Pennsylvania Station

by Patrick E Horrigan

  The point was to get things back to normal as much as possible, though there was nothing normal about any of this. He felt a curious mixture of contentment (he’d spent one of the most heavenly nights of his life) but also anxiety. What had Curt done in the apartment while he was away? Like a detective come across a scrawl in the killer’s hand, a key to the mystery, the Mona Lisa’s smile (Leonardo’s priceless portrait seemed far away from him now), he looked on the table and saw the exhibition brochure he’d purchased with a stain from Curt’s brandy glass right across Lisa’s face, then the stain on the sofa, and on the carpet. Frantically he stood up, threw off his coat, and began searching the apartment for his valuables. The portrait of Granny—his passport—his mother’s rosary—his father’s cufflinks—money he kept stashed in a drawer in the kitchen—the mask he’d brought back from Mexico City—the mask from Venice… He stopped and looked out the window and noticed one of the lights on the spire of Grace Church was out, leaving it half in shadow. How long, he wondered, before someone replaced it? Grace Church was one of those buildings, according to Burnham and his team, that should be preserved “at any cost.”

  What price was he willing to pay for Curt? Was he worth a dime? Sam would have dropped him the minute he got stood up. But Frederick had let things go much further. And here he was again, waiting, wondering. “Couldn’t stay, will call.” The words were so clipped, so drained of promise, of care, concern. But he’d had him. His mouth was still swollen from their rough, passionate lovemaking. He almost wished the scars would never heal.

  But Frederick’s scars did heal, and it was over two weeks before Curt phoned again. In the meantime, he had plenty of time to sort things out. He was deeply attracted to Curt, perhaps more than anyone he’d ever met, including Jon. He recognized it as an obsession and accepted the fact. He also knew it wasn’t just a sexual obsession. There was a boldness about Curt that both appalled and thrilled him. He seemed to cut like a blade through all the nonsense of the world. How much Frederick wanted to see Curt again, however, depended on the day and his mood. He clung to the memory of their night together and he taught himself to believe, even if he didn’t really believe, that if he never saw Curt again it would have been enough. Other days he was hungry. When he felt a sexual urge, he wanted Curt to satisfy it. He noticed one beneficial thing: he no longer pined after men on the street. And he stopped going to the bars. It was as if he and Curt had gotten married in his mind. He was committed to Curt. He wasn’t “skirt chasing,” as Sam liked to call it, anymore. That was a relief, because he could now focus with full attention on work. And that wasn’t all: one day while starting a new drawing, he unrolled a fresh sheet of paper on his drafting board and pinned it at the four corners. He picked through the mug of drawing implements on his side table and chose a dark green pencil. Holding it between his fingers, he examined the point to see if it needed sharpening when he noticed something extraordinary: his fingernails had grown back. The white tip of each nail had increased by what must have been an eighth of an inch. And he’d had no idea. He had actually stopped biting his nails.

  Deborah, meanwhile, had asked him to divide the list of New York landmarks into groups according to their historic and aesthetic importance, and the task became a curiously absorbing one. He spent weekends at the Public Library doing research on buildings designed by McKim, Mead, and White, including the library at Columbia University, the arch at Washington Square, and of course Penn Station, trying to determine the key features that made them worthy of preservation. He was especially fascinated, though in some ways disappointed, to learn more about Penn Station, in one sense little more than a giant granite gazebo, a dispensable architectural folly atop the network of underground, underwater tracks that bound Manhattan Island to the continent; the Tenderloin district once inhabited by Negroes, evacuated by force, along with the tenements, bars, nightclubs, and brothels torn down to make way for the station; McKim’s attempts to ennoble the business of train travel by creating lofty, dignified spaces through which one should promenade, never rush, a progression of spaces from the long Seventh Avenue arcade to the grand waiting room and then onto the dazzling glass and steel concourse—a sequence meant to be experienced, he realized, primarily by persons leaving the city, not arriving. It was a philosophy completely at odds with the tempo of modern times and with the city that epitomized it. No point, he knew, wishing things had turned out differently (for it was official—the station was set for demolition starting in October). The world turned, time moved forward, never backward.

  Then one evening in the middle of March while reading his biography of McKim (he was in the middle of McKim’s speech to the Royal Institute of British Architects wherein he bemoaned the wanton destruction of good architecture in America for commercial purposes—buildings inspired by the great British architect Christopher Wren, buildings whose destruction was deplorable not only “in the loss of historic monuments, but for the lessons they invariably teach of sound proportion, simplicity, and good manners”), he was jolted by the ring of the telephone.

  “How are you?” came the low, scruffy, youthful voice.

  “Hello. I’m—miss you.” The grammatical upset was only one sign of letting go. Frederick knew to be with Curt in any sense meant to let go of all kinds of standards, to let down all kinds of barriers, to let him in whenever the opportunity arose.

  “I want to see you, are you free tomorrow night?”

  Frederick had a date with Sam and his companion, Ed, but he could cancel it. He would never tell Curt, of course. And he’d learned by now to expect the unexpected. First of all, to anticipate the possibility Curt might not come at all. No point in letting it anger him. He would need a Plan B. For now his biography of McKim kept him company, and if Curt failed to arrive he could spend the rest of the night reading. Frederick suggested dinner at Luchow’s near Union Square—he got the distinct impression Curt didn’t want to be bothered by details, just choose a time and place—but they should meet at the apartment, he insisted. Right, Curt remembered, “We don’t want to run the risk of leaving Frederick out in the cold again,” and he laughed.

  This time Curt was only forty minutes late. They embraced, as before standing in each other’s arms silently, not kissing, not caressing yet, just holding each other, as if there was a mutual understanding that now this was their ritual. But desire welled up and they began to kiss and Frederick could see, within a matter of seconds—

  “I think we shouldn’t.” Curt pulled away. He walked uninvited into the living room and sat on the couch. “Sit down,” he said, as if it were his home rather than Frederick’s. “I don’t think we should have sex right now.”

  Frederick didn’t agree, but he was just as fascinated to see what Curt was up to this time. It was, at least, one way of getting to know the elusive boy.

  “Whatever you want.”

  “Is that what you want?”

  “Of course I want to make love to you, but I don’t want to force you.”

  “Good, I don’t want you to force me either.”

  “So, since you don’t want to have sex, what do you want?”

  Curt scratched the top of his head like a monkey, then broke out in a bright smile. “Food!”

  Frederick laughed. “What are we waiting for?”

  They decided to go to Luchow’s as planned. Frederick asked what he was hungry for.

  “A thick, juicy steak with potatoes and carrots and green beans,” and the list went absurdly long.

  “Sounds like you haven’t had a proper meal in days.”

  On the way to the restaurant, Frederick tried to get some sense of Curt’s home life. He wanted to know about the arrangement with Collin. But Curt didn’t want to discuss Collin. Something had happened between them. Frederick spoke to him as if it was mutually understood that Collin was an obstacle to be surmounted.

  At the entrance to Luchow’s, Curt halted. “Collin was in the room when I was talking to you last night and he hea
rd me say the name of the restaurant. He might already be in there waiting for us.”

  “What would he do if he saw us together?”

  “He’s the jealous type. He could make a scene in front of everyone.”

  Frederick said they would go somewhere else then.

  “Can’t we just go back to your place? He doesn’t want me to see other people. The problem is, he won’t give me what I want.”

  Frederick didn’t understand. But here on the sidewalk in front of Luchow’s wasn’t the place to be having this discussion.

  “He says he loves me but then he won’t have sex with me.”

  Frederick had to ask: “So that’s why you come to me?”

  “No, it’s not only that. I mean, yeah, it’s partly that.” And he reached out and gently stroked the palm of Frederick’s hand with his middle finger. “I know you don’t like it when I touch you in public.”

  Frederick was aroused. “I think we should cook dinner at home.”

  They went to the supermarket and walked the aisles and laughed at their own impulses—Oh, let’s have ribs, you know how to cook ribs? And salad. What do you like on your salad? Curt piled so many vegetables into the basket it would be enough to feed an army. And let’s get some wine! Red or white? Or how about champagne? They enjoyed the ordinariness of shopping for ingredients to make dinner. Dessert! We forgot dessert! They stopped at a bakery. I want—Curt scanned the case—this and that and that and one of those! You’ll get a tummy ache, Frederick said.

  “Then you’ll have to nurse me back to health.”

  Frederick liked how that sounded, partly because it suggested Curt would be staying longer this time.

  The clerk behind the counter glared at them as they playfully talked about what to buy. “Have you decided?”

  “Yes, we’ll take” this and this and one of these, Curt said, grinning.

  Out on the street, they laughed to think they might have been mistaken for father and son.

  “Do you think I look like you?”

  Frederick appraised him. “Not at all.”

  “Well, it depends on who my mother is. You ever have sex with a woman?”

  The question made Frederick suddenly uncomfortable, partly because he didn’t want anyone in their vicinity to overhear the conversation, partly because he didn’t want to admit that intimacy had ever existed or could ever exist again with anyone besides Curt.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Why not ask?”

  “Well, the answer is no, actually, I haven’t. Have you?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  “How was it?”

  “You’ll have to try it yourself.” Then, as if not satisfied with own his smart-alecky answer, he added, “It was okay, sort of. I can see myself with a woman someday.” Was Curt toying with him—testing to see how much he wanted him, to discover how far he could be pushed before declaring his devotion? But Frederick thought it best to hold back from pursuing the dialogue any further. Besides, they were entering the building and people he knew were all around.

  As Frederick prepared dinner, Curt sat on a stool at the counter drinking wine, getting drunk, and teasing Frederick about his cooking, about being a good housewife, about being a good parent. “Do you want a child?”

  Another question that made Frederick’s back go up, at least when it came from someone he had feelings for. It seemed they were getting to know each other from the wrong end of the telescope. He, too, was getting drunk.

  “No. I think it’s a little late in life for me to start thinking about raising a child.”

  “Oh,” Curt said as if showing sorrow for someone who was hurt, “how come? Children are so cute.”

  “You’re cute, most children are not.”

  “But I’m a child, aren’t I?”

  “Are you?”

  “Compared to you.”

  “Do you usually get involved with older men? How old is Collin?”

  “Twenty-seven.”

  “I rest my case.”

  “I like older men.”

  “Lucky me.”

  The idea that someone as young and beautiful as Curt could find him attractive was flattering in the extreme. Curt admitted young guys might be better looking than old guys (“Old?” Frederick thought), but he was turned on by something else in mature men, which he didn’t bother to explain. Frederick might have pressed him, but every topic of conversation got derailed either because of the wine, or the business of preparing dinner, or some flip remark of Curt’s, or the way he kept changing the subject, affirming the notion, which Curt now seemed the first to embrace, that he was queer, crazy, confused, a child, bent, in need of a good whipping. “Will you give me a good whipping someday?” Curt asked with a wicked smile.

  That “someday” sent a shiver through Frederick’s body. Now they were sitting down to table. Frederick brought out a pair of candles and lit them. It was the most nonsensical conversation he’d ever had.

  “Do you want a good whipping?”

  Curt was kittenish. “Maybe. But…” From Frederick, he started to explain, though he was drunk, and had lost, apparently, his appetite, he wanted something more. “Not that I don’t ever want to have sex with you again,” and now Frederick began to wonder if this was Curt’s way of shifting the terms of their affair away from sex towards something more platonic.

  “What do you want, then?” It was the second time he’d asked Curt the question this evening.

  “A man I can trust,” Curt answered without missing a beat. “A man I can look up to. Travel with, go shopping with, dancing, the theater—remember?” He kicked off a sneaker, bit his lip, and nuzzled his foot between Frederick’s legs. Frederick reached down and held his foot in his hand.

  “Why did you come to me that night at the theater?”

  “Honestly? I saw you rush over to that girl who got mugged at intermission. The way you helped her. You seemed safe.” It wasn’t the answer Frederick expected. “I didn’t really have a ticket to that show, y’know.” It would never have occurred to him. “I snuck in during intermission. I do it all the time. I followed you in and saw the empty seat next to you and went for it. I’m glad I did.”

  Frederick was touched to think Curt was drawn to his goodness.

  “Don’t get me wrong, I like the theater, I just don’t like money!” he said pulling his foot away. He told him about his former job at Aldo’s Restaurant, his tense relations with the management, his hatred of the mafia, but especially the snotty gay clientele. “I can spot those faggots a mile away.” Frederick suddenly wondered if, in Curt’s eyes, he himself was one of “those faggots.” But he felt sympathy for the boy, and the job did sound humiliating. He hated to think of Curt being humiliated, even as, it seemed clear, Curt was perfectly capable of humiliating others. Frederick suspected it was his defense, the way he survived in a hostile world.

  “I’m sorry you had to go through that.”

  “Yeah, queers are the worst. The worst! I mean, I love having sex with them, but I’ve never been able to be friends with a homo. The guys I mean. All they want is to take care of themselves, they don’t give a shit about anyone else.”

  “Who are you talking about?”

  “After I got arrested, I went to a meeting of the Mattachine Society, ever hear of it?” Frederick was aware of the group—Sam and Ed had gone to an occasional meeting, had once encouraged him to join, but they weren’t regular members and they knew it was hopeless to enlist him in the cause. In any case he never thought seriously that homosexuals could organize, say, the way Negroes did, into unions and groups. The idea of speaking about one’s hurts and wrongs—fit for the analyst’s couch, perhaps, but not for the public square. “And they were mostly guys in their forties and fifties and I felt really out of place. No one let me talk, and when I did they said, Well, you shouldn’t have been parading around the boardwalk without a towel! Those fuckers, can you bel
ieve it? I was the one who got fucking beat up by the cops and thrown in jail, and they’re blaming me! I think they were just jealous ’cause I was the only good looking person in the whole room.”

  Frederick was made uncomfortable by the turn in Curt’s speech. Now it seemed the problem with the Mattachine Society wasn’t so much their ideas about homosexual rights or how to advocate for better treatment of homosexuals but the fact they were middle-aged men. He tried not to take everything Curt said personally—tried to think about the real issue that had galvanized him—but his feelings of vulnerability about his age and appearance, and his real desire for intimacy, played havoc with his ability to think clearly. His senses were blurring. He’d had far too much wine.

  He got up from the table and brewed a pot of strong coffee. Curt refused, but Frederick drank. He felt his faculties coming back into focus. It was late. Curt was tired and stretched out on the couch next to him, laying his head in his lap. Frederick stroked his hair.

  “That feels nice. You’re a nice man, Frederick. I’ve never met a nice homosexual like you.”

  Frederick reached for a volume of Whitman lying on the side table.

  “Shall I read to you?”

  “No one ever read to me before.”

  “Your mother didn’t read to you as a child?”

  “My mother sent me to boarding school. My father left when I was four, and she always had some loser boyfriend living with us at home. Then she married my stepfather, who was abusive and a drunk. She never had time for me.”