The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (11 page)

“Well, sure.”

“Then we have to tell her. I know damn well she wouldn’t like it if she found out we’d planned it all behind her back.”

“Well, we can’t do anything till you get the stuff from Columbia, anyway.”

“No, of course not. But then we’ll tell her.” Peter was aware that Charlie had made no effort to get him to write. At such moments he had only to look up at the level, slightly upswept, somehow devilish brows, the deep-blue eyes, the mouth, which seemed always to be slightly smiling, for all doubts to be suspended. Charlie was all the joy and beauty a human being could be. He leaned down and kissed the strong hand resting on his arm.

THE next day, the apology arrived, routine was restored, and Sapphire returned in the evening. On the following morning, after breakfast, Peter was delegated to collect their swimming trunks from the line in the kitchen yard while Charlie went upstairs. Peter was gone a long time. He entered Charlie’s room twirling the trunks in his hands.

“Where’ve you been all this time?”

“Did you miss me, beautiful?”

“I did. What were you doing?”

“Talking to Sapphire about her audition. She really had one. She told me all about it. She’s nice. She’s so simple about it. It was at the Metropolitan, but not
for
the Metropolitan. It’s some show in the fall Otto Kahn’s putting money into. The joke will really be on C. B. if she turns out to be a star. You’ll be a star, too. You and Sapphire starring on Broadway. How about that? And me? Well, stars have to have secretaries. That’s two job possibilities right there. Except Sapphire has Henry, so I guess I’ll have to settle for you.”

Charlie laughed at his nonsense and pulled him close. “You’ll have to settle for me, all right. Tell Sapphire to lay off.” He studied the face before him, aware of the change in Peter just since the fight the other night. He was growing less sensitive, less solicitous, tougher, brighter, the sweet docility was fading. On the whole, Charlie approved; he felt more air around them.

An anxious little frown creased Peter’s brow. “She said something peculiar. You won’t like it, but I’d better tell you. She said to tell Mister Charlie if he did anything he didn’t want his Granny to know about, be careful of Rosie. She says she’s a spy.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Charlie smiled and shrugged. “C. B.’s right. Negroes are crazy. Didn’t you ask her what she was talking about?”

“No. I didn’t think I’d better.”

Charlie’s smile vanished and his eyes stared with alarm. “You mean—good God. Spying on us here?” He released Peter and looked distractedly around the room. “I’m always careful about the towels and all that. You haven’t been forgetting to muss your bed?”

“No. Always.”

“Well, there’s nothing here to make anybody suspect anything. If she wants to stand outside the door and listen, let her. C. B. wouldn’t believe her.”

“I don’t guess anybody would. All that whooping and hollering and squealing.”

Charlie turned and hurried to the bathroom. He came back with a little shake of his head. “Everything’s in order. It always is.” He stopped and looked at Peter. He approached him slowly and stood close to him and lifted his hand to his face, running a finger lightly over it. His eyes had grown intent and searching.

“Uh-oh. Now what?” Peter asked. “Why’re you looking at me like that?”

Charlie continued his scrutiny. Then he stepped back and to one side, still looking. “I’m going to do your portrait. I get so excited looking at you that I wasn’t sure I could, but I’m beginning to see you now. Let Rosie spy on that.”

“Golly, what a fabulous idea. I can’t wait to see how you work.”

“I haven’t got oils here, but I’ve got all my drawing stuff. That should settle it if anybody’s wondering why we spend so much time up here. I’ll do a portrait, and we’ll give it to C. B. from both of us.”

“From both of us. That sounds good. Darling, why is C. B. called C. B.? I’ve never known.”

“Oh, it’s an old joke. Her maiden name was Barton. Armina Barton Collinge. A. B. C. Some friends of hers were kidding about it and she said, ‘I’d rather be C. B. than B. C.’ It stuck.”

Peter laughed. “That sounds like her.”

“Come on. Let’s have a swim. We’re going to be busy.”

They were out of their clothes and into their trunks in a moment. As they were leaving the room, Charlie said, “Listen, don’t tell C. B. you spoke to Sapphire about the audition and everything.”

“Why not?”

“She wouldn’t want us being pally with the servants. She prefers to handle them herself.”

“Well, I hope she’s nice to Sapphire about it. It’s so important to her, even if she is an animal.”

“Of course she will be, silly. She’s wonderful with them.”

“I know. I was just talking.” He hugged Charlie’s arm in his, but Charlie shook him off.

“Look out. Somebody might see us.”

Charlie started on the portrait that afternoon. As a preliminary, he confined himself to rough sketches, and Peter reveled in the bliss of being the focus of his probing eyes for hours at a time. He had never felt so totally possessed. Charlie continued with his sketches in the days that followed. When he felt that he was ready, he worked all one afternoon on the finished drawing. At last, he let Peter see it.

“Holy mackerel,” Peter said with awe after studying it in silence for some minutes. “I’m beautiful. Why hasn’t anybody told me?”

“I have,” Charlie said briefly, holding the portrait up.

Peter looked at him and back at the drawing. He studied it line by line and saw love in it more explicit than anything he had ever dared hope Charlie would express in words. The muscles of his jaw tensed. “Yes, you have. I’m trying not to bawl like a baby.” He slammed his clenched fists onto his knees and stood up. “What do you expect after this? I’d crawl all the way to New York on my stomach to be with you.”

They carried the portrait down to C. B. before dinner. Charlie made the presentation. “It’s from both of us. We thought you’d like to have it.”

She studied it through her lorgnette. “How absolutely superb! So that’s what you’ve been up to. What a glorious surprise.” She rose and went from one to the other and embraced and kissed them. She held it out and looked from it to Peter. “It’s so absolutely you. You really are a beautiful creature, my darling.”

“Don’t you think it’s good?” Peter demanded, bursting with admiration. “I think he’s fantastic. To be able to do that in a few hours.”

“He has great talent. I discovered that years ago.”

“He has. He did some sketches before he did this final one. They’re all marvelous.”

“This is superlative. It has such feeling and understanding. You should be a proud subject.”

“Don’t worry, I am. I had no idea I looked like that. You should let him do you.”

“Never,” she said with a smile and a tilt of her head. “I’m afraid he took to drawing too late for me to be committed to posterity.”

“That’s ridiculous. It would be beautiful. We should make him work. He ought to be doing something with it.”

“He will. It will always be a fascinating hobby, a source of interest all his life. Winston Churchill paints.”

“But why just a hobby?” Peter insisted.

“What else could it be?”

“Well, he could really work at it. You know, be a painter.”

“Oh my darling,” she said with a tinkle of laughter. “I’m afraid you haven’t acquired much worldly knowledge. Can you see Charlie starving in a garret in Paris? That’s not really his style.”

“No, I guess not. But you wouldn’t let him starve.”

“I dare say I wouldn’t, but that really isn’t the point. Surely you understand. Charlie would never accept being helped on a course he knew I disapproved of.”

Her expression didn’t alter, her rich dramatic voice rang smoothly, but Peter felt the ice in her admonition. It froze him. “Oh, well, I suppose it’s because I don’t do anything in particular very well,” he said, in retreat. “When I
can
do something, I never want to stop doing it.” His eyes flicked to Charlie, and he suppressed a giggle.

“A talent can so easily become a burden. Unless one has genius. Everything, of course, must be sacrificed to genius. But genius makes it own rules. A talent is simply a little specialty that cuts one off from a full experience of life.” She turned to Charlie, who had watched the subtle clash with alarm for his friend. One didn’t cross C. B. She held out the drawing. “You must tell me how you want it framed. If it can’t be done properly here, I’ll have to wait till New York, but I do so want it now.”

They discussed the question at length before dinner. Later in the evening, Charlie suggested, apropos of nothing in particular, “Let’s all go to the movies tomorrow night.”

“Tomorrow’s Saturday,” Peter reminded him dutifully.

“You’ll surely want to go to the dance,” C. B. pointed out.

“Not necessarily. It gets to be a bore if you go every week. Let’s the three of us have a party.”

It was a triumphant moment for Peter. Saturday was no longer to be feared.

INSPIRED by the success of the portrait, Charlie decided to go on with his sketching. He started by taking his sketchbook with him whenever they went out, but working conditions weren’t always satisfactory.

“I’m going to do you the way I really want you,” he said to Peter one afternoon in the room. “All of you, naked.”

“Hey, feelthy pictures,” Peter exclaimed.

“Go on. Take your clothes off.” Peter complied and stood before him expectantly. “Oh God, I better get going quickly or I’ll never get anything done. Go on. Just walk around naturally. Yeah, like that. Good. Hold it.”

He was quickly absorbed. He had Peter wander about, and when he struck an attitude that pleased him, he called “Hold it” and went to work again. He discovered a new excitement in the aesthetic exploration of Peter’s body. It looked freshly formed, offering small unexpected angularities. The golden head was set on a long, strong neck. The shoulders were wide without being top-heavy. The muscles of the chest were sharply defined planes. The line from shoulder to narrow hip flowed smoothly, richly completed by the full curve of buttocks. The sex in repose, only faintly blurred by golden hair, was gentle and discreet, a soft vertical stroke with a suggestion of neat, closely packed spheres nestled behind it. The legs were long and straight with slightly knobby knees that delighted Charlie’s drawing hand. The hands and feet were solid, finely articulated accents to the extremities. He drew him from every angle—standing, sitting, sprawled out on the bed. Through his intent eyes and his busy hand, he absorbed the body into the emotive core of his being. It was so totally satisfying aesthetically that he was unaware of the risk he was exposing himself to.

“Come here,” he commanded. “I want to do you with a hard-on.”

Peter went to him, and Charlie lowered his head and shaped the buttocks with his hands. The sex sprang up eagerly, long and slim and very straight, before he could take it in his mouth.

“Yes. Can you keep it that way for a while, baby?”

“Ha. The trick is not letting it be that way all the time. You looking at me like that. How about me? A month ago I was creeping around clutching at towels. You’re turning me into an exhibitionist.” He struck a pose. “Go on, do me like this. Only add a little, will you? So it looks more like you.”

“What a dope. It wouldn’t be nearly as pretty if it were any bigger. There’s such a thing as proportion. I just want to get you the way you are.”

When he had explored the graphic possibilities of the erect sex, he called Peter to him and completed the play with his mouth. Peter’s quick orgasms had given his mouth a mastery it had never had before; he received the leaping essence hungrily, possessively, claiming it as his own.

“You keep breaking my law about not coming without you,” Peter said ruefully.

“An artist’s privilege.”

Together they studied the results of the afternoon’s work.

“I’m certainly pretty sexy,” Peter said. “No wonder you’re mad about me. But God, darling, you’re so damn good. It’s incredible. I still can’t understand why you haven’t been doing anything with it.”

“I don’t know. C. B.’s right. It’s a pretty grim life.” Charlie shrugged off the acute pleasure Peter’s appreciation gave him. “When I’ve really got you down, I’ll do some more finished things.”

“Listen,” Peter broke out excitedly. “Can’t you do one of yourself? Like that. You’ve got to. I’ve got to have one.”

“I don’t know. I’ve never thought of it. The mirror in the bathroom is probably long enough. I don’t see how I could work and have a hard-on at the same time, if that’s what you mean. The two don’t go together.”

“I could help with that.”

Charlie laughed. “Come on. Let’s see.” They went into the bathroom. Charie studied the light and the mirror and tried a few tentative poses. “I might manage it. There’s just room. Yes, I could trick it.” He stood experimentally with his left hand on his hip, the right lifted to an imaginary easel. “I can make this hand look as if it’s resting on something. OK, I’ll try it tomorrow.”

“It’ll be sensational, except that you probably won’t be able to get it all on one sheet.”