Pennsylvania Station

by Patrick E Horrigan

  Frederick wasn’t sure which ruffled him more, Deborah’s inopportune phone call or Burnham’s eleventh-hour expansion of the project. “And who’s gonna make those determinations?”

  “We are! And that’s not all. He also wants, next to each building, a code to special features. He gave me the list: community interest, historical interest, stained glass, metalwork—well, it just goes on and on.”

  He said he wasn’t averse to doing the work, but it did cause something of a problem, what with his busy schedule at Emerson, Root.

  “Say we’ll do it together. You’re the only person on the committee I really enjoy, and doing it with you makes it worthwhile for me.”

  She was hard to refuse. He looked at his watch. Seven-thirty.

  The intercom rang.

  “Would you hold just a second?” He buzzed downstairs.

  “Mr. Bailey.” It was Milton the doorman. “I found some dry cleaning here for you. Should I send it up?”

  Almost angrily, he said, “Oh, I don’t care. All right. It doesn’t matter, I can get it tomorrow.”

  “I’m happy to send Bernie up with it.”

  Why was Milton bothering with dry cleaning at seven-thirty on a Sunday night? Out of patience but not wanting to show it, he agreed to have it sent up. “Deborah, I’m sorry. Listen, I should go. I…” He was about to concoct a lie but realized he needn’t. “I’m expecting a visitor and have to do something in the kitchen.”

  “Okay, I’ll phone you tomorrow after work. When’s a good time?” That partly depended on Curt, should he ever arrive. He said he would phone her.

  “I’m really glad we’re doing this together.”

  His bladder was about to burst. And now he felt a bowel movement coming on. Absolutely the wrong time for that. Not with Curt due any minute. But what was he thinking? That time was past. It was now close to 7:45 PM. Forty-five minutes late! Frederick wanted to break something. Punch someone. The doorbell rang. Could it be?—but they would have buzzed—still it might… No, it was the dry cleaning. “Thanks Bernie,” he said. He took the dry cleaning to the bedroom and hurled it onto the bed.

  The phone rang. Must be Curt! “Hello!”

  “You sound angry.”

  It was Marge. “No, I’m sorry. I’ve been a little frustrated this evening.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Sounds serious.”

  “It’s not. I’m having trouble with some work…” He saw the papers for the New York Landmarks book lying on the couch. “I’ve been asked to help write a book about buildings in New York that should be designated landmarks.” She was listening. “And they’ve just asked me to do…” But the more he said, the more he realized he’d have to explain, and this was the opposite of what he wanted right now. “They’ve asked me to do something in addition to what they originally asked me to do.”

  “Oh.”

  He wasn’t making much sense.

  “It’s nothing. Sometimes I overreact.”

  “Well, I was just calling. I’m alone tonight.” She started to cry.

  “What’s happening?”

  “It’s Chuck. He’s left.”

  He asked when.

  “We had a fight—I guess it was Wednesday night. He hit me.”

  “How badly?”

  “He smacked me on the cheek.”

  “Marge, I’m sorry.”

  “I told him to go. And…” She was weeping without inhibition now and had a hard time getting the words out. “Now I feel sick. And this is the first time since Wednesday I feel really alone.” She sobbed into the receiver.

  “Margie, I’m so sorry.” He’d caught a glimpse of this new sharing side of her at their father’s birthday party, but now she really seemed to need him. “Why don’t you call your friend Dorothy?”

  “I shouldn’t have called you?”

  “No, I mean, maybe Dorothy can—I thought—”

  “I just feel alone for the first time. I know it was the right thing to do. And with the baby coming, I think now is the time to do this. Really end it.”

  He worried she wasn’t thinking clearly. She was seven months pregnant, depressed, overwhelmed by the work of raising Markie and looking after their parents. Separation did not seem the thing to do now.

  “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t be burdening you with this.”

  “It’s okay,” he said.

  “I’ll be fine. I’ll go over to Dot’s tomorrow. I just need to get through tonight. I’m sorry.”

  “I said it’s okay.”

  “Tell me about you.” He froze. “When we saw each other last summer, you said something I haven’t forgotten. You said I never ask about your life.” His guard went up. “So I’m asking.”

  “Asking what?”

  “Is there someone in your life?” He felt terrified, as if she were ready to confront his secret at last.

  “What do you mean?”

  “Is there anyone important? I don’t mean friends, I mean romantically. You never talk about…a girlfriend or…anyone important.”

  “No, Marge. There’s…no girlfriend.” He thought about his usual remark when such questions arose (“Architecture is the love of my life”). “I am very content. I’m fine.”

  “I wasn’t asking if you’re fine,” she said irritably, “I’m asking if there is a special person. In your life.”

  He thought of Curt. It was going on 8:15. “No,” he said firmly. “There is no one.” He fell silent for a moment. Then, “Well, I was just about to go to bed and I’m extremely tired, I’ve had a long day, and I…” He had this awful habit lately of starting a lie before he’d thought it out clearly. It was bound to get him in trouble one day. “I have a bit of a headache.”

  “I just wanted to say one other thing.” He saw the second hand on the clock in the dining room. “I wanted to ask you if you could come to Reading for a couple of days when I have the baby. I’m afraid Mama and Pop might need something, and I won’t be able to do anything for a couple of weeks. I don’t expect you to take off that much time, obviously, but just for a few days when I’m in the hospital having the baby. I could also use some extra help with Markie.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let me call you this week.”

  He hung up the phone, put his head between his legs, and fought back tears. No one had ever done this to him before. How could it be happening two times in a row? He turned to the manuscript. PENNSYLVANIA STATION (OUTER CONCOURSE) Seventh and Eighth Avenues between West 31st and West 33rd Streets. This great concourse of steel and glass is one of the few reminders we have of a once practical and expressive design for railroad architecture. The precedent for such an enclosure is found in the train sheds which were located over the tracks in many of the older terminals. Here, in this great station, it was particularly well suited to its use as a pedestrian concourse, giving a wonderful sense of openness and light. He read over the blurb once more and added a final sentence. It may soon be demolished to make way for a remodeled station.

  Around 11:00 PM, the buzzer rang. Frederick was half asleep on the couch, surrounded by papers and photographs of New York landmarks. He answered drowsily.

  “Mr. Bailey, Curt here to see you.”

  He was a rumpled mess. He needed to brush his teeth. He tore into the bathroom and rinsed his mouth. He splashed cold water on his face. The doorbell rang. He opened the door and there stood Curt. He entered without saying a word, dropped his shoulder bag on the floor, put his arms around Frederick, and rested his head on his shoulder. They stood silently in each other’s arms for a minute. As the seconds wore on, Frederick became increasingly uncomfortable. How long did he intend to stand here just hugging him without speaking? At last he turned his face up to Frederick’s.

  “All I can say is, it’s good to be here.”

  Frederick took his coat and invited him into the living room. He deci
ded to tread lightly, not ask too many questions, and above all not reproach him. He was here. That was all that mattered for the moment. “Want something to drink?”

  “Yes. What are you having?”

  “I wasn’t having anything, I was asleep.” (Reproachful?)

  “Oh, sorry.”

  “I think I’ll have some brandy.”

  “Make it two.”

  They broached conversation delicately. Curt, for his part, seemed contrite, as if he knew he’d done the very thing Frederick dreaded he would do.

  “Did something happen to you?” Frederick asked with a touch of parental concern in his voice.

  “I promised I’d explain everything.”

  “You don’t have to explain everything, and it’s too late for that anyway. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

  It was odd, the way they were talking. It seemed to Frederick they’d known each other a long time. As if they’d already seen and touched something essential in each other. “Collin is my boyfriend and we had a fight when he found out I was coming over to see you. He threatened to kick me out. So I left and went over to Bev’s apartment. She’s my best friend. She was the girl with us at the museum this morning.” Suddenly his tone changed from remorseful to breezy. “Hey, wasn’t that wild? All those people there to see that little painting!”

  Frederick wondered whether to extract more information or make small talk. Curt’s five o’clock shadow made him look like a ragamuffin. His hair was a mess. In a way he looked more attractive than ever. “It never leaves France, so this is a unique occasion.” He knew he sounded like some PR man for the museum.

  “So I started to fall asleep at Bev’s and then I woke up and I thought, I should call Frederick, but I was afraid it was too late or you wouldn’t want to talk to me, so I decided what the heck, I’ll just go there and if he tells me to fuck off, okay. He has every right. I’d tell me to fuck off if I were me!” He burst out laughing and spilled his brandy.

  Frederick jumped up to get napkins from the kitchen. When he returned, Curt was draining the glass.

  “Sorry, Frederick. You must think I’m an ass. This is a nice place you have here. Can I spend the night? I’m sorry, I’m an ass.”

  Frederick was patting the brandy stains on the carpet. Everything was coming apart.

  “Do you think I’m an ass?”

  “I don’t know—are you high?”

  Curt got a little indignant, though he turned his indignation into a flirtation. “You think I’m high?”

  “I don’t know.” Frederick stood up.

  “You don’t know? Can I have another glass?” He burst out laughing again. “I’m sorry. I told you I’m crazy, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” Frederick said as he filled both glasses. He sat down next to Curt on the couch.

  “I am crazy. I’m crazy for you because you’re such a nice man. You open the door for me at eleven o’clock at night and you don’t tell me to fuck off even though I’m four hours late and spill brandy all over your expensive furniture. Why are you such a nice man?”

  Frederick liked hearing he was a nice man, even if he suspected he was being made fun of. “I don’t know,” he said.

  “You don’t know much, do you, Frederick?” Curt set his glass on the coffee table and leapt into his lap. Their mouths were together. Curt’s kisses were voluptuous and hard, tasting of brandy and cigarettes. His stubble scraped against Frederick’s face and filled his eyes with tears. He squeezed Frederick’s hips between his thighs and thrust his pelvis into his abdomen. Frederick grabbed hold of his ankles and pulled him even closer, trying to restrain his thrusting for fear he would knock over the table, which only made him buck harder. He now felt the full size of this young man’s body. It seemed he held his entire body in his hands.

  Curt tore off his t-shirt and tried tugging at the buttons on Frederick’s shirt, but Frederick stayed his hand and quickly undressed himself. He buried his face in Curt’s chest—his skin was smooth and salty, his nipples large and sweet—and Curt ran his fingers through Frederick’s hair and pulled on his ears. He went for Frederick’s belt buckle.

  “We’d better do this in the bedroom.”

  “Where’s that?”

  They rose from the couch. Frederick took his hand and led him down the hallway. In the bedroom they hurriedly shed their shoes and socks, their slacks and briefs. Curt pushed him hard onto the bed and jumped on top. Though small in stature, Curt was tough and strong like a wrestler. They made love without breathing, hungrily exploring each other’s bodies, kissing and sucking with blackout intensity.

  When Curt said “I have to fuck you,” Frederick didn’t demur for fear of breaking the spell, though he preferred to be on top. Curt spit into his hand, stroked his cock, and entered, all the while thrusting his tongue into Frederick’s mouth and biting his lips. Frederick was in pain but continued to say nothing. Curt reached up and gripped the headboard as he thrust harder. He looked Frederick in the eyes and smiled with what appeared to be sheer amazement. “Frederick,” he said, and Frederick expected some sort of declaration (he’d begun searching for words himself), when a few seconds later Curt said, “I’m gonna come,” and raising his voice, “I’m gonna come!” and Frederick worried Mrs. Reilly next door might overhear. Curt pulled out and came onto his chest, letting out a long angry shout as if peeling off a Band-Aid. Then he rolled over onto his back and grunted.

  Frederick looked up at the ceiling and felt his racing heart slow down to its normal beat. He didn’t reach orgasm that night. No matter how attracted he might be, it took him weeks to feel comfortable enough to ejaculate in another’s presence. And he was relieved that, rather than pressure him or make him feel awkward, Curt didn’t seem to care one way or another.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Frederick slept poorly that night. He felt a dull pain in his groin from not having ejaculated, on top of which he lay in a state of confusion, half the time, as to whether he was awake or dozing. Curt, meanwhile, was dead asleep, almost as soon as he’d climaxed. Frederick cradled him in his arms, smelled his hair and scalp, caressed his shoulders (letting a finger rest in the cavity of the scar on his upper arm), his biceps and forearms, his hips and buttocks, his thighs and calves, felt the firm flesh, the light dusting of hair, wanted to have sex with him all over again, envied his steady breathing, his stillness. Sometime after 4:00 AM (he remembered looking at the clock and wondering how on earth he was going to get through today) he must have gone under, for when the alarm sounded—by accident he’d set it an hour late—he woke with a shock. He switched it off and checked to see that Curt, who merely turned over on his stomach and pulled the blankets up around his neck, remained undisturbed.

  He slipped out of bed. Quietly but with dispatch, he gathered his clothing for the day (he had a meeting first thing) and dressed in the bathroom after the briefest of showers. In the kitchen he started to write a note for Curt, inviting him to help himself to anything in the refrigerator—sorry they didn’t have a chance to talk this morning or even say goodbye—but he didn’t like to use the word goodbye, for he was determined now he wouldn’t lose track of him. This time it had to be different. But how? He was essentially in the same position he’d been in since the day they met: Curt pulled all the strings, Frederick had no way of contacting him, the ball was entirely in Curt’s court. But there was no time to puzzle over all this now, he was going to be late for the meeting as it is. He tore up the note and, on a fresh piece of paper, simply wrote, “Curt, I hope to see you when I get home” and, after a split-second scruple, left his number at work “in case of emergency.” He thought of signing off with something affectionate. “Love” would be too strong, though improbably it was what he felt, “sincerely” too formal, “cheers” too cheery. He settled on an enigmatic “L, Frederick,” which never in his life had he written, but now, it seemed, was the time for new things, more daring things. “I dare you” Curt had seemed to say to him, and
Frederick felt the only way to play this young man’s game is to do the dare. “L, Frederick” it was.

  He wondered if Curt might call him at the office at some point during the day. He even stayed in for lunch in case he should. He preferred to be there at his drafting table ready to answer rather than have the secretary take a message. He staggered through the afternoon, made minimal advances on the drawings due midweek, had a brief conversation with Deborah about the New York Landmarks book, and left the office uncharacteristically, promptly at five.

  Tired though he was, and dozing over his biography of the architect Charles McKim on the subway, he revived once above ground. He walked home with a spring in his step, hoping Curt would be there to receive him. Of course, he had to remind himself there was a good chance Curt would be gone by the time he arrived. And not hearing from Curt all day did strike him as foreboding.

  When he opened the door to his apartment, everything was still. He tiptoed through the entrance hallway and heard the tick of the Swiss clock in the living room. All the lights were out. He cased the apartment for evidence Curt had been there—in the bedroom, the bed was left unmade. He looked in the bathroom for signs of any grooming products Curt may have used. In the medicine chest, he noted his pain killers and sleeping pills—none of the bottles were disturbed. In the kitchen, there was his note, now turned over with some words scribbled on the back. The handwriting was so sloppy it took him a minute to decipher: “couldn’t stay will call” No punctuation, no personal pronoun, no object, no salutation, no “L.” The message was astonishingly cold, given what they’d shared the night before. At least he said he’d call, Frederick thought.

  Still wearing his overcoat, he slumped into his easy chair in the living room, dropped his briefcase to the floor, and looked out the window at the spire of Grace Church, lit up in the dark. When had Curt awoken? Did he take a shower? (Has my bar of soap caressed his body—the intimate crevice between his legs, the caves under his arms, across his chest…? Frederick felt himself going erect and shifted uncomfortably.) How long had he spent in the apartment? He couldn’t very well ask Milton—it would sound sordid, and possibly send up an alarm signal that would only complicate matters for him, for he felt his personal life was already too much on display.