Like People in History (55 page)

"I'd kill for one of those," Patrick said in a tight voice.

Now I spoke up. "I don't hear anyone insisting Matt wear drag."

"You ever hear of a smart little bolero in a size-sixty shoulder?"

"Not to mention the shape of the high heels I'd need," Matt added.

They had a point.

"Bebe's got a summer tux Johnny Weissmuller wore to the '37 Oscars for you, Matt," Alistair said. "Adrian made it for him out of Italian silk. The color allegedly matched Weissmuller's semen."

"Stop or I'll faint!" Luis warned.

"For me," Alistair went on, "a gown made for Norma Shearer. Eleven hundred rhinestones sewn on a field of samite! And for you, Cuz, one made for Stanwyck. Chinese watered silk in Breton blue with embroidered pearls!"

"It's not that I don't appreciate it...," I began.

"What is it, then?" Alistair asked.

"He's afraid of being called a girl," Luis said.

"No! That's not it. But isn't men wearing drag demeaning to women?"

"Look who's talking," Patrick said. "Mr. Abuse My Female Help!"

"Sydelle and I see eye to eye. Lately," I defended myself.

Alistair ignored that. "If one's making fun of women, then yes, I suppose it
is
demeaning. Not if one's honoring them. It is a great queer tradition, you know."

"Acceptable even among the most macho of today's gays!" Matt said.

"How many high-heels parties were there this summer here at the Pines at which body builders with mustaches showed?" Patrick asked.

"It still seems... what do the French say?" I asked. "
Travesti!"

"En travesti!"
Alistair corrected. "Anyway, what we're doing is not just throwing on a dress and going to some party, Cuz. Not you and I. No, we shall begin by going into Manhattan and spending Friday afternoon with full treatments at Georgette Klinger's, where I've already made appointments. From mud baths to facials to shampoo and cut. Falls will be woven into our hair, all of it tinted and styled. Then we'll cab over to Bebe's place, where he'll lightly cosmetize us and give us tips on how to emphasize our best facial points. We'll then put on a complete undergarment foundation from Enrico's own collection, bought over the years from Bendel's lingerie counters. We'll be stockinged, shod, and dressed in women's casual wear, sweaters, and slacks. Dressed thus, we'll enplane back out here the afternoon of the party. We'll not only dress, but also walk, talk, act, and think like women equal to wear those gowns. That night, Bebe and Enrico will fly out with our outfits, make us up, dress us, and only when they are satisfied that we are masterpieces will they send us off to the party. Others at Jungle Red will be drags, Cuz, but you and I will be goddesses; others will be fit only to be our servants, ladies in waiting. Matt, of course, will be our escort, our very own Apollo."

"I can't stand it!" Luis promptly fell over in his chair.

"Say no to that!" Patrick said. "If you dare!"

I sighed deeply. Outvoted, I looked to see what Matt wanted.

"And you?" I asked.

"I'll go in that Weissmuller tux," he said, throwing down the Travel and beginning to look through the Book Review.

He meant with me or without me. He meant without me but with Alistair. Alistair done up as a movie star—beautifully, tastefully done up. No way I'd allow that after having Thad out of the way so recently!

"I guess I can be a sport!" I said.

Alistair hooted. Luis applauded. Patrick oohed and aahed. Matt sort of quietly looked at me, slightly surprised.

For the next ten minutes, they wouldn't let me alone. Luis said he'd get four-inch wedgies to my apartment for me to wear at home and get used to. They were so full of it all I almost changed my mind and said no again. What made me clamp my lips tight was that at one point while the others were all busily gabbing inside, Matt quietly said, "See if you can't find some of that Mitsuoko perfume.... The one woman I ever made it with was wearing it."

I almost forgave Matt everything in that moment. But it passed, and we went out to the beach and the day continued and it was just like the day before: Alistair seducing, Matt accepting—all very public.

I couldn't stand it. At the same time, I knew I wouldn't make a scene. All that counted in the world's eye was that Matt and I ended up in the same bedroom at night. I concentrated upon that, even though there were moments I would have gleefully speared my cousin on a shish kebab skewer.

I didn't because I knew that in less than one week's time I was going to be new and exciting to Matt: female yet male, familiar yet different; an entire intriguing package wrapped in watered silk, liberally doused with Mitsuoko.

Alistair wouldn't have a chance!

"It's me," Alistair identified himself when I picked up the phone. "Is Matt there?"

"He's at the Botel gym."

"Good! I'll be right over. I've got something to show you."

"Can't it wait? I'm getting ready to leave."

"Taking a seaplane?"

"It'll be at the harbor in a half hour. I wanted to stop at the bank and at the Pantry deli to get a nosh and—"

"I'll go with you. Don't leave without me." Alistair hung up.

It was nearly noon, Monday. I was alone in the house, more or less dressed and packed. Without Matt and Luis and Patrick, Withering Heights looked and felt empty. It was better outside, sitting at the little table overlooking the view of the Great South Bay. Except that now streaks of long, thin clouds had begun to scrim in from Sayville. I prayed they wouldn't thicken and cover the Bay until my plane had already taken off. Seaplane pilots didn't fly in mist, and the last thing I was prepared for today was the alternative—a three-hour ferry, cab, Long Island Rail Road train, and subway ride home.

I was wondering whether or not to leave a note for Matt. We'd still hardly spoken, although we'd ended up making love early in the morning. Nothing conclusive in that, of course, nothing even indicative: it had become clear by now that Matt's and my physical contact led a life virtually independent of anything else in our relationship. We would not talk for a week and still screw like mad every night. A note saying what? What could a note say Matt wasn't already aware of?

"You waited!" Alistair was huffing; he must have dashed up Sky

Walk's steep hill to make certain not to miss me. "Here! Look at these!" He thrust a handful of typewritten pages into my hand.

I glanced at the top one: the uncapitalized tide, "solstice," and two lines down, margin left, the continuation, "nightcall" was the title on the next page. The third one didn't have a title, but began directly with:

first

i unlace the shoes, then i take off my watch.

unbutton the pants, the shirt comes out.

the tongue comes out

and then the air.

i take the teabag of my brain out

leaving the cup of blood to grow cold.

i'm beyond glass now. i am hard on

one side of the wind, on the voice you raise

from lungs i gave you. now i

give them up like a bird and rise.

if absence casts no shadows

then i am the sun

whose only shadow is your skin.

"This one must be new," I said. "Haven't seen it before."

Alistair stared, openmouthed. "You know about them?"

"Sure, I know. Matt's showed me about thirty over the years."

"You know about them?" Alistair repeated. "And you've done nothing about them?"

"I've admired them. In earlier days, I'd make suggestions here and there. These," shaking the other sheets, "used to have conjunctions until I suggested they be taken out and everything tightened up."

"That's all?" Alistair insisted.

"I've told him to send them out. I've given him addresses, names...."

I didn't like feeling put on the spot in this way. I stood up, pulled my weekender onto my shoulder, and threw my lace-tied Stan Smiths across the bag.

"Alistair, I will not be late! I'm walking along the surf."

"I'll go with you," he said.

When we reached the Ozone Walk entrance to the beach, I said, "I don't want to seem blase, and I know how exciting it can be when you discover that someone you like is a good poet. But... he just
won't
get them out where they can be read. Afraid of rejection, of not being understood. I don't know what all else is involved."

"Whatever's involved? Don't you feel a responsibility to him?"

The tide was ebbing but still strong. The sand looked roughed-up from the previous night: where the ocean had eaten into the shoreline, a four-foot cliff rose, twisting and turning as far as I could see in either direction. We could either walk along its crumbly top edge or down below, upon wetter, harder-packed sand. I opted for the upper level, Alistair for the lower.

"Responsible? No. They're Matt's work," I said, attempting to keep my balance.

"I don't believe this!" Alistair insisted.

"Well! As Dorothy Parker said, 'You can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think'!"

"Very clever! Always finding the clever, the easy, way out!"

"What do you want me to do with the damn poems?"

"Publish them! You are a magazine editor!"

"In
Manifest?"

"Why not?"

"Between 'Tips from Mr. Leather Master' and the centerfold? A nineteen-year-old model/actor/waiter from Cedar Rapids who loves 'Rhoda' and wants to be president of his 4-H club?"

"Why not?"

"It's too lowbrow for Matt's work."

"Then make it higher-brow. Commission artwork. Photos, maybe. What's the name of that guy who did those great photos last month? Maplejuice?"

"Mapplethorpe."

"Use some of his photos! Make a photo-poetry essay! Four pages long." "You really think so?" I asked.

"Don't you think you owe it to Matt?" Alistair asked.

Who knew anymore what I owed Matt? Or he me? I decided it was far safer to change the subject.

"Did I gather from various hints yesterday that Horace Brecker's going to be staying with you?" I asked.

"Ought to raise the fun potential a bit. Don'cha think he's cute? Actually, he is totally straight."

"Perhaps. But you know my definition of straight: a man who doesn't suck cock
regularly.
Anyway, after a few weeks here at the Pines, he'll either give way somewhat or rape the first female he can lay hands on. What's the story with him?"

"Had a woman friend for some years. But now he's career-building. They were kaput months ago. Stayed with us in France, and it was obvious they were waiting for someone to send them a telegram to confirm the fact."

"I was surprised how much like Doriot he looks," I said, suspecting I was treading on dangerous ground. "By the way, you never actually told me what happened to lead to your splitting up."

"Nothing actually 'happened.' She simply failed to grow in sophistication as I'd hoped."

"In other words, she wouldn't let you screw the gardener?"

"Actually I thought women were far more, you know, flexible, about these matters. Not old Doriot."

We were at the co-ops, almost in the middle of the Pines now, starting toward the harbor, when I suddenly heard the loud rotor of a helicopter. It hovered oyer Ocean Walk, which separates the beachfront houses from the next line in, then it edged onto the beach, coming our way, descending fast.

There weren't many people on the sand, but everyone cleared out as the police helicopter slowly revolved and dropped. When it landed, it blew sand a hundred feet in all directions. What was going on?

Julio, one of the Pines' two-man police squad, could be seen now standing on the long walkway extending from Nick and Enno's house out to the beach. He was signaling to someone inside the chopper.

A man in a white uniform popped out of the copter's side door and ran up the stairs into the house. Another man in white stepped out, half carrying, half hauling a metal contraption. Once he got it up the stairs, he and Red, the other Pines cop, kicked it open—turning it into a gurney on wheels—and rolled it across the deck to the sliding glass doors. They went inside too.

In
seconds
they were out again, carrying someone on the gurney, one of them holding what looked to be a breathing apparatus.

What the...?

Enno came out of the house, talking fast to Rick Wellikoff. Enno had to bend his tall body to follow the gurney into the helicopter. The chopper rose with another blast of sand, hovered, spun around, then headed away over the co-ops to the Bay.

I ran to the walkway where Rick stood with the policemen.

"What happened?" I asked Rick.

"They took Nick to Babylon State Hospital. Pneumonia! Spiking fever!"

"Jesus! I hope he's going to be okay."

"Phone here later and check in," Rick suggested. Then Julio and Red pulled him inside the house before I could get any details.

"Pneumonia?" Alistair was as startled as I was when I reported it. "They haven't been doing ethyl chloride? I hear it freezes the lungs."

"Unlikely. Nick and Enno are health nuts. Bee pollen. Vitamins. You name it They don't even use sugar."

By the time we'd gotten to the little Pines harbor, the chopper was invisible. Alistair nodded toward all the wagons chained up in rows: the only way to move groceries or large objects in a community without roads or cars.

"They look funny, don't they?" he said.

"I came across on a ferry one afternoon earlier this summer with an insurance claims adjuster," I said. "Cute young guy. We got to talking. He'd come to check out the house on Black Duck and Bay that burned down. I told him all he'd find was a few charred sticks of foundation left in sand. He'd never been to the Island before. When we landed and saw all the wagons, he asked if there were many children here."