Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  “The outside doesn’t even exist like that anymore,” he explained to Luz. Anyway, he said, he had finally come to see Peter as the human being he was, not just “a neat older guy who was super-charming, a survivor of a legendary era, and lots of good sex.”

  Will call you in an hour—OK? texted Will. On a shoot. Will be great to hear your voice.

  Will already knew about Jonathan, however. Aldebar had called him directly, an hour before, right after he’d called Peter.

  CHAPTER 25

  “Good to see you,” said Aldebar, greeting Peter at the door. The two men embraced. “How are you holding up?”

  “Hanging in there,” said Peter.

  “All set?”

  “Absolutely.”

  The service for Jonathan, which was designed to be something between a funeral and a memorial, took place in the concert hall of the Ethical Culture Society, on Central Park West. Peter knew the place well, having attended several AIDS-related memorial services there in the ’80s, as he supposed Jonathan had done, too. Plainly decorated but with a grandly vaulted ceiling and a trio of arched windows in the rear that let in daylight, the hall was both sober and inspiring, ideal for sad celebrations like memorial services. Aldebar, who showed Peter over to the rows reserved for family and close friends, had said he’d almost booked the Society’s Ceremonial Hall, a less imposing room that accommodated far fewer people than the Concert Hall’s eight hundred, but it was clear that morning, a few minutes before the service was scheduled to begin, that Aldebar had made the right choice. Practically every seat was filled, and the room’s vastness was filled with that silence eight hundred people make collectively when trying to remain as still as possible, with no musical prelude to cover a bit of quiet buzzing.

  As he followed Aldebar to his seat, Peter resisted the urge to survey the crowd too intently, for fear of disturbing anyone’s mood. In passing, though, he did spot and quietly acknowledge a few people he knew: Connor Frankel and his partner, Wallace; Jonathan’s brother and his wife; and several of the gray-suit couples whom Peter knew from Jonathan’s parties. He was thanking Aldebar with a squeeze of the arm when he registered Will, smiling calmly, already installed in the seat next to his.

  “Oh!” said Peter.

  “Saved you a seat,” Will whispered. They shared a modest kiss.

  “Thank you.”

  “Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you. How are you?”

  “I’m fine, thanks—but, you know, very sad.”

  Peter nodded his head. “I know,” he said. They’d shared a brief call on the day Jonathan died and acknowledged they’d be seeing each other at the memorial service, but had made no more specific plans.

  “How are you doing?” said Will.

  “OK . . . ,” said Peter, hesitantly. “OK.”

  “I’ve missed you. It was nice to hear your voice, the other day.”

  “Me too. I’ve missed you so much.”

  They were exchanging a few words about Peter’s final visit with Jonathan, when the service commenced. A well-known author—a friend of Jonathan’s whom Aldebar had asked to serve as master of ceremonies—stepped up to the lectern that had been set up on one side of the stage.

  “Talk later,” said Will.

  “Yes,” whispered Peter, reaching for his phone to mute it, when he saw Will doing the same. And he was struck again, almost afresh, by Will’s handsome profile and his unaffected elegance in his black suit. A scene from the film Gentleman’s Agreement danced into his head, in which Dorothy McGuire sees Gregory Peck for the first time in evening clothes and says he looks “good enough to eat with a spoon.” It was going to be hard to focus on the service.

  “Good morning and welcome,” intoned the author. “We gather today to remember a man, a friend, an artist, who leaves behind a body of work, but more importantly, a body of friends. . . .”

  The stage, nobly framed by an arch of dark wood, was also set with four chairs and music stands—for the string quartet, Peter assumed—as well as a piano and a harp. The piano and harp surprised Peter; Jonathan hadn’t mentioned them, and it was with something like anticipated pleasure that Peter wondered what musical selections required them. He glanced over the printed program, then returned his attention to the author.

  “. . . Will be a poorer place without him, but richer for the legacy that bears his name. . . .”

  The remarks, though standard, were well formulated and sounded heartfelt, and thus were completely welcome. The room was attentive.

  “. . . Once, when he adapted a book of mine . . .”

  The author recounted working with Jonathan on a film, noting he’d come away with a keen appreciation of the man’s thoroughness and generosity, which is why, he said, he wasn’t surprised to learn that Jonathan had specified all details of that morning’s service himself, including the “casting”—though not, of course, the actual lines he was speaking.

  There was some laughter, from those who no doubt fondly remembered Jonathan’s elaborate style of hospitality. And as the author went on, Peter stole another glance sideward at Will, who looked so princely in his suit.

  Damn, he thought. Just—damn.

  When Will noticed Peter looking, Peter widened his eyes in mock-sternness and pointed toward the lectern, as if Will were the one who needed reminding to pay attention.

  The first musical selection was the trio sonata of Bach’s Musical Offering, with a flutist, a violinist, and a pianist. The performance was superb—Aldebar had engaged members of a prominent chamber music ensemble. Following was a remembrance by the Oscar-winning film editor who’d worked with Jonathan on the Connor Frankel project. The editor, who was still engaged in daily work on the film’s final touches, spoke of Jonathan’s fearlessness and restraint, “which need each other, if either is to be useful” in a work of art. Though people applauded after the Bach—following Aldebar’s cue, Peter noted—they were silent after the editor, except for some throat clearing. Then there was the second movement of Schubert’s Death and the Maiden quartet, followed by another remembrance, this from an enduring Broadway and Hollywood star who’d narrated one of Jonathan’s films. She spoke of Jonathan’s experience and worldliness, which set a benchmark for her, she said, of the kind of “culture-maker” she wanted to be.

  At one point during the star’s remarks a phone went off, with a particularly inane ring tone. People tried not to look in that direction and the thing was quickly silenced.

  “Good turnout,” said Peter to Will, after he did twist around in his seat and sneak a peek at the crowd.

  Yes, Will nodded.

  The Times had run an obituary—a meaty one. It referred to Jonathan as “one of the leading documentarians of his generation,” a phrase Aldebar mentioned to Peter that he’d suggested was fair when he spoke to the obituary’s writer, one of the paper’s film critics, who called to update the unfinished piece on Jonathan that was already on file. Aldebar, of course, was running everything, with the grateful approval of Jonathan’s lawyer and brother. Throughout the service, he stood off to the side, perhaps not wanting to claim too indelicately a spot among the close friends and family, and, too, to be available as the event’s executive producer. In fact, everyone close to Jonathan had known for months that Aldebar had become something more than a nurse, in Jonathan’s house. It was clear that something important had developed between them, and that morning Aldebar, in his dark-blue suit, did look like a cross between a widower and a surviving business partner.

  As the star left the stage, Will leaned over to say he wondered what kind of service the Ethical Culture Society regularly held in that room. Peter whispered that he’d wondered the same thing during previous memorial services, but that he’d never managed to follow through on the research.

  “Let’s check it out,” said Will.

  “Fine,” said Peter.

  And then, from the lectern, the author announced that a third person, not noted in the program, had
kindly agreed to speak before the final musical selection; he introduced Peter.

  Peter rose.

  “You’re speaking?” said Will.

  “Nah, I gotta pee,” whispered Peter, clapping Will affectionately on the shoulder as he exited the row.

  The room became hushed as Peter stepped up to the lectern. No microphone, he suddenly noticed—but then he quickly saw that the room’s acoustics were a dream.

  “You’ve all spoken so eloquently of Jonathan’s creative side,” said Peter. “No artist could wish for more loving insights into his work and process. I am so grateful to all of you for sharing these remembrances, and I only wanted to add a few of my own, since I believe I can claim to have known our good friend possibly longer than almost anyone in the room, with the exception of Jonathan’s family.” Peter nodded graciously toward them.

  “We met at what used to be called a consciousness-raising group,” he continued. “We were all fresh out of college, it was the mid-seventies, and we were all determined to stay responsible for our own intellectual rigor and progress. We met at our friend Louis’s place, a tiny apartment on East Ninth Street that I suppose now we would call squalid. We thought it was homey, and we talked about our fathers, week after week. That’s what the group was meant to examine—fathers and sons, masculinity and the gay male identity. I remember Jonathan insisted we tape all of our sessions—three hours at a clip, mind you—and then we realized no one was really in a position to transcribe all that.” Laughter. “It was a leaderless group—of course!—but it was Jonathan who came prepared with probing questions and always seemed to get the conversation going and push people beyond their initial impressions, whatever. He was always synthesizing, summarizing, so we could keep building on what we’d discovered. And of course, Jonathan was the most honest one among us, as we divulged our pasts and our secrets to one another. And I quickly came to respect and then like this guy with the big bush of curly black hair.” More laughter. “Oh, yes—that was also one of the splendors of knowing Jonathan back then: the amazing Jew-fro. I’ll wager very few of you ever saw that.”

  Peter paused. Light was pouring in through the arched windows, from the unclouded sky above Central Park, outside. Was he really speaking about Jonathan in the past tense? Could he do that? It was a task, all right, to think that way. But Jonathan had done his work, by dying, and now they, in that room, had to do theirs, by speaking and listening.

  “He was handsome, that one, and so smart,” said Peter, losing his composure for just a second and then, with a breath, regaining it. “He seemed to know everything about New York, since he’d grown up here—where to get the best Indian food, how to get a private carrel at the Fifth Avenue library. And he knew everything about the world—the way it worked, what it meant. He was clearly, even then, a very advanced creature, a very large human being. And he believed the point of life was precisely this kind of enlargement, and that was inspiring.”

  Peter spoke of Jonathan as being a self-permission-giver for himself, and an enabler for others, in this process of enlargement. It was a “holy talent,” Peter said—believing in a bigger sense of one’s self to grow into.

  “We went through a lot together. We lost both our lovers to AIDS, along with so many other friends, and we were more stunned and grateful each day, Jonathan and me, as we found we were surviving somehow and still had each other as friends. And then for decades we celebrated each other’s successes in work, and sampled each other’s culinary experiments, and shared complaints about onerous tax burdens and unfair department-store-exchange policies. And we were there for each other, yes, even on Fire Island, through the good seasons and the bad. . . .”

  There was a giggle from one of the gray-suited couples.

  “Right?” said Peter, in their direction. “That house on Nautilus, with the guys next door who played Donna Summer all day long, full blast?”

  The memories kept flooding toward him, making it difficult to stay focused. He was speaking extemporaneously, though from a little outline he had memorized.

  “My point is that Jonathan was staunch, and good company, and remarkably kind and tolerant with those who were less intelligent and experienced than he was—and thank goodness he was, because I was certainly one of those.”

  He looked upward, above the crowd and their faces, toward the windows, because it was easier to continue that way.

  “And now, well—you know, this isn’t just memorial-service talk—I am a far better man than I ever could have been, because of Jonathan. And I have to wonder, with gratitude and also a kind of panic, where will we ever get another one. And of course I know the answer: We won’t get another one. The best we can do is count ourselves lucky to have had him as long as we did.”

  “Beautifully done,” said Will, as Peter returned to his seat. The comment made Peter shudder a bit, as he choked back tears. And then two musicians stepped onto the stage, a young woman in a long dress, who seated herself at the harp, and a handsome young man, who positioned himself near her but not quite at the center of the stage—which probably someone had thought would be too performance-y.

  Will elbowed Peter—his way of saying he thought the man was cute.

  “Mm-hmm,” Peter said quietly. He was trying to put his moment on the stage behind him, and summon full attention for the musical selection.

  The work was Benjamin Britten’s fifth Canticle—a diaphanous yet distinctly muscular setting for tenor and harp of an early poem by T. S. Eliot, “The Death of Saint Narcissus.” Peter tried hard to listen to the words—the poem sounded odd: erotic, obscure, violent—but despite the tenor’s best efforts at enunciation, it was impossible to make out the meaning. A glance at the text in the program offered little help:

  . . . He was stifled and soothed by his own rhythm.

  By the river

  His eyes were aware of the pointed corners of his eyes

  And his hands aware of the pointed tips of his fingers.

  Struck down by such knowledge

  He could not live men’s ways, but became a dancer

  before God. . . .

  Peter decided he must be too preoccupied to concentrate. Anyway, the piece was over in a few minutes, and what hung in the air afterward was the delicious memory of a harp and a heavenly voice, not questions about a second-century bishop of Jerusalem who, according to the program note, was accused of committing an unspecified “detestable crime.”

  At the reception, Peter and Will barely had a chance to speak privately, since there were so many of Jonathan’s friends to greet.

  “I didn’t see your name in the program,” said a nice lady whom Peter didn’t recognize.

  “No, I wasn’t planning to speak,” said Peter, reintroducing himself. “But then at the last minute Aldebar thought it would be nice to have something personal, to balance all the lovely remarks about Jonathan’s work.”

  “You spoke beautifully.”

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Can we get out of here, please?” said Peter, after she’d left.

  “Sure,” said Will. “I’m only on a lunch break, though. I have to get back to the office, eventually.”

  “I’ll walk you to the subway.”

  After making sure to have a word with Jonathan’s family and with Aldebar, Peter and Will stepped across Central Park West and into the park. They agreed that was the nicest way to the R train at Fifty-seventh and Seventh. But seeing an empty ball field and a set of invitingly empty bleachers, they decided to take a moment to decompress. They installed themselves halfway up the bleachers, overlooking the field and the expanse of lawn between it and the mass of trees marking the park’s edge, beyond, above which poked the towers of Fifth Avenue and Central Park South.

  “You look good today,” said Peter. He noticed Will was wearing a new pair of stylish black shoes.

  “Thanks,” said Will. “So do you.”

  “You can’t bullshit or get too fancy for a thing like this, can you?”<
br />
  “No, you’re right.”

  “I’ll tell ya who looked like a million dollars—Aldebar.”

  “Man, didn’t he? He must have inherited a million dollars.”

  Peter laughed.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I gather they won’t be doing the will for a few days.”

  “Amazing guy,” said Will.

  The day was warm and they were in direct sun. Will peeled off his suit jacket and draped it neatly over his knee. Settling, he plucked his shirt away from his chest with characteristic delicacy.

  “Why do you do that?” said Peter. “It’s adorable. I’ve always meant to ask.”

  “What—this?” Will plucked again. “It helps me feel neat. I hate feeling crumpled.”

  “Ah—yeah, I know. So little in this world is neat. At least we can try to be, ourselves, neat.”

  Will nodded and then betrayed a smile, as if there was something they should be talking about, but weren’t.

  “What?” said Peter.

  “You,” said Will.

  Peter smiled radiantly. “Me adoring you,” he said. “That’s what you see on this face, if I may say so.”

  “You may,” said Will. But he still looked hesitant.

  “What?!”

  “OK, I’m just gonna say it.”

  “Say what?”

  “Speaking of Aldebar—I knew him even before I knew Jonathan. He’s how I met Jonathan.”

  “OK. So?”

  “He was taking clients on the side, besides his nursing gigs. I met him in a bar one night and got him to talk all about it.”

  “Clients?”

  “As in rent boy.”

  “Oh—OK. You know, I kind of assumed that. I knew Jonathan hired guys. He told me once, but we never really talked about it.”

  “Only the best, Jonathan would hire,” said Will, with a kind of sly emphasis and a boyish, expectant look on his face.

  “What do you mean . . . you?”

  “Yeah.”