What Binds Us (8 page)

She hugged me hard. She waved at the car. “Come in,” she trilled. “Lunch is ready.”

“Phipps, this is my mother. Mom, this is Phipps.”

“Ma’am,” he said politely, pulling his hat from his magnificent shaved skull.

I felt strange being back home, as if I’d been on a fantastic ocean voyage and hadn’t yet gotten my land legs back. My mother eyed me shrewdly all afternoon, her eyes casual.

“What?” I asked, exasperated with her scrutiny.

“You’ve grown,” she said.

I spent the fall of 1979 trying to talk myself out of being in love with Matthew, chided myself for being a foolish dreamer. What could I give him? He’d grown up in a world of servants and antique sterling jam spoons. I’d been content with short-wave radios and chemistry sets; he’d been given entire continents to explore. He was Dondi’s brother.

Still, I couldn’t get him out of my mind. I went out with Dondi a few times and tried to lose myself in my coursework. But mostly I was just sad. And alone.

“You never even look at guys on the street,” Dondi commented once.

Since Matthew, the world seemed populated with women. I thought about him all the time. I wanted to make gentle love to him, to kiss the hairs on the back of his hand, to put my tongue in his most secret places. I wanted to make him want me as much as I wanted him. I wanted to undress him by the light of the moon. I wanted to kiss him passionately in dark corners, to lay my hand on his waist with the familiarity of a lover.

When I’d unpacked my suitcase after leaving Aurora, I’d found the Randy Crawford album,
Raw Silk
inside. Attached to the jacket was a short note written in Matthew’s precise handwriting. “Thanks for a wonderful summer.”

I played “Where There Was Darkness” over and over again.

Finally Dondi offered to buy me another album, any album, if only I’d stop playing that one. “What
is
the matter with you?” he asked, exasperated at last.

By December I was sick. The doctor suspected mono. I knew better. I went home at the end of the semester. Two days after Christmas, Phipps arrived in the Silver Wraith to take me to Aurora, where I was to recover.

I was installed in my old room in Matthew’s suite. I had the run of the place, as Matthew and Dondi were at school and Mr. and Mrs. Whyte wintered in Barbados. I’d never been alone before, but I had forty rooms to explore, a beach and a heated indoor salt-water pool.

***

New Year’s Eve 1979 was the loneliest I’d ever spent. I was sick, I missed Matthew. Mostly I missed Matthew. I remember watching with Dick Clark’s
New Year’s Rockin’ Eve
. The Village People were on, performing “Ready for the 80s.” The words washed over me and I wondered what the New Year, the new decade would hold in store.

My parents called at midnight, then I took a bottle of champagne and a blanket down to the beach. When I woke up the next morning, the first of 1980, I was disappointed that everything looked, felt the same. By the end of the year, everything would have changed.

I slept a great deal the first few weeks but slowly began to regain my strength.

I quickly fell into a routine. I would wake early and go down to the pool to swim laps. After my shower I had breakfast in the kitchen with the staff. In the winter months there were only two maids and the caretaker. The rest of the staff was either seasonal and found temporary work in the city or, like Phipps and the cook and Mrs. Whyte’s secretary and Marquis, traveled with the Whytes.

In the afternoons I rode my bike into the village to window shop or get the mail. Sometimes I pulled on boots and a hat and wrapped myself in an old mackinaw I’d found in the mud room and wandered along the beach until the sun fell from the sky. Most nights, unable to sleep, I wandered into Matthew’s room and slept in his bed. I’m sure the maid noticed; she never said anything. She simply made up both beds. Sometimes I missed him so much I’d go into his bathroom and take a ball of his black soap out of its cobalt dish. I would carry it in my pocket the whole day.

By early spring I’d more or less recovered and the doctor said I could return to school in September. It was decided I would remain at Aurora for the summer.

***

The morning Matthew was to arrive I got up early. I was so nervous I couldn’t even eat breakfast. I hadn’t seen him since the previous summer, had only spoken to him half a dozen times on the telephone. The conversations had been brief, awkward affairs, in which more remained unsaid than was actually spoken.

With nothing else to do, I’d begun working out and running on the beach every morning. As a result I’d put on weight, almost all of it muscle. I was still slim, but more muscular. My clothes all felt too tight and I changed three times, feeling self-conscious.

I watched his arrival from an upstairs window. When his red Jeep bounced up the drive, the staff, their number grown with the arrival of warm weather, lined the steps leading to the apron of the driveway. I recognized most of their faces from the previous summer.

Matthew climbed down from the Jeep and hugged every one of them. He carried a present for each and every one of them. There was laughter and shouted thanks.

He stood at the foot of the steps when I reached the second floor landing. He was talking to the cook, but he looked up the stairs. He seemed too beautiful to be flesh. Despite my assumed pragmatism, my sensible words, I knew only what my heart felt: that I loved him absolutely. I felt humbled before him. I wondered if that wasn’t all love was, after all—the absence of arrogance.

“Hi,” he said, and he started up the stairs taking them two at a time. When he reached the landing he leaned over and kissed my cheek. It was a gesture both intimate and curiously formal. “You look good.” He squeezed my shoulder. There was an awkward silence. Finally he asked, “Is Dondi here yet?”

“No. He called and said he’d be here later today.”

“Good.” Then without further explanation, he said, “C’mon. They’re making us lunch.”

We ate in the kitchen at a long worn oak trestle table. Behind us, an entire wall was devoted to a 1930s Frigidaire with many doors and compartments. The chrome handles and white enamel gleamed.

“That was put in in nineteen thirty-two when they added a second kitchen,” the cook, Margaret, explained when she saw me staring at the relic. “It still works, so we’ve kept it. Besides, it’s built in. Replacing it would mean knocking out an entire wall.”

Once, perhaps noting my silence, Matthew looked over and winked at me. I felt as if he’d reached over and caressed my hand.

Dondi arrived three days late amid much fanfare. He pulled me into his arms and spun me around.

“He used to do that to me when I was a kid,” Matthew said, walking up behind us.

The distance between Matthew and I expanded and contracted, depending on Dondi’s presence or absence. There was a kind of leaning forward followed by a backing away.

At tea a few days later, Mrs. Whyte waved toward several white envelopes on a silver tray. Raised white lettering caught the light. “Your invitations to the White Ball,” she explained. “Thomas-Edward, you’ll need a tux. Matthew and Dondi need new ones as well, so I’ve made an appointment for the three of you with Geo’s tailor. Phipps will take you into New York in the morning.” That said, she turned her attention to me suddenly. “Thomas-Edward, can you waltz?”

“Waltz?”

“Yes.”

“No, ma’am. I can’t.”

She looked momentarily exasperated. “Fine. After your fitting tomorrow I’ll give you your first lesson. You must know how to waltz for the ball.”

We practiced every afternoon in the month before the ball.

***

The country club was in a Georgian brick mansion. That night Japanese lanterns lined the drive that cut a wide swath through the rolling green lawns. Off the ballroom was a flagstone patio overlooking the golf course.

The night was hot. Matthew, Dondi and I were in white tie and tails, as were all of the invited male guests. Deeply tanned women with straight sun-bleached hair wore white gowns, off-the-shoulder, low-cut, backless. After a brief flirtation, Dondi vanished with a tanned waiter with brilliant white hair.

“Where’s Dondi?” Matthew asked, looking around.

I shrugged. “You know.”

“Bird-dogging?”

I nodded.

Matthew snorted and walked off in the direction of the bar.

I was standing alone, waiting for him to return with our drinks, trying unsuccessfully not to feel out-of-place when a dowager thrust her empty glass at me. “A refill, please,” she said.

Matthew took my arm, handing me a gin and tonic. “He’s a guest,” he told her.

As we walked away, I turned. “We’re not all waiters anymore, you know,” I told her.

She at least had the good grace to be embarrassed; her white arrogance changed to scarlet shame.

Matthew led me outside. “I’m so sorry that happened,” he said, blushing.

“It’s okay.”

We were leaning against a stone wall far from the ballroom’s terrace. I noticed there was a full moon.

“I’ve never seen you all dressed up before,” Matthew said. He took a big swig from his glass. “You look very handsome.”

“Thank you. So do you.”

“How sweet,” Dondi said, appearing atop the wall like a demon. His hair was mussed. “Now, kiss and let’s go.” He swung over the wall and dropped to the ground without spilling a drop of the martini in his hand. “I heard what happened in there. T, I’m sorry.”

“No need to be. It wasn’t your fault.”

“Let’s go home.”

Dondi left us at the front gate. Matthew and I walked around to the beach. The moon was fat and gorgeous.

“Hey,” Matthew said suddenly. “You didn’t get to waltz.”

“I know. I feel so bad. Mrs. Whyte will be so disappointed.”

“No need to disappoint anyone.” Matthew started to hum
The Blue Danube
. He opened his arms. “May I have this dance?”

When we’d walked down to the beach, we had removed our shoes and socks and rolled up our pant cuffs. Now, as he took me in his arms, I was so nervous I stepped on his feet. As our bare toes touched, I was seized by a paroxysm of lust that left me breathless.

“Relax,” he said. “Let me lead.”

I relaxed against him and we started to dance. He held me lightly yet firmly. Not possessively, but as if I was precious and he wanted only to protect me. He continued to hum and we waltzed on that moonlit stretch of beach as if we were the only two people in the world.

***

The next morning, uncharacteristically, Mrs. Whyte was seated at the big round table on the terrace when we arrived for breakfast. Her secretary sat beside her, a steno pad resting on her crossed legs as she scribbled furiously. The woman looked up at our approach, squinted, pushed up her glasses, stammered a good morning then blushed and looked back at her pad. I’d seen her glance at Matthew’s brief red trunks.

“Those came for you this morning,” Mrs. Whyte said, crisply indicating an envelope and a small gift-wrapped box on yet another silver tray. Thanks to Dondi, I knew that particular bright blue paper meant the gift, whatever it was, came from Tiffany.

“For me?”

I opened the card first. It was an apology from the arrogant dowager. She asked me to accept the small token she offered. I looked at Matthew then at Mrs. Whyte.

She advised me to write a brief note accepting her apology, but to return the gift unopened. “We won’t let her off the hook that easily.”

Her secretary provided me with a sheet of thin, light blue writing paper and a matching envelope lined in a dark blue foil. On the inside flap was an etching of Aurora.

“I’ll have Phipps run that over later this morning.”

“Thank you.”

“I don’t understand why she thought he was a waiter,” Matthew said with wounded innocence. “He was dressed like all the other guests.”

“Some people don’t see much beyond color,” I explained to him, trying not to sound bitter.

“Thomas-Edward, please know how sorry I am that that happened. I would never have put you in a position of embarrassment. Rest assured that we’ve withdrawn our membership and I’ll be meeting with the club president.” That said, Mrs. Whyte stood and left Matthew and I to our breakfast. Her secretary cast a furtive glance at Matthew then scurried after her.

***

I was staring up at the sky. The first star had just appeared when Mr. Whyte stepped out onto the terrace. He handed me a snifter. I knew it contained rum.

“What did you wish for?”

“I wished I was handsome. I wished I was special,” I answered, bringing the goblet to my lips and taking a long swallow, not ashamed to have admitted so much.

“You
are
special.”

“No, I’m not. I’m ordinary as dirt.”

He reached into the planter beside him and extracted a handful of dark soil. “This is ordinary dirt. Yet it’s of the earth itself. From this dirt springs all life. And to it all life must eventually return. You are the earth. You are the beginning and the end.”

“I am the earth,” I repeated.

***

At the height of the summer, Dondi announced that Pat was arriving at the Boulevard Station at nine.

“Pat?
Patricia
-Pat?” I asked.

“Yes.”

“Who’s Patricia-Pat?” Matthew inquired.

“You’ll see.”

The train pulled into the station at precisely nine o’clock. Pat was the last to exit. He paused on the steps. Lifted his hand to his eyes to shield them against the sun as he scanned the platform. Seeing us, he struck a pose; his mouth formed a delighted “O.” He’d bleached his hair platinum blond at some point. Since then it had grown out. Untouched, his hair now sported three inches of black root. A long white scarf wrapped once around his neck. A breeze caught it and it billowed behind him like a flag.

“Daughter!” he screamed at Dondi. He skidded to a halt when Dondi thrust his hand into the empty air between them. Pat offered a limp hand, as if he expected it to be kissed. “Thomas,” he acknowledged my presence curtly.

I knew instantly that he and Dondi were sleeping together.

“And who is this beauty?” he asked, laying eyes on Matthew.

Matthew took an involuntary step back.

“Don’t run away,” Pat purred. “I won’t bite…unless you ask me to.” He batted his Max Factored eyes.

Dondi introduced his brother. Matthew stared at Pat, abashed. Our little party started from the platform.

“Darlings! My bags!”

“I’ll get them,” Matthew volunteered.

“How
boy
of you! Thank you.” Pat’s white hands took flight.

All around us conversations trailed off as we approached, the conversants turning to stare after us.

“So, what are we doing?”

“We’re going to Washington,” Dondi said.

“Huh?” Matthew and I asked in unison.

“We’re going to Washington,” he repeated.

“Dondi. I am not driving us to Washington,” Matthew said.

“So I’ll drive,” Dondi answered, his enthusiasm undampened.

“
You’ll
drive?”

“Oh, God!”

“What? I can drive.”

“That is a matter of opinion.”

“Shut up and give me the keys.”

With a resigned shrug, Matthew surrendered the car keys. He threw Pat’s bags into the back of the Jeep.

“Oh, not that one,” Pat cried. “I need that one.”

“Why? What’s in it?”

“Shoes.”

“Shoes?”

“Shoes.”

Matthew and I got in the backseat and strapped ourselves in.

“Now, which is the gas pedal?” Dondi asked casually, adjusting the mirrors.

“What?” Pat practically shrieked.

“It’s the one on the left,” Matthew said helpfully.

“I know that. I was only joking.”

“Uh-huh.”

He shoved the gearshift into reverse and backed out of the parking lot, slammed on the brakes before putting the car into first gear.

“They’re power brakes, so you don’t have to stomp on the pedal.”

“Okay,” Dondi answered, stomping on the brake and pitching us all forward.

When Pat peeled his forehead from the windshield, he looked horrified, ashen beneath his flamboyance.

Dondi stepped on the gas and the car leaped forward with all the power under its hood. We jumped the curb and shot into traffic. We were moving fast but at least we were within the lines, I thought, when Matthew pointed out: “Ah, Dondi, you’re heading the wrong way.”