Turning Idolater (30 page)

Philip was intent now. Dean took
the
book
in hand. “I was obsessed with Jemmy. I had imagined
that he would shape up and join me in the business. But after he
was . . . murdered.”

“Are you positive it was murder?”

“Absolutely. Wait. Hear me out. Nothing in my life
struck me down more than his death. I almost closed this place.
There have been offers, but I’ve resisted. But with Jemmy gone, I
asked myself,
why bother
. Pons is not fit for it. Flo would
sell it in a heartbeat. But then I thought of . . . you.”

“Me?”

“It was no accident that I came on-line and hooked
up with you.”

Philip stood. “Wait a minute. You asked for a
striptease. You made me strip, when all the time you were thinking
of your nephew?”

“You stripped without my bidding. I only wanted to
meet you. I wanted to tell you about Jemmy, but I didn’t. I
couldn’t. That you decided to strip because I wasn’t making love to
you, was your assumption that I was some old geezer content on
watching. There was no harm in it.”

“Then, what did you want?”

“I wanted you to have Jemmy’s book.”

Philip sat thunderstruck.
My book.
“His
book?” He looked to
the book
cradled in Uncle Dean’s
arms.

“My father acquired six first edition
Moby
Dick’s
in 1922. He recognized their collective value. He gave
one to my brother and one to my sister. The remaining four were for
me, since I inherited the business. When Florian settled in with
Thomas, I promised one to him, but he intended to sell it, so he’ll
get it when I’m dead. However, I did give one to Thomas, who became
a dear friend. I never understood what Thomas saw in Florian.” He
tapped
the
book
. “This is Flo’s copy. The one in the
cabinet will line my coffin.”

“And mine?”

“Jemmy’s. I gave it to you because you gave my
nephew hope for happiness, although you never knew it. I sensed in
you something that Jemmy didn’t have.” Dean pointed to the ceiling.
“An eye on the sky and a nose toward the sea.”

“You have changed my life,” Philip said, and not
necessarily in thanks.

“
You
have changed your life, Philip, but I am
responsible for one unforeseen aspect.”

What else could this man dish out?
He meddled
with a poor working boy. He lit that beacon in Philip’s mind to set
sail for ports of wonder. He graced him with the wherewithal to
free him from
the Porn Nazi
. He gave him a job and was
teaching him a trade.
Shit, he might be grooming him to take it
all over.
Why wasn’t Philip more grateful? Despite the outcome
and the positive results, Philip found manipulation distasteful. He
was a free spirit — as free as the gull, but now he found that his
freedom was as mock as his relationship with Tee — a drama in three
acts. Philip could have been Lars Hamilton strutting behind the
footlights to O’Neill.
Shouldn’t we write our own
scripts?

“How could you have possibly have done more?” Philip
said, his voice biting.

“Don’t be cross.”

“You didn’t have my best interest at heart, Mr.
Cardoza. You were living out your own little fantasy. Everyone
seems to think that I’m Pinocchio. Well, I think I’ve run out of
strings to pull. Tee did the same thing. He used me as a research
project thinking that first hand experience would best serve his
novel. Then, when he tripped over his dick in the dark and decided
it was something else, he expected me to just roll over and . . .
well, how did he say it . . . turn idolater and everything would be
fucking fine.” Philip stood. “I’m sorry about your nephew . . .
both your nephews, but I’m exiting this little play.”

Philip started toward the stacks, but suddenly
stopped. Dean Cardoza’s weeping was heavy now.
Repentant?
Philip couldn’t tell, but he was not so callous as to leave an old
man broken and lost. He turned back, and then hunkered down beside
him.

“Careful, old man,” Philip said. “You don’t want to
spoil that first edition with tears.”

Dean sighed. “Who cares? It’s Flo’s inheritance.” He
gamboled into Philip’s arms, bawling, his glasses pushed between
him and Philip’s shoulder.

“Uncle Dean. Now, you know how I feel.”

“You’re going to feel worse.”

Worse? Impossible.

“Okay. Hit me with your best shot. I’m a big boy,
ain’t I?”

Dean Cardoza composed himself as if he were about to
give a lecture on the secret Belgian binding, which
must
remain a secret. He grasped Philip’s arm, tightening it with a
degree that worried Philip. He thought of Jemmy and his wrist
burns, and tried to pull away, but Dean held on tightly.

“When a man has hope and that hope is dashed, he
does foolish things,” Dean said. “I had great hopes in Jemmy —
false hopes, I know now, but when he disappeared from my life, I
turned to Thomas Dye. I suggested to the author that this rash of
Internet mishaps would serve very well as a subject for a
book.”

Philip wrestled his arm free. “You asked Tee to
write
Bright Darkness
?”

“Ask? No. I floated the idea and suggested that
Jemmy’s case would prove compelling to readers. When it comes to
writing, Thomas is his own man. However, he liked the idea and
began to dig. He never showed me any results. I would have liked to
see them, because he delved into several cases and spent time at
the crime scenes and with all the available materials. He became an
Agatha Christie sleuth. Then, he hit an impasse. A block.”

“A block? You mean a wall. I know which one too. He
told me. He wasn’t familiar with the details of the Internet
chat.”

“Exactly, and since I had just had my encounter with
you, and had given you Jemmy’s inheritance, I suggested that you
would be a fitting guide through the world of
manluv
. I did
not expect him to carry it so far as to meet you in person. In
fact, when I heard that you had moved in, I told Thomas it wasn’t
fair to you. It smacked of Shavian
Pygmalion
, and had all
the flaws inherent in that act.”

Philip pushed away. He hung his head low, his eyes
on the carpet.
Thomas was coaxed into this act. Did that change
it in any way?
He couldn’t think. “By flaws, you mean that he
fell for me.”

“That he did. And hard.”

Philip looked squarely at Dean Cardoza. He could
count the veins in the old man’s reddened eyes, even as they
glowered beneath his spectacles. “Sounds like a conspiracy to me.
How can I trust anyone’s feelings when they are born in plots and
footnotes? I loved
the book
— the words and where the words
took me. Then I loved the words as Thomas spoke them, but the book
was taken from me, investment that it is. Now I’ve grown fond of
you and still harbor feelings for Tee, but where has it gotten
me?”

“Whaling is a bloody business, Philip. Melville is
as clinical as he is poetic. The reality of escape is that you
never really can do it. Just take it as it comes.”

Suddenly, Pons was standing at the end of the
stacks. He held a beige envelope between his fingers. “Did you call
me?”

Philip stirred to his feet, while Dean Cardoza
straightened in the chair. “Yes, Pons. At least I thought to call
you.”

“Same thing.”

Dean stood. He took
the book
from Philip and
put it in the case. He closed the door, and then turned the key.
“Did you have a reason to open this cabinet?”

“I sold the Dickenson, sir.”

Dean squinted to the second shelf. “So you did. Did
we get the asking price?”

“Eighty percent of it, but you know how these things
go. The woman wasn’t looking for anything in particular — just a
gift for her niece.”

“Quite a nice gift, indeed. But you left the cabinet
open.”

“I wasn’t sure whether Emily and her poetry was
returning to the shelf or not. Looks like she didn’t. So what’s the
harm? I’m here now.” He glanced down at his hand. He extended the
envelope to Philip. “And this came for you.”

Philip took it gently. It wasn’t sealed. He gave
Pons the fish eye.

“Don’t worry. I wouldn’t poke into your business. It
was hand delivered, so there might have been several eyes upon your
note.”

Philip slid the note out and recognized the
stationary. He held it toward Dean Cardoza, who also recognized
Thomas’ stationary — a creamy rag paper with a
faux
coat of
arms at the top — a tall ship following a spout.

“Speak of the devil,” Philip said.

“You needn't be nasty,” Pons said. “I’ll take my key
and be about my business. It’s a bit chilly in here.” Dean handed
it over. Pons shifted down the stacks grumbling something about not
being appreciated.
One would think a $5,000 sale would get me an
atta-boy. When will I learn?

Philip perused the note. It was short and
word-processed.

“
Dearest Lamb:

I can’t get you off my mind. I need to talk with
you. I’ll meet you at 8:30 tonight in the Park, behind the Met at
Cleopatera’s needle. Please come.

Love,

Tee”

He read it twice, and then handed it to Uncle Dean,
who gave it a read.

“Not like Thomas to word process on this
stationary,” Dean noted. “A bit uncharacteristically distant, don’t
you think?”

“He must be off his game,” Philip said. Tears were
welling. He wanted so much to see Tee again, but he didn’t want to
meet him in the park and listen to another swell of apologies and
explanations. Still, if nothing else, there might be closure. “I
bet he’s not functioning without me. I know it sounds ridiculous,
but I’ve never known Tee to contract a word since I’ve known him.
He did it twice.”

“True. And he didn’t use a spell check either.”

“He never does.” Philip grabbed the note, and then
looked for a misspelling.

“Cleopatera,” Dean said. “Who be that?”

Who, indeed?
Philip grinned. “The man’s come
apart.”

“Then, you’ll go to him?”

“Should I?” he turned to the old man. “I’m not sure
whether I should even stay in your employment, sir.”

Dean sniffed. His breath hitched. “You must do what
you need to do, Philip, but remember. No matter how the tide comes
in, it goes out by the same course. Whaling is a bloody
business.”

Philip replaced the note into the envelope. “I can
see that now.”

“The question is, my dear boy, whether your nature
is forgiving or vengeful.”

“Can I tell the difference?”

“You have grown toward the sun. You have been
touched by the best intentions. Only you can decide that.”

Philip turned, and then followed in Pons’ wake
through the stacks. He raised his hand as he left.

“I’ll let you know, Uncle Dean. I’ll let you
know.”

Philip loitered on the steps of the Metropolitan
Museum of Art, between the twin alabaster columns. He had no notion
of the time except for the occasional glance at his cell phone. He
kept an eye out for Thomas, but through the 5
^th
Avenue
crowd it was difficult to discern anything beyond pedestrians,
taxis and buses. He watched the sun glare shine on the windows
across the street until it shimmered no more, the streetlights
suddenly ablaze. Philip hadn’t waited by the Obelisk in the Park.
He was still on the cusp of things. No doubt, he would round the
property and head into the Park. However, caught here beneath the
columns — caught here between his thoughts, he still had the option
to wander to East 108
^th
Street and into Dennis’
arms.

A last glance at the cell phone showed 8:15.
Would he be on time for once?
He stood, and then stretched,
his knees knotted from their long bend — his ass sore from the cold
concrete. He hoisted his backpack casually over one shoulder, and
then skipped down the broad Museum stairs to the street, joining
the pedestrians.

Central Park still bustled — cyclists, joggers and
lovers late upon the lark. The evening shadows had fallen. The path
that veered off to Cleopatra’s Needle was less traveled — quiet,
still and foreboding at the close of day. Light there was, to be
sure, but the undergrowth thickened, the shadows pronounced and
menacing. Thomas liked the Needle. He had taken Philip here during
their first week together. He told the tale of how this was the
oldest edifice in New York.
Thutmose III
, he said.
1460
BCE. It took years to get the thing across the pond to this spot.
There are two more like it — one in London and one in Paris.
Thomas then gave a full account of its removal, first from Karnak;
then, to Alexandria, where the Romans scribbled on it, and finally
claimed by the sands of time until the Khedive of Cairo decided
that it would be an excellent gift for the Americans to assure good
trade relations.
That was in 1859. Look at the detail at the
base,
Thomas added.
A crab buttresses each side, their claws
held upturned to the points of the compass.
Yes, Tee loved it
here, but they had never been here at night.

Philip rounded the path. He spied the dark gray
outline of the obelisk cutting the night sky like an obsidian
knife. On the bench near the base sat a man. Philip had no doubt.
Thomas. As Philip stepped under the lamppost, Tee stood, and then
approached.

“Philip,” he said.

Philip would not run now. Quite the opposite. He
wanted to rush into this man’s arms and hold him close, but he kept
in check. He raised his hand in welcome, but when face to face,
they hugged a hug that evolved into an embrace and ended with a
kiss.

“How I have missed you,” Thomas said.

“Same here,” Philip answered, looking toward the
bench. He wanted to get this reunion over. He felt that it would be
too difficult to leave again. “Do you want to talk here, or . . .”
He paused. He thought he saw something in the bushes behind the
bench.