“Mrs. Bailey, try not to talk,” the doctor said, smiling at Frederick. “Just rest. We want you to stay here overnight.”
By the time Frederick got into bed it was well past midnight. But he was wide awake at five, oddly exhilarated. I’m going home, he said to himself, as if he were a teenager off to the big city for the first time.
“But don’t worry, I’m staying in Reading,” Marge assured her mother as they checked her out of the hospital. Then on a sour note, directed more at Frederick than Clare, “I’m not going anywhere.”
The rest of the morning was spent getting Clare settled back home and teaching her to use the breathalyzer. His father had wanted his help with some household chores, but Frederick said those would have to wait until the next time he came to Reading, for if he took the evening train he’d get home too late and (this was a lie) he had some things to prepare for tomorrow’s meeting, papers to consult, which he’d left at home—he was sorry, but he had to make that one o’clock train.
But he had done, more or less, everything he could. And Curt wasn’t a perfect stranger. They had exchanged words. Curt had gone out of his way, in fact, to solicit him (“solicit”—the specter of prostitution again). He could find a stranger for sex if that was all he wanted, but now, passing beneath the arch and searching for some place to sit, he felt, somebody wants me, I have something to look forward to, and he thought of Curt’s extraordinarily beautiful face, and the childlike way he stood smoking his cigarette, then the way he followed him like a panther back to the seats, and after the performance how he pursued him, asked his name, made a date to see him again. Frederick held close the memory of those delicate moves, like the first gambits in a game of chess.
He checked his watch. Nine o’clock already. Washington Square was filled with locals enjoying the warm evening air. Kids played in the fountain, throwing a football from one end to the other. He kept thinking, That ball’s gonna hit me in a minute. Balls seemed to have a mind of their own whenever he was near, and he always felt particularly foolish whenever one came his way, for if he should attempt to return it, he was certain, even small children can see I’m queer. Was that all he was now? A silly old queer waiting for his piece of action? Maybe it was all an elaborate ploy to get him home, take advantage of him. He’d heard of things like that, queers getting rolled or arrested in “Chicken and Bulls” stings, and it always frightened him (he remembered the incident with his friend Raymond, who’d taken a hustler to a hotel room, when suddenly the hustler turned on him, made him strip down to his shorts, tied him up with his own necktie, emptied his wallet, slapped his face, held a knife to his throat and said, If you tell anyone, say anything—and Ray couldn’t complain to the hotel staff or go to the police for fear of exposure).
He had gotten to the park twenty minutes early. In fact he wanted to get here early—certainly to be here when Curt arrived—to show he was a dignified man, this was not some sordid, secretive assignation. To all the world it should look…like what? Uncle and nephew? Father and son? It needn’t look inappropriate or sexual. Cordial—teacher and student, perhaps (this was the heart of the New York University campus, after all).
He looked at Two Fifth Avenue, the building that had secured his place at Emerson, Root. Every time he looked at it, he felt differently. The “compromise design”—setting the tower back from the park and maintaining, at the base, the low roof line along the park’s northern edge—and then his idea to salvage the granite portico with the Corinthian columns from 14 Washington Square North and incorporate it into the new, modern structure (“a paste-up job,” Seymour joked at first, then became his strongest defender to the rest of the team)—at first he was exceedingly proud of the design. It was good design, not slavishly beholden to those who would stop all building and development in the city (the Rhinelander Houses—what, really, was their historical importance? Just the dwellings of another wealthy New York family, Seymour said, and he was right; if George Washington never slept there, what was the point of preserving the building?). At the same time, the Municipal Arts people were also right—tall buildings did detract from the beauty of the park, the perimeter buildings should be kept low, there should be plenty of light and air. So the solution was, do both. Build the tower, but set it back from the park, and in place of the old Rhinelander homes, create a modernized version of similar proportions as a base for the tower. But now, as he looked at that portion along the northern edge of the square, he was bothered by the horizontal picture windows and the metal balconies. The modern addition now seemed not a violation, exactly, of some historic buildings, but…what? Not such good design after all? Whereas, looking at the still-intact row houses on the other side of the avenue along the park, he realized (thinking of the Royal Crescent in Bath) there had been an attempt at something different here, once upon a time. There are so few examples of coherent urban planning in New York we’ve forgotten even to want it anymore. We don’t know how to want it.
It was a peculiar idea, he thought, looking through the arch and wondering from which direction Curt was likely to come (9:15 now)—“Not knowing how to want.” Times changed, whole peoples forgot, but here was the disturbing thing: We lose touch with our values, time goes by, we change, and we don’t even notice the change.
He heard someone call his name.
Trotting across Fifth Avenue with her dog came Deborah. As she passed beneath the arch, she let go of the leash and the dog made a beeline for Frederick’s lap.
“Waverly, get down. Sorry, Fred. Bad dog!”
He panicked. What if Curt comes while she’s here, what will I say? What will he say? What if he kisses me?
“What a wonderful coincidence! How was your weekend in Pennsylvania?”
Not wanting to prolong their visit, but at the same time wishing he could pour out all his insecurities about spending time with his family, and then the news about his sister’s pregnancy, her marital crisis, not to mention his mother’s accident, he merely said it was okay.
“Just okay? Waverly, heel!”
“What kind is he?” He reached down and petted the dog, but thought, No, the idea is to find a way to break this up.
“Terrier.” But she was intent on hearing details about his weekend. “You seemed a little worried at the protest.”
He reassured her the weekend was fine.
As he wasn’t taking her lead on the subject, she proceeded, instead, to fill him in on developments since Thursday. She described the denouement of the protest and the article that ran next day in the Times. It leaned heavily, she said, on the human-interest side. “They mentioned the Lingrens and their little girl in the stroller. They were carrying a sign that said ‘Don’t Let Them Destroy My Heritage.’ A few other names—Philip Johnson, of course, Charles Hughes, Norval White, Aline Saarinen. They mentioned Seymour’s sign, ‘Be A Penn Pal’!” She’d joined the contingent that went to New York International that night to meet the mayor’s plane. He was coming back from vacation in Europe, and—“Actually it was quite exciting! We stood there en masse as he came off the plane, and then Norval approached him, and we sort of inched along behind him. We had the reporter for the Times there—” (He kept looking over her shoulder. No sign of Curt. He would have to do something quickly.) AGBANY staged the whole thing, she said. They’d prepared a letter asking Wagner to make a commitment to historic preservation, and Norval handed him the letter. Frederick grew more and more agitated as she continued. “He was respectful, though he looked a little crumpled from his trip.”
“Well, that’s great,” Frederick said, knowing he sounded detached. She must be wondering what’s wrong with me, he thought, why I seem so cool. He hated being in this position.
“I’d love it if you came to the next meeting of the Municipal Arts Society. We’re taking a list of about three hundred buildings and Alan Burnham is developing it into a book. He’s with the AIA, but it seems AIA is more on board with this now because of the protest. There was a lot of tensio
n between AIA and AGBANY at first, but now I think everyone sees that AGBANY gets results. I’m going to help with the editing, and I’m sure they’d love your input. We have historians, but we need someone who knows architecture. Seymour won’t do it, and I wondered—I was hoping to speak to you about it at the protest, but since you’re here, what do you think? Come to the next meeting and talk to Alan with me. I’ll tell him I’ve spoken with you and you’re interested.” He looked at her. His heart was pounding. “Assuming you’re interested, I mean.”
“Yes, yes, tell him.”
“Good! We won’t tell Seymour, this will be our secret.”
But all he heard was the word “secret.”
“It’s later than I thought.” Indeed, it was now 9:30 PM. Was he actually getting stood up? “I’m on my way to meet a friend for a drink.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I assumed you were just out enjoying the evening.”
“No, it’s all right, I—I didn’t realize the time.”
“Which way are you going? I’ll walk you.”
“No—no—I’m—where were you headed?”
“I usually walk him once around the square, right, Waverly?”
They proceeded over to Broadway, all the while Deborah filled him in on the Times editorial she had reason to believe would appear next week about the Penn Station protest. The AGBANY people had close ties with Ada Louise Huxtable at the Times, who was a great champion of the cause of historic preservation. She’d been told Huxtable would be writing an editorial in support of the protest.
“That’s good,” he said, but raged inside as he approached Broadway, his back to the square.
“She calls AGBANY ‘the local counterpart to Britain’s Anti-Uglies.’ Any idea what she’s referring to?”
It took effort to stay focused on the conversation. Anti-Uglies. A group of architecture students in Britain, as he recalled, who protested—something or other. “But that’s all I know.”
“Oh, then that must be it.” Here was the subway entrance.
“Frederick, I’m so glad I ran into you. And this really does mean you have to come over for dinner. It’s been too long. I’ll speak with Seymour and we’ll pick a date.”
“Okay, and which way do you go now?”
“Oh, probably down Broadway. You want to walk down Broadway, baby?” But Waverly was barking at another dog across the street. “It’s always good to see you, Fred.”
“And you,” he returned.
They kissed and said their goodbyes, and Frederick, feeling a complete fool, descended the stairs to the subway, waited two minutes, then raced back up, back to the square, but his bench was now occupied, and no sign of Curt anywhere. Now it was nearly 10:00 PM. He found another bench on the opposite side of the arch. He sat down and looked at the arch, with Two Fifth Avenue beyond it. He hated the sight of it and began to chew the nail on his pinky finger. Another bland apartment tower, another historic building razed to dust, a lazy design solution to appease everyone but please no one. The building was a failure, the Row had been violated, great nineteenth-century architecture had been sacrificed for mediocre modern architecture, and goddamn this kid for not showing up on time! He really had hoped to spend the night with him, or at least take him to bed for an hour or two, feel his touch. He wanted more than anything else right now to be held close.
Darkness had fallen. The park was still crowded with kids and couples and teenagers playing music. Every now and then a football came perilously close to his head. One time he caught it and said angrily, Watch what you’re doing, you almost hit me in the head, and the kids said Sorry, but out of the corner of his eye he saw one of them laughing and poking his friend, and he knew they were laughing at the foolish old queer sitting on the bench on this hot Sunday night in August.
When he got up to leave, it was past 11:00 PM. On his way out of the park, he saw two young women sitting on the edge of the fountain, each with her ear to a transistor radio held between them, weeping. As he passed, he overheard the news: Marilyn Monroe was dead.
CHAPTER FIVE
Curt stared at the horizon because he couldn’t stand to look at Collin another minute. His body was drained but he couldn’t sleep. Collin, on the other hand, could sleep through anything. He was actually snoring. The beach was very crowded now, kids playing all around them. The sun was at its peak. He’d been awake since 5:00 AM when Collin got up to go to the bathroom. He came back to bed and they embraced and then kissed. Collin liked having sex first thing in the morning, so Curt hoped this would be the morning. Collin hadn’t fucked him since the night they met, and it was driving him crazy. They did everything else, sometimes several times a day, but he wouldn’t fuck. He couldn’t fall back to sleep. He lay there waiting for Collin to wake up, and then he did wake up but stayed in bed, going in and out of sleep, for another two hours, and all that time Curt lay there hoping Collin would fuck him, wondering when the right time would be to say something but not wanting to ask for it, feeling he shouldn’t have to ask for it.
He didn’t know why he put up with Collin. He wasn’t so great. Okay, he was cute, in good shape. And yeah, he had a nice dick. But all this crap about being a “singer-dancer”? C’mon, he was a lousy chorus boy. He’d only been living in New York for one month but already he’d met more attractive, more interesting, more successful men than he ever met in Chicago. Like the guy he met on Wednesday night at the theater—the handsome older man with the graying temples and the sexy lips and the dark blue eyes—the one who helped that girl who got mugged. Frederick. They were supposed to meet tonight. Washington Square Park, underneath the arch or something. But for some reason, Collin had a grip on him. New York was so big and crazy, it was nice to have someone there for you, a shoulder to cry on, and he’d been crying a lot lately. He’d been saving up to move to New York ever since he heard from his shrink about the Mattachine Society and how there were more homos in New York than any other place in the world. Ballet classes were fun, but he wasn’t working too hard. He was still learning his way around, getting a feel for the different neighborhoods, and where to meet men. He’d heard the 34th Street Y was “simpatico,” so that’s where he was living for now, but he wanted to get out, there were too many lowlifes there. And yeah, the shower room was a gas, but after the incident last night (a bunch of greasers chased him from the subway shouting “faggot”—he could have sworn one of them had cruised him on the train) he knew he had to get out, find a better place. But that would mean finding a better-paying job. Well, he already knew he wasn’t gonna last at Aldo’s. Fucking mafia. And the snooty customers, especially the homos. “Where’s my salad!” “This lettuce tastes like it has detergent on it!” You want Roquefort, Italian, or gasoline? Fucking faggots. And the worst part of it was, they only complained to him because they knew he was a sister. They would never say anything to the straight waiters or the manager. They’d eat shredded newspaper with dressing poured on top before standing up to the real enemy.
He walked to the water’s edge and watched two women, a little farther out, laughing and talking. Both of them were dressed in tight, skimpy bikinis. As fashion trends were going, pretty soon women would be free to go topless and people would think it normal. Whereas men—he turned to look at the refreshment stand up on the boardwalk and saw two cops stationed near the entrance to the public toilets nearby—men had to cover their briefs with a towel on the boardwalk. He knew the ordinance was aimed at gay men and no one else. Riis Park was notorious for homos, the cops and the locals knew that, and so they set rules to make it hard as possible for “undesirables” to come and have a good time. He watched as a group of teenage faggots paraded past the cops to the men’s bathroom, sashaying and flipping their towels like skirts, putting on a show for the cops, acting like silly queens. He returned his gaze to the two women in front of him. Women were lucky, in a way. The whole society seemed to accept the idea that a woman’s body was something to be looked at, enjoyed, a thing of beauty. But men’s b
odies were supposed to be cold, hard slabs. Totally nonsexual. Their boxers and briefs were supposed to conceal their erogenous zones, like they had no front packages and no rear ends—exactly the parts of the body that were most sexual. Oh sure, men could walk around without their shirts on and that was normal. And he wasn’t complaining! He could spend hours just watching men go by, all kinds of men, young, old, even the fat ones—men’s bodies fascinated him. Especially mature men’s bodies. He never tired of looking at them. But no one thought men’s chests or arms or legs were “sexy”—well, straight men didn’t—and how typical of straight men, to flaunt their bodies any way they wanted because something hadn’t occurred to them (that other men might find them attractive). But as soon as a gay guy puts on a bikini, as soon as his shorts are too short, his pants too tight, he’s a faggot and told to cover up, wipe off the makeup, walk tall, chest out, get tough, lower your voice, don’t cross your legs like a girl, don’t look at your nails that way, don’t check your heels that way. Jesus! The whole thing was a fucking straitjacket. And it was the same in New York as anywhere else. Shit, the boys at Chicago Junior School were braver than most queers he saw in New York. They used to go around holding hands, everyone talked about who was going with who, they slept in each other’s beds, jerked each other off, kissed and hugged and had pet names for each other (Go-Cart, Shrimpy), and yes, Mr. Kilburn called them faggot and made everyone sign a statement saying they didn’t engage in any “inappropriate behavior.” But he refused and said so to Mr. Kilburn’s face, and the goddamned thing was, he didn’t get punished for it! As if the most outrageous thing you could do to someone like Kilburn was just tell the truth plain and simple, without anger or attitude. Yes, I have sex with boys. So what? And Kilburn did nothing. That was when he knew there was something special about him. Something truly fearless. Where it came from he didn’t know. But sometimes it made him just want to go off like a rocket.
Pennsylvania Station Page 5
