on the playing field. And thinking that, guilt flooded him as he realized he was no better than Stan, that indeed, Stan was better than he. For rather than making him unattractive, Stan’s forwardness appeared to be paying off; he was now that much closer to Winston, that much more his confidant and friend, while Owen still waited miserably on the fringe, hoping for a secret glance he knew was never going to come. No one doubted that Stan was homosexual. And as a result, Owen supposed, he had nothing to lose. Why not be frank? Was restraint really such an admirable thing? Perhaps Winston was suspicious of Owen’s restraint, saw stealth and plotting under the calm, steady surface of his paternal kindness. There was no stealth, nothing undercover in Stan’s behavior, and Winston probably liked that about him, found his frank sexual interest stimulating or intriguing. Immediately Owen’s perspective on the situation turned; now he was the slimy one, the cowardly snake in the grass, working under false pretenses, waiting to pounce.
He left lunch feeling pathetic.
Also elated. For he had one card he hadn’t played; he had Philip.
The day after he’d called to tell Philip about Winston Penn he called again. “Philip?” he found himself saying into the phone. “I’m sorry to bother you, but I was wondering—Rose has a late meeting tonight, and—well, I’d like to buy my son dinner.”
Philip again sounded surprised, but he had no plans for the evening. On his suggestion, they met at a Japanese restaurant on Columbus Avenue. The window was full of shellacked sushi and tempura. The real food also looked like toys, like food that aliens would eat, but Philip claimed to be living on it these days.
In the dark depths of the restaurant, where they sat, tiny flakes of dried fish writhed and curled atop a steaming broth, as if they were alive. Smelt eggs illuminated sushi like miniature lamps. Cautiously Owen tasted things. “Be careful with the wasabi,” Philip said, “it’s murderous.”
Finally they got down to talking. “Ever since your announcement to your mother and me, son,” Owen said to Philip, “well, there are things I’ve been wondering, wanting to ask you. I’m very interested, you see, in your experience growing up, I guess because we’ve never talked about it before. I know you must think I’ve been a distant father, not all there, really, but the truth is, I’ve always been observing you, always interested in you, although sometimes you probably couldn’t tell. In certain basic ways, I suppose, I’m very . . . reserved.” His hands twisted in his lap. “I’ve never been very good at expressing affection, much less asking personal questions, Philip. And then you come home with this news which really is news to me, though it shouldn’t be—and I thought, damn it, enough of this. I’m tired of being so . . . restrained. I should ask what I want to know. I should take an interest in my son.” He let out a breath of relief, as if he had gotten through something very difficult.
“I’m glad you feel that way, Dad,” Philip said. “And I really don’t mind. Ask anything you want.”
Owen reached across the table for the little pitcher of sake and poured some into his cup. “Well,” he said, “how did it start?”
“How did what start?”
“Your—sexual life.”
Philip put his fingers to his mouth thoughtfully. “It’s hard to say,” he said. “I mean, well, to be frank, I’ve been masturbating with gay sexual fantasies for as long as I can remember—” He stopped, looked at his father cautiously. “Is that too much for you?”
“No, no,” Owen said, even though it
was. “Everyone does it.” He laughed awkwardly, and Philip turned away, suppressing a nervous smile. “I’m not smiling for any reason,” he said quickly. “It’s just that this happens to me sometimes—I smile at the most inappropriate moments. It’s like my brain is pulling the wrong strings. Sorry.”
“Don’t worry,” Owen said. “I remember how hard it was for me to imagine my parents having a sex life. It’s perfectly natural. I can’t expect you to be entirely comfortable talking about these things with me.” He hesitated. “God knows,” he said, “I’m not too comfortable talking about them myself.”
Philip nodded, pushed his rice around for a few seconds. “Well, anyway,” he said, “as I was saying, there was no real start. I guess I had my first sexual experience with a man—but no.” He took a deep breath. “See, it depends on how you define virginity. I mean, Gerard and I fooled around when we were kids, but it wasn’t really anything. And after that, the first real adult experience—I don’t know, Dad, do you really want to hear this? It isn’t all that pretty.”
Owen nodded.
“Well,” he said, “I had a sort of quasi-sexual experience with a much older man in a porno theatre on the Lower East Side, when I was seventeen. Not much, really. Some groping. I got out of there as fast as I could, I was so scared—and then there was nothing till college.”
Owen’s eyes were like glass. He stared straight at Philip, nodding slowly.
“I had sex with a medical student my freshman year,” Philip said. “Then nothing for a long time. Then a few other little things—nothing that counts. And then senior year, Dmitri—remember my friend Dmitri? You met him at graduation.”
Owen nodded.
“He and I were lovers—boyfriends, I should say—I never know what word to use. We were involved for six months or so, on and off; we never officially broke up. There was an understanding, I guess—the thing would just sort of peter out. He liked to say we weren’t lovers, that we were just friends who had sex. Except we really weren’t friends.” He paused. “I don’t know what we were,” Philip said. “It’s not a relationship I’m particularly proud of.”
“And all through this,” Owen said, “all through this you were sure—you knew you were gay?”
Philip nodded.
“How old were you when you knew? Did you know as a child?”
Philip had answered this question many times. “Well,” he said, “there are different ways of knowing. I mean, I wanted men, desired men, all through junior high school, but I guess I didn’t figure out that that had anything to do with my life until I was thirteen, fourteen.”
“And all through it, you were never at all attracted to women?”
Philip opened his mouth, was about to speak—then closed it. There was no question. He shook his head.
“And you’ve never slept with a woman?”
Again he shook his head.
The table was vibrating a little. Underneath it Philip’s left leg shook with violence. Across the continent of the table Owen reached, and Philip wondered for a moment if he was going to take his hand. But his arm stopped at the sake pitcher, poured some more into his cup. “Forgive me for asking so many naïve questions,” he said. “This is all new to me. I feel very ignorant.”
“It’s okay,” Philip said.
“Let me ask you then—how could you be so sure, when you were so young? How did you know?”
“Well, it was very simple,” Philip said. “It was nothing psychological; it wasn’t a decision I reached. The fact was that I got sexually excited by the thought of men. I got erections. With girls—I felt nothing.”
Owen laughed. “Well, I guess you really are gay then, huh?”
Philip’s eyes widened.
“I was just wondering,” Owen went on, “because—well, it seems to me, everybody’s fundamentally bisexual, don’t you think? At heart, I mean?” He poured more sake, stirred a piece of sushi in his dish of soy sauce.
But Philip shook his head. “No,” he said. “No, I don’t think everybody’s fundamentally bisexual. I think some people are, and a whole lot more are basically one way or the other—either homosexual or heterosexual. I think this whole bisexual thing can become an excuse, a way of avoiding committing yourself, or admitting the truth. It means you can duck out when the going gets rough.”
Owen looked blankly at Philip, clearly bewildered by his vehemence. “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. “I was just—well, looking for common ground.” He cast his eyes toward the table. “I mean, I’ve had sexual feelings toward men sometimes, some sort of attraction.”
“Which is fine,” Philip said quickly, sitting up in his chair. “I know gay men who feel occasional attractions to women, too. The point is, you’re basically heterosexual, and that should be what defines your lifestyle.”
Owen didn’t answer. He poured more sake into his cup—the flask was almost empty—and looked out the window.
“So,” he said, after a few seconds, “are you still going—you know, to that theatre, that porno theatre you mentioned?”
“The Bijou? I’ve never been back.”
“And Eliot,” he said. “How did you meet him?”
Philip smiled, and dutifully repeated to his father the story (beginning by now even to bore him) of his introduction to Eliot. “I feel,” he concluded, “like I’m in some sort of strange transitional period which I don’t really understand very well. Like I’m still not sure what happened, and yet I have no idea what’s coming next.”
“Are you—seeing anyone now?”
“No. Too scared of AIDS, I guess.”
“Oh yes, that,” Owen said casually. “Waiter?” he called. “Can you bring us another sake?”
The waiter arrived with the flask. “For whatever it’s worth,” Owen said, “I’ve invited that young teacher—Winston Penn—to dinner next Sunday. He was very happy. He lives alone out in Hoboken, you see, above an old tavern, and he hardly ever gets a good home-cooked meal. I hope you’ll still plan to come.”
Philip smiled nervously. “Sure,” he said. “I should check my schedule, but I can’t see why not.”
“Good, son. I’m glad. You’ll like him.”
“I’m sure I will.”
After they paid the bill, Owen walked Philip to the subway. He was stumbling just a little, couldn’t quite keep up with his son, and when Philip looked at him, concerned, he shrugged. “Just the sake,” he said.
He was glad they had had this talk, Owen told Philip. He felt better about their relationship than he had in years. And falteringly, Philip agreed. It was a good thing. They should do it again.
At the subway, Philip said, “Dad? Will you send my love to Mom?”
Owen smiled. “Of course,” he said.
“I miss her a lot,” Philip said. “She doesn’t call me. She doesn’t seem to want to see me. It makes me very sad. I call her sometimes—but she sounds so nervous, not at all like herself.”
“Well,” Owen said, “maybe it takes longer with the mothers. She’ll come around. She just has a lot to sort out. Give her time.”
“I will,” Philip said. “Or at least, I’ll try.”
Then he disappeared into the subway. Owen waited a few minutes, watching him descend. From Broadway, he walked a few blocks to the crosstown bus. The late March air was brisk. Flowers bloomed in clay pots on fire escapes. The bus was filled with couples—old couples and very young couples, middle-aged couples, black couples and white couples, Japanese couples, Chinese couples, Korean couples. Owen recognized among them a pair of ex-Harte boys out with their girlfriends, but neither of them seemed to notice him. When they’re applying, I’m king, Owen thought bitterly, but once they get in . . . He laughed, because he was drunk, anesthetized, his pain still palpable, but numbed, exerting only the vaguest pressure. Somewhere in the back of his mind a voice wondered if Rose might be worrying about him, but this voice too was hardly audible, exerted only the vaguest pressure. The bus stopped at Second Avenue. It
was a nice night, a night to walk, and he walked.
Philip was going to save himself. Philip was going to get Winston Penn and save himself, and save his father, too. He smiled to think of it, and somehow that idea of Philip, as an extension of himself, of his own desire, made perfect sense to him. They could help each other or hurt each other. It would be easy either way. And suddenly he wondered: Does Philip know? Could Philip have seen? Perhaps he should have asked fewer questions. But after forty years of evasion, he had no will left in him for hiding things, for analyzing how much a remark might reveal, for quickly changing the subject to avoid incrimination. Fear had motivated him to such evasion, and tonight he felt drained of fear. Perhaps there is only a set quantity of fear one can feel in a lifetime; if so, he was sure, he had done his penance, used his due.
Perhaps it was genetic.
On Second Avenue, he passed a bar called Bullets which for about ten years had been called The Squire’s Pub, then for about five years Sugar Magnolia. Some sixth sense for these things told him that in its current incarnation it was a gay bar catering primarily to the moneyed crowd—older men, some married, many looking for younger boys. He had always hurried past it, his eyes focussed on the ground before him, but tonight, catching in his peripheral vision a dark Hispanic boy lounging in the door and the sleek red sign in the window, he stopped. He had imagined, before, that if he stood too long in front of this bar without moving, either Rose would come upon him or lightning would strike him dead. Neither of these things happened. People passed him in the street, oblivious, did not shout out, “Owen Benjamin, dean of admissions at the Harte School, what are you doing standing in front of a gay bar?” “Excuse me,” a voice barked, and a man brushed past him, hands on his shoulder, but he was not the police, not a Harte parent, not Rose, not Philip. The problem was that Owen was in the way of the door. “Sorry,” he said, and the man glided into Bullets as casually as Owen might have walked into his own apartment building. It seemed astonishing, daredevil, like walking on a tightrope across a moat of crocodiles. And as at the circus, nothing happened.
The Lost Language of Cranes Page 23
