Curt arrived with his drink. “So this is what an Irish wake looks like. Cheers.”
“Where’s my wine?” Clare shouted from behind them.
“Mama, I’m sorry,” Frederick said and went to the kitchen to make sure her next drink had plenty of water in it. Curt wandered out to the porch where the youngest members of the family were assembled and slipped easily into their conversation about the Beatles. The boys were taunting the girls about their crushes on this or that band member.
“So now we’re gonna spend the next hour talking about which Beatle is the cutest? I’d like to punch Paul in the face.”
“Shut up! Just ’cause he’s cuter than you.”
“Oh, sorry, I don’t look like a sheepdog.”
“Sheepdogs are sweet!”
“You don’t even listen to the music. They could be singing ‘Happy Birthday’ and you’d be screaming, ‘Oh my god, Paul! Paul!’”
The boys laughed in solidarity with each other.
Curt asked everyone what they thought of the Supremes. The conversation shifted to the question of whether or not Diana Ross “sounded black,” with Joan admitting she didn’t know whether she sounded black or white, all she knew was how pretty she was, setting off a fresh round of teasing, this time about whether any of them would dare go out on a date with a Negro. Curt merely listened, offering no opinion on the subject, leaning on the threshold.
“I still can’t get used to seeing you in the house I grew up in, mingling with my family.” It was Frederick, whispering in his ear. “I’m just glad you’re here. I don’t know what I’d have done without you.” Frederick wanted to embrace him.
“You would have been fine. Your family loves you a lot. Your aunts keep saying what a wonderful boy you are.” He giggled. “I think they want to adopt me.”
“Curt, I love you,” he whispered, trying not to move his lips. They stood now in the middle of the parlor surrounded by thirty people all talking at once.
“Tell me again tonight,” he said at normal speaking volume, “and I’ll have a reply for you, okay?” He turned and went towards the kitchen for a refill.
“Why is he here?” Marge said, appearing suddenly at his side. “Who is he?”
“Marge, you’re drunk. You’ve had enough.”
“Don’t tell me I’m drunk. I’m asking who he is and what he’s doing here.”
“I don’t understand your hostility. I told you he’s a friend of my friend Sandy—”
“You said he was the son of your friend Sandy.”
“I mean, he’s the son of my friend Sandy. He’s living with me because we just—because he just—moved—”
“You know, it’s like you’ve rehearsed it, only not enough because you’re forgetting your lines. And by the way, how long can you go on saying he ‘just moved to New York’? He’s been living with you over seven months if I’m not mistaken. You told Pop about it in a letter, and in case you didn’t know he always shared your letters with me. How long does it take to find a job and a place to live in New York City?”
“He has a job, and—it’s none of your business, actually. I’m not talking to you unless you sober up. You’re a mess.”
“I need a favor from you.” He was in no mood to give her anything, do anything for her, now. “I need you to stay here with Mama tonight.”
“I thought she was staying with you.”
“She’s been with me since Papa died. But I need a break. I need some help. I can’t have her every night, full time.”
“Marge, she can’t live on her own.” Just as he said it he realized he’d given her the opening she’d been waiting for.
“Exactly. What are you doing about it?”
“Let’s have this conversation when you’re not drunk.”
“Stop saying I’m drunk!”
“Then stop shouting,” he said and pulled her into the hallway by the steps where there were fewer people.
“You can’t avoid this. I’m asking you if you’ll stay here with her tonight so I can have a night off. I need some time to myself, you know?”
“I’ve paid the hotel through tomorrow.”
“Get a refund. Or not! Who the hell cares, you can afford it!”
“What about Curt?”
“What about Curt? You’re not his guardian, are you?”
“I refuse to talk to you about Curt or anything else right now.” He attempted to walk away.
“Damn you!” she shouted. The few people congregating in the hallway moved with embarrassment into the parlor. Conversations continued, but now the argument reached the ears of everyone in the parlor and those in the kitchen as well. “How many rooms have you rented at the hotel?”
“I think you should go home.”
“Are you sharing the same bed?” She said this as she followed him into the kitchen. Frederick called on the first person he saw, his cousin Steve McDevitt.
“Would you take Marge and the kids home? She’s had too much to drink. I’d take her myself but I feel I should stay here—”
Steve agreed but then got pulled into conversation with others.
“Steve, she needs to go now,” Frederick pressed him a moment later. But then the thought of being left here with so many family members, most of whom, it seemed, had heard Marge’s outburst, filled him with more panic than the thought of having to spend one more minute with Marge and her outrageous insinuations. He wanted to disappear and never come back. But where was Curt? He announced he would take her home himself.
“I’m not leaving!”
“Yes, you are, you’re leaving right now because I’m taking you.”
“You don’t want to hear it.”
“I don’t want to hear you, that’s true. I want you to shut your mouth, do you understand?”
Curt appeared at last. “What’s the trouble?”
He told Curt to gather Markie and the baby—but no, there was no time, he’d have to come back for the children. Marge had to be gotten out of the way now. Gripping her hand, he dragged her through the kitchen and down the stairs to the basement.
“You have to hear me!”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I want you to see me and hear me.”
“Listen, I don’t know what you were insinuating up there, but you must control yourself.” The words “control yourself” seemed suddenly to have some magic, calming influence. Perhaps they needn’t return to her hideous words in the hallway. Perhaps she’d forget she ever said them. Perhaps everyone who heard would pretend they hadn’t heard. “You want me to look after Mama tonight, okay, fine. I’ll stay here tonight.”
“And then after tonight? What happens when you go back to New York and I’m left here with an old woman who can’t live by herself and two children and no husband?” Reluctantly he took her in his arms.
“It’s gonna be all right. Maybe not this minute, but we’ll find a solution that works for both of us. For all of us. You and me and Mama, okay?”
“I want Papa! Oh God!”
“I know, Margie. I know you do.”
She rehearsed the events surrounding their father’s death, how horrible it was having to identify the body. “I have to be strong for Markie and take care of the baby, and Mama—oh God—she can’t live without Papa.”
She will, he assured her, though he had no idea how it would all work itself out.
She grew calm.
“I want to go home.”
“Good. I’m taking you home.” She was docile. Mercifully, the final preparations for their departure happened quickly, as if everyone knew the best thing to do was get all of them—Marge, the children, Frederick, Curt—out of the house. Frederick was right. More than anything, they wanted not to know.
By the time they returned that night, the house at 13th Street was empty except for Frederick’s cousin Sally, who was still washing up in the kitchen, and Clare, who was already upstairs getting ready for bed. Curt gave Sally a hand with the remaining d
ishes while Frederick went to check on his mother. He found her in the dark, sitting motionless on the side of her bed, one shoe off, facing the window with the blinds drawn. He knocked gently on the door frame so as not to frighten her.
“Mama, can I help you?”
“Yes, dear.” She said it calmly without turning to face him, as if she’d been waiting for his return and sensed it even before he uttered the words.
He pulled off the other shoe, unrolled her stockings (her legs were streaked with blue and red veins, her toenails were coarse and needed clipping), helped her off with her dress, and started searching for a nightgown, opening drawer after drawer, trying to follow his mother’s confusing instructions—“No, not that, the other—no, the one over there—below that one—below it!” He found the one she wanted—lavender, though she insisted it was pink—and helped her put it on. Then he tried gently to lead her to the bathroom but she protested, saying she was a big girl, she could do it herself, didn’t he know that?
He returned downstairs to find Sally gathering her jacket and purse.
“I’m off. How was Marge?”
“Practically asleep by the time we got her home.”
“She needed to blow off steam tonight.” She looked at him as if to apologize for what Marge had said at the reception. But Frederick wanted to move quickly onto neutral ground. He thanked her for all she’d done and embraced her. She said she didn’t need to be thanked, she loved her Uncle Fritz and Aunt Clare and her Bailey cousins. “And I really do want to bring the girls to New York this summer. We don’t have to do anything special, we just enjoy spending time with you.”
“I’m sure we can arrange it,” he said. Just to spend time with him? It seemed no one in his family had ever wanted that.
He went back upstairs to say goodnight to his mother, but she was already in bed, her eyes closed. When he returned to the parlor, there was Curt, lying like an odalisque on the couch.
“I have a theory about one or two of your relatives.” He curled up to give Frederick room to sit, then draped his legs across his lap. Frederick began massaging his feet. “Am I the only one who thinks little cousin Willie is the most beautiful creature in the world?” Frederick wanted to object, but Curt insisted. “There must be other queers in the family besides you. They say it’s inherited. I read that in The Mattachine Review.”
“Can we discuss it some other time?”
“Sorry. I guess I should say goodnight. Where am I sleeping?”
This would require some discussion. There were two options as Frederick saw it—Marge’s old room, “Where you’ll have your privacy,” and Frederick’s old room. “Where…” But he hesitated to say what he had in mind. “…where the bed is narrow, but at least…”
Curt watched him inch towards his goal.
“…we’ll be together.”
“And then there’s this couch, which is feeling pretty good to me right now.”
“If you’d prefer—”
“This is your home, it’s the place you grew up. Your mother is asleep upstairs. What do you want?”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t know,” he lied, “that’s why I’m asking.”
“Why are you forcing me to say it?”
“Why are you afraid to say it?”
“So we both know what we’re talking about.”
“I’m too tired for games, I’ll be fine here.”
“I can’t be alone tonight,” Frederick said at last. He reached over and took Curt’s hand. “Please. I need you.”
That night they lay in each other’s arms, holding on to prevent falling out of bed. The unlikelihood of making love in so confined a space—not just the narrow bed of Frederick’s childhood, but also the room itself, overstuffed as it was, for Frederick, with memories (the place he retreated as a child to draw, discovering and developing his artistic gift; the place he studied and read, realizing, as the years went by, the full scope of his intellectual powers; the place he happened upon masturbation and then regularly indulged the habit in secret and in shame; the place he deliberately touched his friend Georgey Heizmann while looking at dirty pictures, only to find life-giving acceptance in his friend’s eyes; the place he wanted to die the night Jon announced his engagement) and overheated, for Curt, with intimations of violation, even perversion (he pretended, at one point, to be chubby, sweaty, thumb-sucking, well-hung Georgey Heizmann himself, whispering to a trembling, teenage Frederick, Yes, I want it, do it now, yes, yes)—the unlikelihood of making love here in this place was the very thing that made it so overpowering. And brief: Curt came almost as soon as Frederick thrust into him and started to cry out, but Frederick cupped his hand over his mouth and kept fucking and felt Curt’s teeth sink into his fleshy palm until he came as well.
When he woke the next morning, he couldn’t recall any lag between sex and falling asleep. They must have both dropped off instantly. He felt Curt’s arms around his body. His body was warm and strong. He turned to brush the hair from his forehead and…—what was today? Sunday. What time was it? The clock on the dresser said 6:30 AM. He heard a floorboard creak. His mother was awake and might come into the room any minute!
He leapt out of bed and put his ear to the door. It seemed she hadn’t come out of her room yet. He opened the door, saw the hallway clear, darted—but softly—down the hall to Marge’s old room, entered, turned and mussed the bed clothes, tossed the pillows, then went downstairs to make coffee. Around 7:00 AM, Clare entered the kitchen, washed and smartly dressed. She’d had a good night’s sleep, she said, and was ready for church. When Frederick explained that Sally and Veronica would be arriving in a couple of hours to take her, she should have some breakfast in the meantime, she stubbornly refused and sat at the dining table holding her purse and still wearing her veil and gloves, watching Frederick move about the kitchen.
“Where’s your friend…what’s his name?”
“Curt. He must be…” He hesitated a moment and ran through the story in his mind. “…still sleeping.” Then he added, “I gave him my old room and I took Marge’s room.”
They were silent for a minute.
“How did you two meet?”
He gave his by-now rote answer, the answer Marge had said sounded overly rehearsed.
“So he’s living with you.”
“Yes…” He felt the need to add some qualification but left it at that.
“I slept better last night than I have in a long while.”
“That’s good!” He was glad for a change of topic.
“I don’t like the bed at Margie’s. Too soft. I like a firm mattress.” But before he could offer his assent, she continued, “That bed is just too soft. Gives me a sore back. I’m glad to be home again. If you prefer Margie’s old room, you can keep it.”
Now he must be clear. He was returning to New York, he said, this morning. First they must check out of the hotel, return Marge’s car, then catch their train back home. They had a lot of things to do this morning and would be leaving as soon as Sally and Veronica arrived. She was confused, however, and insisted he should stay here, this was his home.
“No, Mama, I live in New York.”
“You live here!”
“Mama…” He stopped what he was doing at the sink and joined her at the table. “I’m here because of Papa’s funeral. My home is New York City now. I’ve lived there for thirty years.”
But she insisted Reading was home, and she lamented his leaving her again, he was always leaving her.
“I can visit you whenever you like, but—”
“I’m staying here.”
“I’m sorry, but Sally’s coming over this morning to take you to church. If you feel up to it you can visit the aunts after mass, you always enjoy that, but then Sally is going to take you back to Margie’s house this afternoon.” He knew this made it sound as if she had no say in the matter.
“Good morning.”
They turned to see Curt standing in t
he doorway of the kitchen.
“How’re you doing this morning, Mrs. Bailey?”
“Not too good. Frederick wants to send me back to Margie’s.”
“Mama,” Frederick said, now raising his voice slightly, as if she were hard of hearing, “now that Pop is…”—but he couldn’t say the word “dead”—“now that Pop is…gone…you…”—and again, the words sounded insensitive—“you can’t stay here by yourself. You need help. Someone to look after you.”
“But I have you two.”
The thought vaguely amused Frederick, in spite of his frustration. Curt joined them at the table.
“Mama, do you know why we’re here?” Frederick persisted.
“No, why?”
But Curt gave him a look that said, let me try. “Mrs. Bailey, I was wondering if you could show me your wedding album. I was admiring the picture on the mantel of you in your wedding dress, and I wondered if you had any others.”
“Do you remember where you put the wedding album, Mama?” Frederick was happy to take Curt’s lead.
They found it in a cabinet in the living room. While Frederick showered, Curt and Clare went through the album page by page. Clare had difficulty identifying faces, other than those of her two children, her husband, and herself.
“That’s okay, Mrs. Bailey,” Curt said, “it’s nice just to look at the pictures. You were a beautiful bride.” He remarked at a photo of the just-married couple seated in a horse-drawn carriage outside Saint Joseph’s church. Frederick strongly resembled his father, only if anything, he thought, Frederick was more handsome—thanks to his mother, no doubt, whose beauty in some strange way had increased with age. Tucked into the back of the album was a picture of two young men in military uniforms, one seated, the other perched on the arm of the chair, leaning against his companion with his arm around his shoulders.
“Who is this? Is that Frederick?”
“Well, now, let’s see. Yes, I believe that’s Frederick” Clare said, pointing to the seated man, “and that,” pointing to the other, “is…oh, what was his name? Freddy’s friend from the army. I must ask him when he comes down.”
Pennsylvania Station Page 15
