How Long Has This Been Going On (33 page)

Henry shook his head, handing Blue the glass. "Editor. Magazine."

"Life?"

"Aficionado."

Again, Blue downed the water quickly. "Thank you kindly," he said, returning the glass.

Henry just stood there with it, looking at Blue.

"You're not sayin' too much," Blue observed. He took the glass from Henry, put it down, yanked up the blanket, and guided Henry to the couch, where they lay together under the coverlet.

"Comfy like that?" Blue asked.

"Yes."

"So, now Andy Lee led me to the barn real quiet, instead of 'I'll teach you to come snoopin' around' and such similar remarks as Billy Boy liked to make at these times. And, lo and true, what if Andy Lee don't lock the door, drop
his
pants, and bend over like he's going to take instead a give it!

"Well, I give it to him, real friendly-like, the way he always give it to me. Because I truly liked that Andy Lee. But first I moved him over to the hay so we could lie down for it. And then, while it was goin' on, I thought a turnin' him onto his back, to do him that way and get the most out of him, knees-to-ears. So smooth and slow like that. I don't know, it just occurred to me. So there we were, facin' each other and holdin' on, and I started feelin' love for him, and I took up kissin' his mouth.

"Well, that Andy Lee became furious and started shoutin', and he threw me off him and ran out of there, cussin' me out for a devil-son. He must have told Billy Boy of it, later on, because from then on they never waited to nab me for trespass, and word spread through school, and no one would talk to me again. All because I kissed Andy Lee instead of just screwin' his ass and sayin', Huh, that's okay. Things got so tough on me that I decided to drop outta school and work full-time on our land, maybe add a new crop.

"But my father said, No, yer goin' to join the service.

"I said I didn't feature such a fixed term of employment, and he told me there ain't no choice in the matter. The Navy's where I'm goin', or the Army, or somethin'. And that's it."

After a pause, Blue said, "Seems funny that someone else would have such a powerful opinion about how you are goin' to lead yer life, don't it?"

After another pause, Henry piped up with a statement he had made so often he had it down cold: "We were not put on earth to fulfill other people's expectations. We're here to fulfill our own."

"Well, now," said Blue, giving Henry a playful punch. "Hear the trumpet blow."

"I'm dead serious," Henry insisted, sitting up to face Blue. "Do you realize how many people don't know that? Who spend their lives taking orders from authority figures who have only their own interests in mind?"

"Give you no quarrel there, son. 'Cause I sure didn't stick around fer any more of that from my dad, as you can see."

"What made you come to New York, though?"

Blue had gotten up and was starting to dress. He seemed not to have heard the last question.

"If you'd like to take a shower..."

"No need," said Blue, hauling on his T-shirt. "Get that done later."

Henry watched Blue dress for a while. Then he said, "You're really something, you know that?"

"Guess I do, more or less."

Henry rose, found his pants, dug out his wallet, and paid up.

"Thank you kindly," said Blue, stuffing the bills into his pocket without counting them.

"I wish it were five hundred."

"You want to take my phone?"

"Sure."

Henry handed Blue a slip of paper and a ballpoint.

"You're not like the other gentlemen on the street," said Blue as he wrote. "Why're you so young, first of all? And a fair-looking guy, certainly. You don't need to pay."

"I'm looking for something."

"Was I it?"

They were at the door, Blue fastening his jacket, Henry nude and shivering.

"It's cold for those clothes," Henry said.

"I'm still new in town. Haven't collected all my northern wardrobe."

Blue had his hand on the doorknob; Henry put his hand on Blue's.

"I have to say this to you," said Henry. "You're... you're an incredibly hot guy. The way you did that was just... totally wild and true."

"Uh-huh."

Blue got the door open, and as he passed through he said, forgivingly, "But I kinda believe that you didn't enjoy it the way you should."

Chris had been out all day, so she hadn't picked up her mail till well after one
A.M
. Rehearsal had run long and then she had gone out for a beer with some of the actors, and she knew she shouldn't stay for more than a half hour because she had that asinine paper on
Tristram Shandy
to write
and
a truly vicious Soc exam in three days. But Chris was still working on shucking off her Scandihoovian ways in order to become a New York Woman, and hanging out in a bar for two hours seemed very sophisticated after swatting blackflies in the Dawsons' swimming pool or playing ghost in the family basement.

The mail included a letter from Aunt Brenda, another of her round-robins written for everyone in general—family news, local gossip, and personal items addressed to specific people. This is the kind of letter that begins, "Well, all I can say for
this
winter is no one has suffered frostbite. (So far—ha-ha.) And that deadly Pastor Lagerborg has mentioned marijuana in his last three sermons in a row. He pronounces it 'maijewna,' and the third time, Aunt Greta broke into a giggle fit." There was one line aimed at Chris, by name: "That Uhlisson boy you liked so much has moved to Minneapolis, to work for a firm that renovates old houses. Margit Uhlisson told me he said he never wants to see Gotburg again, and I wonder what
that
means!"

Aunt Brenda and Uncle Carl, Chris thought. Those unbelievably heavy hooded winter coats. Seaweed in the lakes, proms, and "Golly!" All that is behind her. She is Chris de Manhattan, and she knows her choices now.

The other letter is from Luke, at Berkeley. Luke can't compete with Aunt Brenda for news gathering, but he's got feelings. Aunt Brenda strips a culture of its cover-ups; Luke bares himself. He tells Chris about the guys he is drawn to and how absurd he feels taking part in their bull sessions about girls. He yearns for Chris, for someone to whom he can speak himself fairly. "I miss you," he writes. "I love you," he adds. "I know you."

"This is true," Chris murmurs, in her New York Woman way.

Luke and Tom. That Uhlisson boy you liked so much. When they were home from school, Chris and Luke would catch glimpses of Tom from time to time. He would nod and keep moving. So now he was off to the city and out of their lives forever. Was he really as wonderful as she always thought back then, or just beautiful and strange? Luke never fails to mention Tom when he writes, wistfully and with a profound regret that Chris cannot fathom.

Chris is directing Bertolt Brecht's one-acter
The Elephant Calf
with a cast of students and a few East Village N.Y.U. hangers-on. (They're known as "lurkers.") The boy who plays the title role, a ringer from the Drama School, is cute and endlessly charming. His eyes are, like,
very,
and his name is Ty.

Paul enters observations in his notebook. "Sacred Acts is without promise," he writes. "All these boys want to do is go out and have sex. No agenda, just fun. Try to show them how the historical possibilities are opening up, how the times may be ready for a national organization to fight for gay rights, and all that's in those pretty heads is weekends at the beach or making an entrance into Kingdom Come, this year's trendy dance club. At least in my day, the places we frequented welcomed a gay clientele. Kingdom Come is a mess of celebrities, bohemians, tourists, and probably a squad of undercover cops. I gather that one night a week the place is packed with gays, but no one will tell me which night."

Paul has to get up at seven-thirty tomorrow morning. Another dreadful Monday at his dreadful nothing job. God, what would it be like to do something amusing for a living? It's late, yet Paul goes on brooding and writing. "Civilian foot patrols in the West Village?" he writes, underlining it. "Whistles?" he adds, along with "Liaison with straights in the neighborhood?"

Another ten minutes and he calls it a night. He is fastidious in his hygiene, cleaning his teeth, showering, and donning fresh shorts before getting into bed. About to kill the light, he looks about him, at the tiny apartment, the graying walls, the finders-keepers furniture, the collection of paperback novels devoted to the lurid doings of the homosexual underworld.
Lusty Friends, Villa of Forbidden Desire, Swish Beach, Mister Madam:
lavender ménages and nonstop tricking.

Where was all this taking place, Paul wonders, as he gets into bed, during my pathetically ascetic life? Who was holding the orgies? Everyone was so
serious
back then.

Or maybe only Paul was. Anyway, he missed it all. He never had a lover, not even a casual boy friend. Heavens, in those days one scarcely ever heard of two men living together. Although there was that very sweet young chap in the Meeting Group back in California who was always teaming up with somebody. Lincoln? Lester? Or was that his code name? Paul tries to tell the younger gay men how it was. He tells them he isn't really Paul. It's his alias; that's how scary it was. But they aren't listening.

It's the age thing, of course. The gay world used to be about fighting for honesty. Now it's about being good-looking.

Andy's in bed, too, in his little one-bedroom on Grove Street. He has had a very difficult Sunday evening; but he always does, because Sundays he spends with his family, around the corner on Bleecker Street.

It's a full house: Andy's two older sisters and their husbands, Cecilia's two little girls, Gianna's infant boy, and Andy and his parents. It's also very Old Country, not just like stepping into a different world but a different century. The senior Del Vecchios inhabit—in fact, rule—a medieval duchy in which daughters are married off for sociopolitical gain and sons serve in the family army. So:

"Adreiano," Andy's mother announced over the pasta, "I ran into Teresa Lo Gatto outside Cafe Figaro, and her little Rose Annette has no date for the school dance that they have—"

"I know what's coming," Cecilia put in.

"You shut up, Cecilia. So naturally I told Teresa that my Adreiano would take Rose Annette to the dance. Because it's no good that a prettygirl like that should be left out of a major social event at her school." In an aside directed to Andy, she added, "Probably every boy is crazy to take her, but most boys today are too rough and Teresa tells them no."

"Mama," said Cecilia, "let
him
decide."

"You shut up, Cecilia. So, Adreiano, you'll call Rose Annette, I have the number here for you, and think how grown up and fancy she'll feel, Rose Annette, to be taken to the dance by a handsome young man of twenty-three!"

"Mama," Cecilia urged. "Look at him. He doesn't—"

"You shut up, Cecilia." Turning to her husband, Andy's mother asked, "Carlone?"

Spooning up the noodles, Mr. Del Vecchio paused long enough to say, "He will call Rose Annette and take her to the dance."

"Adreiano, you hear?" said his mother.

Andy said, "I don't want to."

"Why wouldn't you?" his mother cried. "A pretty girl to a dance?"

"It's just that I don't want anyone arranging my—"

"I'm
very close
to Teresa Lo Gatto, and her daughter is like
my
daughter. Can you imagine how I would feel if Rose Annette had to stay home on the night of—"

"Mama, that's ridiculous."

"You shut up, Cecilia. Anyway, it's all arranged, and Teresa and Rose Annette are probably pinning up her wonderful new dance gown
at this minute."

"Gianna?" Cecilia pleaded.

"Twenty-three is too old to date a high-school girl, Mama. It looks funny."

"You shut up, too, Gianna. I know what's best. Carlone?"

"She knows what's best."

Andy said, "Mom, I don't even know Rose Annette. We'd both feel very awkward."

"But you'll buy her a heart box of candy when you pick her up, and tasting the candy will break the ice."

"I wouldn't even know what to talk about with her."

"So talk about the candy."

"High-school girls don't eat candy nowadays, Mama," said Cecilia, pulling one daughter's hands away from the oil-and-vinegar tray. "They're all dieting."

"One piece of candy couldn't hurt," said Andy's mother.

"If Andy doesn't want to," said Cecilia, "then Andy doesn't have to." She poked her husband. "Sal?"

"Yeah."

"No,
say
something, you lunk!"

"He doesn't have to."

Andy said, "Actually, Rose Annette and her dance are much less important than the news I have for you all."

"There is
nothing
more important," said Andy's mother with immense decision.

"Mom, I've found a really nice apartment and I'm going to be—"

"No!"
Andy's mother shouted.
"Never!"

"It's still occupied, so I can't move in until—"

"Carlone! He's moving!" Then, fixing Andy with narrowed eyes:
"Where?"

"I found this really neat studio in a high-rise on East Fifty-sixth Street." Here, Andy's mother let out a terrible gasp, something like the Pieta as rendered by Mount Vesuvius. "It's very affordable, and there's a twenty-four-hour door security, and a sunny terrace on the roof with flower boxes, and—"

"No!"
said Andy's mother.

"Mama, let him—"

"Shut up, Cecilia!"

"No,
you
shut up!"

"Gianna, I appeal to
you!
"

"Why can't he live where he wants, Mama?"

"Carlone!"

"No moving."

"Especially so far," Andy's mother reasoned, changing her tone as she collected the empty pasta dishes and nudged Cecilia to serve the salad.
"Sciocchezze,
eh! All the way across the city you'll move! Who knows what kind of people live there? What's the matter, the neighborhood isn't good enough for you, big fancy assistant manager of a clothing store?"