Gay Place (46 page)

“You needn’t. I’m not ashamed of your support. I just meant the Governor was in charge of —”

“I know how he’s in charge, mister. Listen — I’ll tell you the Facts of Life, revised edition. We’re not going that route any more. We’re good and tired of being back-door lovers. No more extramarital affairs. No more meetings in the dead of night. We’re through with being screwed in the rumble seat. Either you — or any candidate — is good and strong for us in public or we sit on our hands …”

“Well …”

“We mean it …”

“You’ve put your case beautifully and I sympathize. I’m for you. I’ll tell anybody I’m for you. Anybody who asks. But I’m not going to stand up on Mount Baldy in a white vestment and sing about it for the next two months. That’s the way it’s got to be …”

“You’ll —”

“I’ve got to get back to some friends …”

“You may regret it, Senator.”

“And you may get Owen Edwards. I frankly don’t give a damn. And you could get somebody a whole hell of a lot worse than Arthur Fenstemaker if he ever moves out …”

“I wish to God he would.”

“I enjoyed it.”

“Yes.”

Neil turned and walked out of the bedroom, leaving Hardy still on his perch on the studio couch. Jay McGown approached him from behind.

“Hey, Neil …”

“Jay. Did you get the man tucked in?”

“Think so. I wanted to tell you I appreciate the plug in there. I heard part of it — what you were saying there at the end, at the top of your voice.” He stood next to him, smiling, weaving slightly.

“Thanks,” Neil said. “But I probably just lost the labor vote in there.”

“Nah,” Jay said. “Where’s your drink?”

“Need a new one, I guess. Must have left it behind.”

“Come on,” Jay said. “I’ll make you one.”

They started back into the kitchen. Kermit was standing alone in the middle of the dining room. He grabbed Neil’s arm.

“Hey, Good Doctor.”

“Kermit. Where’s that pretty pregnant woman?”

“Scared her off, man. She quailed on me. Can’t seem to get through, make myself clear. How I feel, I mean.”

“Shave that beard for a starter,” Jay said. “It’s that beard that gets in the way.”

“Lose my identity, man? Hey, Neil —”

“Yaz.”

“You know old John Tom?”

“Yes.”

“There was a Doctor. I meant to tell you that. He was an awfully Good Doctor. I meant to tell you … How come he split?”

“What?”

“How come he went away?”

“I don’t know,” Neil said. “I wish I did.”

“Good Doctor,” Kermit mumbled to himself, walking off alone. Neil and Jay moved into the kitchen. The ice tub was half full of water, and the young man who had taken Neil to see Porter Hardy was breaking open a box of whiskey.

“Look at that host,” Jay said. “That’s a host for you.”

The young man looked up, smiling. “It’s the liquor lobby that’s host. We take their booze and vote against ’em. They’re awfully tolerant …”

They poured fresh drinks. Neil took several quick swallows. His throat was dry and then he was suddenly, miraculously, tight. The party raged on around them.

“Grongk,” Neil said aloud.

“What?” Jay asked him. The host was still pulling bottles and bottles out of the pasteboard case.

“Dronk,” Neil said. He cleared his throat. “If I keep this up I’ll be drunk.”

“Only way to be round friends,” said his friend who was bending over the empty case. “We’ll look after you. Won’t take any pictures.”

“Is Andrea here yet?”

“No … Not yet. They were somewhere crosstown. Another party, they said. I’m goin’ to lose patience with those people. ’Nother party’s no excuse …”

“They called again?”

“Yah, yeah, didn’t I tell you?”

“I dun know,” Neil said. “What she say?”

“Who?”

“Andrea.”

“Nothin’. Didn’t talk to Andrea. They’ll be along. They promised.”

There was a silence between the three of them. Jay McGown had got himself seated on the drainboard, his feet dangling, banging against the lower cupboards. The host suddenly sat down inside the empty whiskey case and began slapping his kneecaps in time with the music. Periodically, he took a drink; then propped the glass in his lap and resumed slapping his kneecaps. Neil had got a silly grin on his face. He was aware of how altogether foolish an expression it was, but he couldn’t make it go way. With the three of them thus assembled, the effect from a distance was one of great, private merriment — the sort of illusion, chic and exclusive and vastly appealing to passersby, that caused others to wonder whether
they
were having such a good time
after
all. Fairly soon, a large group of people, whooping and shouting and hoping to share in the fun, had crowded into the kitchen.

Now there were several people perched alongside Jay on the drainboard, and others were pushing in close, ducking under can openers and cuptowel racks to see. Some of them sat on the damp floor, encircling the host who was still inside the whiskey case; another of the roommates was lowering himself in the tub of melted ice. “Coo …” he said, squeezing his eyes shut. “Oooweeool.” Somebody had a bongo drum and was beating on it in a way that irritated Neil but seemed to make the others deliriously happy. They could hardly hear the music from the other room.

Neil finally managed to get through into the main part of the house again. Not everyone had been attracted to the wild, seemingly private goings-on in the kitchen. There were still a good many people about, but the place now gave off an appearance of a
little
more restraint and formality. Not much, but more than had been apparent up to that time. Stanley was dancing with Elsie; there were only three or four couples shuffling about on the living room floor, and the evening had reached a stage at which the soft-music devotees had finally won out over the jazz-ruckus people. Stanley and the girl were a little tight, but they weren’t letting each other know about it. Nor were they working at it to any perceptible degree. They were both just a little high; Neil could see that they were.

When one song had ended and before another was begun, he moved in between then, smiled at Stanley, and asked Elsie to dance.

She came tightly against him, and they moved round slowly with the music. He wondered if she had been giving Stanley the same business all evening, and then he wondered whether she was conscious of having any business to give. She was not a particularly distinguished dancer, but then neither was he. They just managed to move with the music, demanding no more than they and the music were capable of delivering. On the third song, just before one of the jazz buffs got hold of the phonograph and announced Brubeck as next up, they were holding close to each other, scarcely moving their feet, silent and suddenly conscious of their own possibilities.

When the Brubeck came on, he returned her to Stanley and the three of them sat together on the couch.

The evening wore on, past midnight, toward some kind of inescapable conclusion or anticlimax. How did it end? How had these parties always expired? Neil could not remember; or he had never taken the trouble to notice. It seemed to him that he
should,
for a change, but there was no indication at that moment of the party’s letting up. People had begun moving back into the main rooms from the kitchen. They moved more slowly now, but there was no lessening of their ardor and their eyes still gleamed with the anticipation of something far more desirable and possibly new to their experience coming at any moment or in the next hour or so.

Stanley went to get fresh drinks. There were a few complaints about the absence of ice, but most of those who had gone at the liquor with any seriousness were now numb in the mouth, and they drank their whiskey straight or with tap water. Stanley made exactly that point when he returned with the three glasses; he said it was like having had a local anesthetic in the hard palate. They sat quietly, watching the dancers. Stanley leaned over and started to say something, changed his mind for an instant, and then reversed himself again.

“I was thinking,” he said, “does Fenstemaker know much about John Tom?”

“What do you mean?”

“Does he know much about
John Tom?
Did he have anything to do with him before he left the college? Was he even
aware
of him?”

“He sure was,” Neil said. “He knew a good deal about John Tom. He was the one who tipped me about what might happen if John Tom stayed on at the college …”

“How abut Elsie? Did he know about your trying to help Elsie?”

Neil made a face from the whiskey and set his glass down.

“What you getting at?”

“Maybe nothing. But did he know about Elsie?”

Neil thought a moment. He got hold of his glass and turned it round in his hand and took a drink and tried, ploddingly, methodically, to think. It was like the grinding of poorly meshed or wornout gears.

“Is matterall fack,” Neil began, nodding his head. “… As … uh … matter … ruff … fact … I think we wrote to him couple months ago about Elsie …” He turned to Elsie, smiling. “… We had to get
some
thing — what in hell was it anyway? — we had to get the Governor’s — Guffner the State — his official … What ’n hell was it? Had to get him to confirm Elsie as something or other, good risk, responrable,
respons-
zable, holdin’ job and all that, so the State Department people could go ahead. So we could push on that visa business.”

“He knew, then? He knew about that, too?”

“Whattaya —”

“He knew about me. I told him once. About my father. He asked me once to do some writing for him, some kind of special research report on public safety, something like that, and I told him he ought to know about my father before he signed me up. He said it was okay but we needn’t advertise the fact I was doing the work for him. And he knew about Andrea’s vacations in Mexico, of course.”

“Whaat? Stanley, I’m not —”

“He
knew.
Don’t you see. He knew about all of it. Edwards
might
have known — he could conceivably have stumbled across the information — even the stuff about Elsie. But Fenstemaker
knew
.”

Neil put his drink down and rubbed his eyes. He looked around, but there was only vague movement, shapes and figures — painful to watch and no real faces to see. It occurred to him he had never remembered a denouement to these parties because he’d never been in any condition to witness one. He thought about all the times he and Andrea were unable to recall even driving home.

“You … think he told Edwards? Why’d he wanta tell Edwards?”

“I don’t know. Who’d ever know? He’s a pretty devious guy. Christ, he might have planned the whole thing this afternoon.”

“To what advantage? It didn’t do Edwards any good.”

“I don’t mean he
told
Edwards. But he could’ve got the word to him some way. Given him enough ammunition and planted the idea of making that scene at the luncheon.”

“Ammunition for what? To what end?
All
this deviousness.”

“I don’t
know.
Maybe to push you in — to make you finally jump and get your feet wet. To make you mad enough. He wasn’t getting anywhere the other way. And he was the only one today who kept his wits about him. You and Edwards were acting like a couple of nuts.”

They were silent for a period of time. Elsie lay back with her head resting against a striped bolster. The shape of her full breasts suddenly appeared under the loose-fitting blouse, like great circus tents being lofted. Neil stared for a moment, dizzy, his eyes burning from the smoke in the room. Stanley mumbled to himself.

“What?”

“I said I think I’ll go talk to Jay.”

“Godalmighty, don’t go in there and tell him what you suspect. It might not be true.”

“I’m not going to tell him anything,” Stanley said, moving slowly to his feet, attempting to get his head planted straight on his neck. “He’s going to tell
me
something. Maybe. If he’s drunk enough. I’ll be circumspect. He’ll never suspect I suspect. We’ll circumspect …”

“So what if you find out?”

“We’ll know, won’t we.”

“Yes. We’ll know. But it won’t do us much good. He’s my goddam Siamese twin. Joined at the butt. I haven’t a prayer without old Fenstemaker.”

“So we’ll know,” Stanley said. “To know better next time.” He excused himself and went off looking for Jay McGown.

Neil lit cigarettes for himself and Elsie. She lay back with her head on the bolsters, looking at him, her face half in shadow. For a few minutes they made mechanical conversation, short colloquies and uncertain silences; they continued to stare at one another. Finally he bent down to kiss her, remotely conscious of being tight and a little uncertain in the stomach, but vastly excited. He leaned into the shadow; she turned her face away from him as he came close and his lips brushed her cheek and hairline and the slip of ear showing through. There was an instant during which he had to struggle to keep his balance before he pulled back. She was sitting up on the edge of the couch, looking away. She turned to him and said: “I don’t want to do that here.”

“Suggest some other place then,” he said. “Would you prefer some other place?”

They were sitting up straight on the couch. She was turned toward him and doing something with her hair at the back of her neck. He wanted to get his face in there again.

“I don’t know,” she said. “What place?”

“I don’t know, either. Anyplace. I just know I want to go someplace with you.”

“Would you want to go to the bookstore?”

“Yes …”

“I’ve got a bottle of sherry there.”

“Yes … Come on.”

“Stanley?”

“I’ll … Wait a moment. I’ll tell him.”

“Tell him what?”

“I’ll think of something. Leave him a note.”

He left her near the door and went to search for Stanley. He was back almost immediately.

“We’re in luck,” he said. “Stanley’s asleep. Passed out. With Jay McGown.”

They started for the door, but at that moment it came open and several faces, misted in drink, appeared. He wondered if this would be Andrea now arriving, right on schedule: the Wrong Time. But it was not Andrea, none of her group. It was, instead, several young men and girls, with Kermit in the lead and three Negroes — two women and a man — in the middle.