Read The Weekend: A Novel Online
Authors: Peter Cameron
Tags: #Gay & Lesbian, #Literature & Fiction, #Fiction, #Gay, #Romance, #Literary, #United States, #Gay Romance, #Genre Fiction, #Lgbt, #Gay Fiction, #Literary Fiction
The Weekend: A Novel (13 page)
JOHN WAS PUTTING ROLAND to bed. Roland lay in his crib, looking up at the ceiling disappearing into the gloom. His eyes were wide open, focused, but his gaze did not shift. He was staring intently and passionlessly. At what? He looked as if he knew everything or nothing. “Roland,” John said. Roland moved his head so that he was looking at John. “You’re fine,” John said out loud. “Aren’t you?” Roland did not respond. John leaned over and touched one of his fingers against Roland’s clean, cool, soft cheek. Roland’s eyes narrowed, almost imperceptibly, in concentration. “Are you fine?” John asked. Roland’s eyes relaxed. In that way, he smiled. It was just a matter of degrees, of setting one thing against another. And this expression, compared to that other, was a smile.
John continued to stroke Roland’s cheek. The ceiling was gone. The walls rose up into cool, fluid darkness.
John continued to stroke Roland’s cheek. The ceiling was gone. The walls rose up into cool, fluid darkness.
John heard a car coming up the driveway and looked out the window. It was a little red sports car. It pulled up onto the lawn in front of the house as if it were in a TV commercial. The woman Marian had invited to dinner got out. She stood on the lawn for a moment, smoothing first her skirt and then her hair. All smoothed, she looked up at the underside of the trees, and then reached inside the open car window and grabbed a pack of cigarettes from the dashboard. She pulled the wrapper off the pack and tossed it back into the car. She was trying to light a cigarette when John heard the front door open. So did the woman. She pushed the cigarettes into her pocketbook and looked up toward the house.
“Oh, good,” he heard Marian call out, “you’ve brought a sweater. I was going to give you a call and suggest it, as we’re eating outside.”
“I’d hoped so,” said the woman. She walked up the front steps. “I’m sorry I’m so dreadfully late. My daughter appeared today, up from New York, and that slowed things down a bit.”
“Why didn’t you bring her?” asked Marian.
“Oh, she’s here with her fiancé,” said the woman. Then the front door closed.
John didn’t want to go downstairs. He wondered when—and if—he would be missed. Marian would come up after a while. But it would be a while. They would miss the fact of him before they missed him. John didn’t like socializing. He knew that theoretically people were interesting, and he was sure that the woman who parked her car on his lawn was interesting. Marian was very good at finding interesting people. But John didn’t really like
interesting people. They made him feel even duller than he usually felt. His mother used to call him a dullard. She said it often; she liked the word. She was always urging him to cultivate what she called “high spirits.” She said life was too short not to do exactly what you wanted.
Exactly.
She was incredibly selfish but somehow by embracing and celebrating her selfishness she had managed to convert it to charm. And yet his mother had not been happy. She cried all the time. John remembered her in Rome: she lay on the couch in the middle of the afternoon with the drapes drawn and sobbed.
interesting people. They made him feel even duller than he usually felt. His mother used to call him a dullard. She said it often; she liked the word. She was always urging him to cultivate what she called “high spirits.” She said life was too short not to do exactly what you wanted.
Exactly.
She was incredibly selfish but somehow by embracing and celebrating her selfishness she had managed to convert it to charm. And yet his mother had not been happy. She cried all the time. John remembered her in Rome: she lay on the couch in the middle of the afternoon with the drapes drawn and sobbed.
The woman who had come to dinner reminded him of his mother. His mother would have driven her car up onto the lawn. Always doing something to say I am here, look at me. I don’t park there, with everyone else. I park here. I park wherever I want.
Tony was not a dullard. Tony had high spirits—forceful and contagious. They transcended awkwardness and enlivened a party or a meal or simply a conversation. If Tony was present at a party something invariably happened: people danced or sang or skinny-dipped or put on pageants or played games. Things got thrown or broken, and in the midst of this furor John was able to relax. It was easy to disappear with Tony around. If Tony were downstairs, John would not hesitate to descend. But Tony was dead.
“John, you remember Laura Ponti, don’t you?”
“Of course,” said John. He walked down the back steps. They were all sitting around the table in the garden. Marian was pouring glasses of white wine. “It’s nice to see you again.” He shook her hand.
“I was just saying what a lovely house you have,” said Laura. “And you’re on a river. Can you swim in it?”
“Yes,” said Marian. “You’ll have to come over one afternoon.”
“I’d adore a swim,” said Laura. “I have a pool at my place, but there’s something about a pool I find so depressing. It takes all the natural pleasure out of bathing, I think.”
“Well,” said Marian, lifting her glass. “To summertime?”
They all echoed her toast.
“It’s so nice to meet you, Lyle,” said Laura. “I read the review of your new book in the
Times
and tried to buy a copy, but the bookstores up here are hopeless. Supposedly the one in Woodstock has ordered me a copy. I do so wish I’d had it for this evening, though, so you could sign it. I have quite a collection of signed first editions.”
Times
and tried to buy a copy, but the bookstores up here are hopeless. Supposedly the one in Woodstock has ordered me a copy. I do so wish I’d had it for this evening, though, so you could sign it. I have quite a collection of signed first editions.”
“I’ve got some extra copies,” said Marian. “I’ll have him sign one for you before you leave.”
“That would be splendid,” said Laura. “How long are you up here for, Lyle?”
“Just for the weekend,” said Lyle. “We go back to the city tomorrow.”
“We?”
“Yes,” said Lyle. “I’m up here with Robert.”
“Oh!” said Laura. “Of course. I thought—well, never mind what I thought. Although I’m sure I don’t know why you aren’t staying up here longer. I went down to the city last week, to see some friends for lunch. It seemed quite pointless. Everyone so hot and cross and the dirty air sticking to you. And can you still take taxis in the city? I found the experience very unpleasant. But you see, I don’t think cities are meant for summer. I suppose it’s elitist of me, but I really think people are supposed to go away for the summer.”
“If everyone went away, then wouldn’t the country be crowded?” asked Robert.
“Yes, but there’s more room between people in the country. You adjust to it. It takes a while, though, don’t you think? You have to get rid of that awful urban energy. It’s so negative. My daughter came up today from the city and nearly drove me crazy. She was wound up tight as … is it drum? Tight as a drum? I don’t see why. It gets so confusing to use figures of speech when you speak several languages. They get all jumbled up somehow, and make no sense.”
“How long is your daughter up for?” asked Marian.
“Oh, just the weekend. She’s filming a movie in the city. I had rented the house so she could come up every weekend, but you know how it is on film sets, she hasn’t managed to get away until now.”
“What movie is it?” asked Robert.
“I don’t know what it’s called. I started out seeing all her movies, but they were so awful I had to stop.”
“What other movies has she been in?” asked Robert.
“I don’t know. Actually I do, but I’m too embarrassed to tell you.”
“Well, it’s nice she finally made it up,” said Marian.
“I suppose so,” said Laura, “but in a way it’s so disturbing. To have someone just for the weekend. They breeze in and disrupt everything, and before you can adjust they’re gone.”
“I hope all weekend guests aren’t like that,” said Lyle.
“If you mean you, of course not,” said Marian. She laughed. “But you’re not a guest, Lyle. You’re family.”
“I should think of Nina that same way, but I don’t. I suppose it’s my living so far away, and only seeing her occasionally.”
“That’s a shame,” said Marian. “You must be disappointed.”
Laura looked for a moment at the stain her lipstick had made on the wineglass. “No,” she said. “Not at all.” She realized this
comment required some explanation. “I think there’s a romantic notion of family intimacy that’s … well, just that: a notion.”
comment required some explanation. “I think there’s a romantic notion of family intimacy that’s … well, just that: a notion.”
“What do you mean?” asked Robert.
Laura looked at him. “I mean I think children are meant to grow up and away from parents. I think this idea of maintaining a lifelong unit is unnatural and sentimental. Economics and religion have warped our perception of how families should really function.”
“How do you think families should function?” asked Robert.
“Oh, I think, well obviously, if you’re going to have children, you’ve got to raise them. That’s the real curse on women. But don’t think they owe you anything. If you think they do, if you think they’re going to attend to you in your dotage, you’re hopelessly naïve. It’s not the way of the world. People should get together when they need one another. Beyond that, I don’t think we’re obligated.”
“But needing isn’t always mutual,” said Marian. “And of course we aren’t obligated to love one another, but we do, don’t we, in families, and don’t we want to be near to and attend to those we love?”
“I don’t think we always love one another in families,” said Robert. “That hasn’t been my experience, at least.”
“It’s another one of those notions,” said Laura. “Ideally, we do, of course. But it’s been my experience that familial relationships seem to always fall short of the ideal. I’ve found them to be pretty similar to all other relationships. People grow up and change. And there’s nothing wrong or tragic in that. It’s perfectly natural.” She took a sip of her wine and realized she had somehow finished it all. She leaned forward and put the glass down on the table. “I think I’ll visit the ladies’ room before we eat,” she said.
“It’s right off the kitchen, in the hall,” said Marian.
Laura stood up. It had gotten dark while they sat there. She looked up toward the house, and the bright eyes of its windows looked back at her.
“John, why don’t you go up and put on the garden lights,” said Marian.
John got up and went into the house. Lights appeared, one near each of the steps, and Laura climbed them. John held the kitchen door open for her and pointed toward the bathroom. It was one of those horrible bathrooms built in under the stairs, just a sink and a toilet, no window, the ceiling sloped at an acute angle. Laura stood for a moment looking in the small mirror. An arch of leaves was etched in the glass above her face. She could hear Marian and John in the kitchen talking in low, confident, hostessy tones. What was I saying? she wondered. She knew she wasn’t drunk but she felt as if she were, as if her behavior were a step or two ahead of her consciousness. Just calm down, she told herself. Calm down.
“And what do you do, Robert?” Laura asked, when they had all returned to the table and were eating the grilled fish.
“Mainly answer questions about what I do,” said Robert. “At least since I met Lyle.”
“And when did you meet Lyle?”
“A few weeks ago,” said Robert.
“Well, we met first at Skowhegan,” said Lyle. “That was over a month ago.”
“Recently, at any event,” said Laura. “No wonder you seem so happy together. There is nothing more wonderful than falling in love. That is why I have done it so many times.”
“How many?” asked Robert. He had the feeling this woman
was trying to be scandalous, or at least entertaining, and that no one was really encouraging her.
was trying to be scandalous, or at least entertaining, and that no one was really encouraging her.
“What a question to ask a woman! Fortunately, I have no shame. I have been in love—I have loved—eleven times. And married four times.”
“Are you in love now?” asked Robert.
“Not with a man. Or a woman, for that matter. Now I am in love with my villa, and my life there. And it is the best love I have ever known. I have discovered that people should always love where they live. If they don’t, they should move. The world is very big in that way. Do you agree?”
“But most people can’t afford to move somewhere just because they want to,” said Robert.
“Of course not,” said Laura. “I do not allow economic reality to affect much of what I say. I find it boring. But you agree with me, theoretically, at least?”
“I don’t know,” said Robert. “I think people are more important than places. I would rather love people.”
“By all means, do. I’m not discouraging that. But a good house somewhere, like this one”—and she motioned behind her—“that is the thing to love most: real estate. Because it won’t leave you, or change. You can leave, or change it, but it won’t leave you. It’s truly yours.”
“It can’t hold you,” said Robert. “Or talk to you, or understand you.”
“If you think that, you haven’t spent time in the right house,” said Laura. “At night, when I am alone in my house, I feel held by it, and talked to, and understood: In fact, far better than by some men. Most men.”
“I think the thing is to have the house full of people you love,” said Marian. “That, to me, is ideal.”
“But then the house isn’t really yours,” said Laura.
“Yes it is,” said Marian, “but sharing it makes it better.”
“But you can share things and still possess them,” said Laura. “That is the best. To share them, not give them away. People give away too much, and then regret it.”
“I don’t think you can ever give too much away to those you love,” said Marian.
“That is because you’re basically a kind and lovely person. I am not. I was once. But it is very hard to retain that. At least it was for me. I always try to be kind, but my personality interferes. Kindness is a quality that gets worn down by the years, I think. You end up with a little patina of kindness, an aura of goodness, but not the thing itself. That’s why I’m always fascinated when I meet an older person who is truly kind. They’re angels, I think. Saints. But so few. That’s one reason why I like young people so much. You, for instance”—she nodded at Robert—“you who want to love people and not buildings, it does my heart good to hear you say that, to know those feelings still exist in the world.”
Other books
Convincing Leopold by Ava March
Byzantine Gold by Chris Karlsen
Saturday's Child by Ruth Hamilton
Tom Clancy's Act of Valor by Dick Couch, George Galdorisi
The Fall of Five (I Am Number Four) by Lore, Pittacus
The Last Bastion of the Living: A Futuristic Zombie Novel by Frater, Rhiannon
Let Me Fly by St. James, Hazel
Oriental Hotel by Janet Tanner
Thud Ridge by Jack Broughton
All Is Bright by Colleen Coble
