Gay Fiction, Volume 1

by Mel Bossa

He dropped the diary. “She’s a beautiful woman, Roger. Certainly the best-looking woman in this town for years.”

  “Thanks, Chas.”

  He looked as though he wanted to say more, but he was silent for a minute until he finally said, “You are still sore.”

  This was where the hit for the loan came. “Not at all.”

  “Well, then why are you so goddamn distant?”

  That was a new one.

  “That was years ago, Roger,” Chas continued. “Unimportant too. Just a goddamned little girl. Unimportant, Roger. You and I had something far more important. We were friends. You were the only close good friend I ever had. The only friend I ever cared for. You shouldn’t have let a girl get in our way. You should have known better than that.”

  “Who even remembers,” I said, trying to change the subject.

  “I remember. We were close, goddamn it. You can’t just stand there and say it isn’t so.”

  “We were kids then, Chas.”

  “We were goddamn lovers!” he said, spitting the words out in my face and at the same time dropping his hands to his sides and turning away. “Kids or not. And for that I deserve more than years of silence, then six months of your cold shoulder. It’s humiliating. I know I wasn’t the best kid in the world, Roger, but I never did anything half this cruel to you. That last week at Grandpa’s house, and now—now that you’ve come back. Why did you come back anyway?” he demanded.

  “I don’t know. We were passing through. We saw the sign about the house being for sale. We came up and looked at the house. I don’t know, Chas.”

  He was restless again. He’d go off to one wall of the room, touch a binding or detail of shelving, then come back to me as though magnetically drawn.

  “So that’s it?” he asked, almost out of nowhere.

  “What’s it?”

  “Hello, cousin. Good-bye. Good luck.”

  “Well, what else? Do you want to stay for dinner? I’ll ring Karen and tell her you’re staying.”

  He laughed mirthlessly. “No, I don’t want to stay for dinner.”

  “Well, what then? I don’t know.”

  “You saw this house then, when we were kids, isn’t that right? And that’s why you came back.”

  “More or less right,” I admitted.

  “I’ll tell you what I want, Roger. I want us to be friends again, the way we used to be.”

  “Well, we have to start somewhere then. Come by for dinner tonight, and—”

  “That’s not what I meant. I mean I want us to spend time together, Roger, like we used to do. Afternoons. When your wife is at work and I have time off.”

  It was the tone of his voice more than the words he was using that warned me he was asking for something not conveyed.

  “All right. But I’ll have to have time too, Chas. After all, until I’m done with this restoration—”

  He interrupted me again. “You’ll find time if you want to.”

  Now I knew I couldn’t sidestep anymore. “To do what, Chas? To get together afternoons and do what? Have you talk to me about repairing Buicks and me talk to you about Hegel? Is that what you want?”

  “No. Not to talk. To do what we used to do—remember, at night, up at Grandpa’s house?”

  “I’m married,” I said.

  “So what? What I’m talking about has nothing to do with being married.”

  “It has everything to do with it.”

  “And besides, you were mine first,” he said. “I still have the first claim on you.”

  “Chas, you’ve got to be joking. I haven’t done anything like that in years.”

  “You’ll remember. You learned fast enough.”

  “It’s different now, Chas. We didn’t know what we were doing then. We do now. It isn’t right. It’s just not natural.”

  He flared up again, pinned me against the table.

  “Don’t give me that shit. It’s just as natural as anything else. All love is sick, Roger, whether between a man and a woman or a man and anything. Believe me, I’ve seen it, I know it. I don’t have any degrees in philosophy from fancy colleges, but I’ve got eyes and ears. I’ve seen, and I know. I know I’ve never felt the same way about anyone else but you, and I know it’s the same with you. That’s why you came back to Nansquett. I knew you would. I didn’t know when, but I knew it would be sometime. When I came here and stood in this doorway watching you, I was sure of it. We’re bound up, Roger, bound up, and we’d better roll with it, otherwise it’s going to really get bad for us.”

  “You’d better let go of me now, Chas,” I said coldly, calmly, trying to hide the fear that I felt, a real fear worse than any I’d known in my life because it was so indistinct.

  He released my arms and stood back. “C’mon, Rog. Just once. For old time’s sake. Let me show you. C’mon, Rog.”

  It was the way he had whispered to me that first night in Grandpa Lynch’s house, panting, desirous, manipulative as an Eighth Avenue prostitute. I hadn’t known then where it would lead to, what passions would explode in me, what would be revealed to me about myself. I did now.

  “I can’t, Chas.”

  “What you mean is, you won’t.”

  “I can’t, Chas. I’ve got a wife now. I love her. I don’t love you like her, Chas. I’m sorry. And I’m sorry that you’ve never found someone to love in a mature way. But you will, Chas, if you get rid of these childish ideas and start acting like a grown-up.”

  He was silent, waiting for me to finish my lecture. Then he was still and silent, cold and white-faced with anger and humiliation.

  “Suit yourself,” he said in a toneless, small voice.

  His saying those words, in that same tone of voice he’d used so long ago, disturbed me even more than his declaration of his continued passion for me, disturbed me with possibilities of remembered mischiefs, for past slights he’d been so bent on achieving.

  “Chas,” I tried. “Listen. Stay over for dinner, and we’ll talk about it later. You’ll see that—”

  “Suit yourself,” he repeated and left the room, running down the stairs so fast, he was halfway down the next landing to the first floor before I even reached the hallway.

  I remained where I was, stunned, until I heard the front door slam open and shut, then heard the car engine start up, the engine being gunned and the tires squealing out of the dirt road. Then I turned and went to the work table and lifted a volume of Amity’s diary and waited until I could no longer hear the sound of his car engine.

  I lit a cigarette then, listening to the first tentative splatter of raindrops tapping on the stained-glass skylight, opened the diary, and began to read.

  Chapter 12

  I had picked up the volume at random, picked it up and held it to my chest to protect myself, to defend myself from Chas and from the past he so much wanted to continue into the present. When I finally opened it to read, it was with the intent of banishing the troubling present he represented by immersing myself in the past—Amity’s past—no matter how banal. I couldn’t have known how crucial that act would be for me, for Chas, for Karen—for Amity too.

  At first I read blindly, without making a great deal of sense of anything: Each entry in that florid but correct handwriting of hers detailed the minutiae of the life of a spinster more than a hundred years before—how she had made soap from fat drippings strained through cheesecloth to clean out impurities and mixed with spoonfuls of lye; how she had prepared possets to cure her father’s sore throat with potent mixtures of lemons and honey boiled with cloves; how she was beginning to teach her Negro servants how to sew complicated stitches so they might ply their needles for profit; and how to cook without using heavy lard, which often caused sensitive stomachs indigestion. I read of quiet evenings of knitting and small talk in back parlors; of insignificant gossip about people in Nansquett and Scituate now long dead. I perused her neatly divided columns of tabulations of money spent on items bought in the town and of wages paid out to the servan
ts and local tradespeople. I read her reflections about the relation of a religious man or woman to an all-ruling Deity. For page after page, these words from another time swam before my eyes, as I sought and finally managed to achieve forgetfulness of what had just happened in the library between Chas and me.

  I was about to close this volume of Amity’s diary, to go get myself an afternoon snack, when one entry struck me:

  August 26, 1866: This morning I had the good fortune of making a new acquaintance: Captain Eugene V. Calder of the Union Army. He came to visit today, following delivery of my dear Alfred’s last letter yesterday afternoon by the hand of young Ted Wilcomb. We spoke of Alfred for almost two hours, reviving in my mind and soul all that I lost when that dear man, my affianced, was felled in battle last year at the Manassas.

  Two days later was another intriguing entry:

  August 28, 1866: Captain Calder called on me again today. We sat in the music room. He is a most intelligent and courteous man. We spoke of Alfred again. Captain Calder has a multitude of anecdotes about my departed fiancé, as they were close friends throughout the course of the past conflict.

  He remains with the Wilcombs for a few weeks more, lightening Ameilia Wilcomb’s burden by being for a while the son she lost by the hand of a divine fate.

  He has asked if he might call on me again. I said he might.

  From then on there was an entry almost every day:

  August 29, 1866: Captain Calder played the piano today. I know so few men who are not professional musicians who have any ability at that instrument. He is most accomplished in all respects. I fully understand my Alfred’s admiration for him.

  August 30, 1866: Captain Calder came for our afternoon Sunday dinner. I do not think Constance likes him as well as I do. He teased her lightly about her constant reference to her beaux. She became quite flushed and later on told me she believed he was quite overbearing.

  August 31, 1866: I consented to drive with Captain Calder today. He is a careful and expert driver. He declared that Alfred Wilcomb, whom he always thought the most intelligent of men, was a fool not to have married me before he went off to war. I was startled to hear this and showed my disapproval. He later apologized for his effusiveness.

  September 2, 1866: Eugene stayed for dinner this evening. Later, we played a game of cards—the first in this house—although without any stakes, so it cannot be construed as gambling in any sense. As in all else he does, Eugene Calder is both expert and expert in teaching others. I learned several strategies from him, and they very much amazed me when they worked: I especially enjoyed bluffing Constance, who was very irritated to later on discover I did not at all hold the cards she thought (and I intimated) I held, thereby winning the tricks over her.

  Catulla, Saturn’s old wife, later on told me she had never before seen such a fine man as the Captain. He is handsome; although as a rule I do not prefer fair men. Alfred was as dark-skinned as an Italian or Spaniard, although of good blood. Eugene’s hair and mustachios are a fine, silky blond. His eyes are almost golden, they are such a light yet fiery brown.

  September 5, 1866: Eugene for dinner again. I played two of Mr. Mendelssohn’s “Songs Without Words” at the piano; and Eugene was so smitten with one, he asked me to play it again and again. It has become my favorite piece of music. Once Constance’s beau came for her, Eugene pressed my hand to his lips and told me he will not leave Nansquett for another two weeks. His eyes were bright with desire and longing. I was glad when Constance’s beau came in looking for her soda mints; for otherwise, I would have been unable to break away from Eugene’s hold.

  September 9, 1866: He can no longer remain with the Wilcombs. Catulla has prepared a room for him under father’s library—next to father’s old bedroom. Our own rooms are far enough away to be considered almost another dwelling.

  September 11, 1866: Constance has parted from her beau. She cried for almost an hour. I tried to comfort her, but to no avail. How can I share in her distress when I am happier day after day being with E?

  September 15, 1866: He has asked me to be his wife. We were in the formal parlor, not much used since our mother and father passed on. I asked whether Eugene were proposing to me merely out of an obligation to his friendship for Alfred. He persuaded me this was not so but said he thought that Alfred would have given his fullest blessing upon our undertaking if I could be persuaded that Alfred were hovering overhead, our guardian angel. I have asked for a week to give Eugene my answer.

  September 19, 1866: I do not think Constance approves of our proposed marriage. When I told her, she began to pout. Today, while Eugene was out with Saturn inspecting the harvest of Concord grapes in the little ravine, Constance and I spoke of Eugene. I believe she feels compromised in some way by his residing with us in the same house. I tried to allay her fears—with little success, I fear.

  September 20, 1866: I have accepted Eugene’s hand. After dinner tonight we went into the music room—the hallowed place where we first discovered the secret affections in each other’s hearts!—and Eugene once again made his proposal although a week has not fully passed from his earlier declaration. When I said I would accept, he rose from his knees and kissed me quite passionately upon my lips. It was only with a great effort of will that I could persuade him to find another seat while we talked of our upcoming nuptials, he wished to be so close to me.

  September 21, 1866: Eugene has written to his mother in Vermont, narrating our plans for marriage. He also asks for her consent.

  September 23, 1866: Has a woman ever so loved a man? I cannot think it. I allowed Eugene to kiss me again tonight. But I was once more forced to persuade him aside. He is a passionate man, filled with the vigor and virility of his gender. This causes many little happy difficulties in our friendship. Yet I know that he is guided in all this by the unswerving hand of love, and I cannot blame him. Fires also seize my limbs when we are alone together.

  The courtship continued for almost another month. Managerial duties and home recipes—not to mention religious and even philosophical musings—gave way to her daily intimately increased fascination with Calder. Then there came a curious entry, quite different in tone from any previous:

  October 16, 1866: May Father forgive me! May God have compassion on the wanderings of a storm-tossed and weakened woman!

  Today Eugene received a missive from his mother. She consents to our marriage, with the simple stipulation that E. return to Vermont for a short time to secure all of his and the family’s affairs, as we plan to live here in Nansquett. He plans to leave me in two days’ time.

  This afternoon Eugene once again demanded a pledge from me to ensure that I will await him. I still do not understand why my word is not good enough for him: He uses it to swear upon all sorts things and in all sorts of situations. Under much duress I gave him his required pledge—my precious maidenhood. Here in this very library, where Father was wont to daily come and have deep and spiritual intercourse with higher thoughts, did Eugene and I…I cannot say it. I cannot write one word more.

  One more entry dated the 18th of October notes that the Captain had left for Vermont. Amity was disturbed that he had demanded further pledges from her—one every day he remained under her roof. In all the moralizing and distress, she also expressed her terror of the passionate feelings Calder had aroused in her: feelings equal to if not greater than his own.

  For the following two months, her diary entries returned to their previous domestic and ethical concerns. Then another startling one appears:

  December 29, 1866: There is no doubt about it: I am with child. Catulla has assisted at many birthings among the servants; she confirmed the still unglaring fact with great joy. However, I can feel no pleasure in this unexpected result of my conjunction out of the sacraments of matrimony: only foreboding. And only two letters from Eugene since he went away. Both of them only serving to extend his delay—now he will not be back in Nansquett until spring! Ought I write him my news? Catulla says certainl
y, as he is the father. But I do not know how he will take the news. With joy; for if not I could not bear to live with myself. Ought I tell Constance? Do I dare? I no longer know who I can trust and who not. I cannot go visiting for succor, as I am inquired of by all when will Eugene return and when will the banns be posted. It is most distressing.

  From then on followed an increasingly frightened series of entries, each one detailing Amity’s growing shame, her sadness, her uncertainty of her worth in Calder’s eyes should he find out her pregnancy. And with it all, her growing alienation from her friends, her neighbors, his sister—once so confided in. Christmas and New Year’s come and go. Constance’s spirits are at their highest, although Amity does not know why. Then she discovers that Eugene has been in communication with Constance. Unlike her own letters from him, those to Constance are playful and very tender. Amity resolves to write to Eugene about the child. The return letter from him ignores her pregnancy and once more delays his return. Amity’s depression and isolation increase. She begins to complain of migraine headaches. She dismisses servants who have been with the Pritchards for years, based on mere misdemeanors. Constance avoids her. Then, on Easter Sunday there is the following entry:

  April 18, 1867: I can no longer be seen without my condition being immediately remarked upon. I have taken to my room and put out the rumor through Constance that I have taken a bad ague which requires bed rest. Constance is very kind and understanding. How I love her. How I mistakenly failed to trust her before. She will do all she can to protect me.

  Very few entries deal with her condition, until June 10, when the next poignant entry reflects the resolutions of her problem:

  June 10, 1867: The child was born dead yesterday afternoon. I had Saturn bury it somewhere off the end of the property. I do not know where, and because it was unbaptized, there is no need for a marker. I am still not well. The labor was long and very painful. Constance was by my side for hours. She is my only remaining strength. She has been at my bedside all morning, cheering me up by reading a new novel she had sent especially for me from Boston, by Mrs. Gaskell. I could not concentrate on her words, with all of my own terrifying thoughts, and she must perforce reread to me the entire opening all over again.