CATCH OF THE DAY, CHAPTERS 21 - 24
XXI. New Money, Old Skin
In his exhausted state all days were blurring one into another nothing but work and money and –
And,
As he stood by the new front desk, the scene reminded him of some movie from the Forties where dozens of extras milled about some chic spot looking “carefree” and “glamorous” and strangely overdressed, and where supporting players bustled up to the hotel desk demanding the best room in the house, while Franklin Pangborne, all droll unctuousness, scrambled to accommodate them.
The Broadwood Inn–the designation of which was Carol Archambault’s brainchild, among her many ideas that were remaking the dowdy old place into something almost stylish in a retrograde, self-consciously regional way– the Broadwood Inn had never been more fully booked, or so full of people with loud voices and detailed critiques of the Great Issues of Our Time. So many of them appeared to hold contentious opinions and astounded
Even now, when he would have thought they’d be out looking for a restaurant or going for a late swim, they packed the huge sitting room, talking, arguing, smoking and drinking. Lots of drinking. Aside from the scrolly-script sign that swung smoothly on its hinges, the most visible change so far was the makeshift bar that had been installed at the far end of the sitting room—no, no, the lounge, as Carol and some of the guests insisted on calling it. Fresh-faced college boys, whom Carol knew well and seemed easily to control, were busy serving beer and cocktails all the hours the law would allow. (He had broken down and bought a liquor license at Carol’s insistence. A few modest bribes to some of the town selectmen kept the application process from dragging on till 1960. His profits jumped 40% the first week, as Carol’s meticulous records showed. And the miracle was he had profits this season, enormous ones.)
“But I called you two weeks ago!” the chunky bleach blonde in the strapless dress and rhinestone sunglasses was shouting at him. “I told your girl that I wanted the Sarah Orne Jewett room, which your brochure said was the finest in the house, and she assured me it was available.”
Brochure? He had no idea Carol, the “girl,” had spent money on a brochure. Where had she sent it? And how had this deplorable woman from
He feared that next he’d see the Mortons’ names crossed out and replaced by short-term visitors at quadruple the rate. But the old couple’s off-season patronage was too important to throw them out. At least, he hoped Carol had realized that.
He started with a sudden illumination: Carol was calling people and telling them rooms were not available for some reason or another. Then she was able to offer the same room, at a handsome premium, to some other anxious metropolitan who had begged and begged for it. This would explain the concentrated flurries of long-distance calls that he had started to see on the phone bills.
I should be stern with her, it’s dishonest.
But then he thought of her eagerness to fix the place up and to make uniformly excellent suggestions that bid fair to get the highest return, and not just during July and August. She had ideas for year-round events and packages that would draw people even in the dismalest months of the
“You know, Mr. Broadwood, these grounds are lovely,” Carol had told him the other day. “Think of the people who’d love to ‘get away from it all’ for a long winter weekend.” It occurred to him that she put the phrase in quotation marks because it was an alien concept—a marketing concept, something that she’d come across at the university. “This place is gorgeous in the snow—I’ve seen it. Of course, it might mean unblocking the fireplaces and sticking a bit of insulation in the walls. But you could get people up here from
He stared. “You’ve got some interesting ideas, Carol.” Bending Aunt Claire to her will wasn’t the least of them.
She broke into a wide smile and cried eagerly, “Oh, I’ve got a ton of ‘em!”
Her laughter had a bit of an edge to it. “Take them seriously or you’ll be sorry, Douglas Broadwood.” She had probably already printed that Jewish brochure, too, in Yiddish. He wasn’t threatened. He was relieved. It was so nice to have someone to think this stuff up for him; God knew, he had never had a passion for it.
He heard Bill’s voice in his head, and it said, “And what the fuck has your so-called prudence ever gotten you?” Indeed.
A grating Midwestern voice wrecked his reveries.
“Mrs. O’Connor, Maxine O’Connor, let me see that.” She grabbed the guest register and squinted till she found her name. “Here. I don’t blame you for not finding my name. This is a goddamn mess,” she grumped, shoving the book back at him. “And for the rate I was quoted, I should be able to stay at the Auberge!”
“You might try getting in over there, Mrs. O’Connor,” Carol said smoothly, slipping beside him. “I’ll take over, sir.” Pretty as Brenda Ballard and probably far more intelligent, she gave
“Thanks, Carol. Excuse me, if you will, madam.” A slight bow to mollify her, and to prepare the way for Carol.
“My pleasure, sir. Now, Mrs. O’Connor,” she began in a steelier voice.
Of course, he reflected as he headed for the staircase, the money was pouring in – the steadiness and magnitude of the flow astonished him. It would have actually appalled the old Douglas, fool that he had been: wasn’t there something unseemly about grubbing for bucks con brio? Perhaps—but this was where Carol was such a godsend, his messenger of economic salvation.
All very well, he told himself severely, but it will end. It will end.
The film company was due to leave town before Labor Day. Then what? Everything good ended, and quickly, didn’t it? Success, like love, was short-lived. He knew it as sure as
He knocked softly on the door of the Sarah Orne Jewett room. No one was in. He unlocked it and shut the door swiftly. The new maid—Carol’s sister Arlene--had done an adequate job, although he noticed the wastebasket still had bits of cellophane clinging to the sides, not to mention a film of cigarette ashes. He’d talk to her about it tomorrow.
He woke up slowly, still in the grip of the dream, the vision, warm and hard. He couldn’t move, then realized that a pair of arms were around him, hugging him tightly.
“Hi, you.”
“Glad you’re back. Hard day?”
“Not as hard as this.” He pushed into
“Oh God, no, I’ve been too busy to—“
Dave bit his neck and made him yelp. “Wrong answer.”
Dave had said, “Oh sure, of course. Thanks. ‘Preciate it.” Pregnant pause. “I guess you’re kinda lonesome these days.” Meaningful look, then a rapid swivel of the eyeballs to the garden.
“Excuse me, but I am very busy.”
Dave had looked at him a little hurt, a little sulky. He flexed his magnificent body and walked around the corner, giving him one last look as he left his sight.
They had ended up in bed together the next night.
They had been sneaking around for almost three weeks now. Even though they didn’t have a tryst every night, it seemed to be wearing Dave out. He was getting paler and thinner by the week--he fell asleep immediately after their intimate moments. His work was intense; often, he said, the crew worked till 1 or
“Then we go out for drinks. You know, to unwind some. I have ginger ale or something like that. You don’t mind, do you, baby?”
No, he did not mind. He did worry about him. Dave worked so hard.
Now
Anyway, Bill never came around. Dave was here. The choice was crystalline in its clarity, wasn’t it.
He found Dave so sweet and considerate, even deferential. He looked at Douglas with his melting dark eyes, and
It wasn’t love, he knew, but it would do until the real thing came along. Or back. Maybe, he thought, maybe I’m resigned to Dave. Or to a Dave-like creature.
He wondered at this. He tried to atone for this judgment by installing Dave in his usual fantasy of domestic bliss with a handsome man, and this time it was Dave who was lounging over a late Sunday breakfast in the off-season (reading Variety, or was it Argosy, instead of the Boston Globe). And
Dave gave him a heartbroken smile and burrowed his head into
Dave raised his face to his, and his eyes were brimming. “I’m so in love.”
“You are?” More confusion: How do I feel?
“Dave, I’m not so sure I—“
“No, it’s OK, Douglas. Let’s rest, OK?” Dave disentangled himself and lay down like a child, resting his head on praying hands.
Well, if Dave wasn’t in love with him, he had quite a crush. Perhaps they’d come to love each other, really love each other, in time. He wasn’t going to make the mistake of falling for a man at first sight. It had happened twice, and he believed that he had finally learned his lesson.
Dave opened his eyes and stared, shocked, straight ahead.
“Sorry, did I wake you?”
Dave swallowed. “
“Didn’t you know who I—“
“Did you mean Bill Blake?”
Dave nodded, sighing. He gave him his melting smile again. “I’m sorry,
More to the point, when did this one and Bill—
“No, of course not,” he said glumly.
“What? You don’t?” Dave pulled away and looked genuinely alarmed. “We’re both in love with him. You can’t fool me: I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”
“Don’t be—“
“You know you’re crazy about him. Come on.” Dave hazarded a little chuckle. He tickled
“What I’m trying to say is, I feel the same way!
“What?” It took a few seconds. Then the pompous editor flashed into his head. Oh God! Was there no end to the man’s betrayals?
“Hey, sure, they’re all over town together. Haven’t you seen them? She’s in some kinda dopey disguise, like when there’s a shitty wardrobe budget. Anyhow,” Dave sulked, “after he dumped Brenda—Brenda Ballard—dumped her and me—“
“What?!?” He had to sit down. Legs shot off again. He faced Dave from the arm of the sofa.
Dave turned away, at last smart enough to be shamefaced. “You really don’t want to know. Really.”
“No. No, I really don’t.”
Dave tried to grab his hand, but
Dave sat up on the side of the bed. He looked ready to spring at him. “Please don’t be angry. Please,
He shut the door and smiled a greeting as Mr. Weisbrod bellowed, “Bawn swarrr!”
Mr. Weisbrod pivoted and grabbed his arm. “This is a charming place, Mr. Broadwood, you’re making wonderful changes. I think more people should know what a gem you’ve got here. And this quaint little town!”
Mr. Weisbrod and his bald head shone pink and beneficent. He clapped his hands over
Dave opened the door. He had taken off his shirt and looked angrily disheveled. He caught sight of Mr. Weisbrod’s hands and
Mr. Weisbrod laughed gently. He gave his hand a squeeze and released it. “Don’t worry, Mr. Broadwood—
“Yes. Yes, it is. Just ask Carol.”
“Ah! Carol! What a great hire for you, Douglas. That young lady’s a treasure!”
Dave stood in the doorway still, evidently waiting for something.
“Shit!” Dave slammed the door.
He’ll be back in the turret room tomorrow.
And this was clear: Carol would be the one to tell him so.
* * * *
Mr. Weisbrod was one of those guests he’d always most dreaded: someone whose affability was matched only by his flume of constructive criticisms. Every day, at least once, his perfect teeth, cheery smile and tanned pate popped into view with an “Innkeeper, I’ve noticed…” on his lips.
In three tireless weeks of holiday-making, Mr. Weisbrod had created a formidable list, of which
1. Keep the light on the porch lit all night—less liability that way, and some of the late-returning revelers had complained about stumbling up the steps.
2. Dust the light bulbs in the sitting room. Maybe even change some of them!
3. Don’t serve Wonder Bread. It lowers the tone of the place. “Oh, yes, Douglas my boy, this place has tone!”
4. Install telephones in the guest rooms. “And charge the hell to use them to recoup the investment.”
5. Ditto TV sets. “But only in the better rooms. Charge extra for that, too, like a hospital.”
6. Grout the bathrooms. Immediately.
7. Paint the shingles.
8. Put a weathervane on each of the turrets, for a quaint
9. Give longer-term guests a room gift on arrival, like a fruit basket or locally baked goodies.
10. Fix the squeaky treads on the stairs.
11. Ask Claire not to be so gruff.
12. Confirm reservations in writing. “You’re pissing people off from your lack of organization. Thank heavens Carol came along! What a great hire!”
And more, because Carol had shown him the updated books this afternoon. He’d shown a greater profit in the past month than he’d posted, gross, all last year. Tiresome as Mr. Weisbrod was, he was heeding the man’s advice: more repairs and improvements were on the drawing board, like rewiring and rug repair this fall, the interior painted and wallpapered in the spring. And a real bar with water and everything.
As he sat at his desk, he felt a certain weight fall from his shoulders. He attributed it to the cascade of money that was already improving his life more than love or sex ever could. The prospect of a life without corrosive worries over money flooded him with a sweet warmth that had nothing to do with good Port.
He put down his glass and sighed with contentment. Contentment itself was a first, he noted. He felt an illicit surge of gloating.
Who needs love? Who needs an alcoholic little author to keep me up nights?
There was a knock at the door. He got up. It was Carol with the day’s mail.
She peered intently about the room. “Hi, Mr. B. You forgot this.”
“Did you pick out the checks?” he asked humorously.
“No! That’s really not my place, Mr. Broadwood. You’re the boss,” she added with as much conviction as she could muster.
“Well, soon, you’ll have every right to do so.”
“I don’t know what you mean.” She peered up at him suspiciously. It made her look near-sighted and much less intelligent than she was. He’d seen Weisbrod glorying in that gaze of befuddled admiration. Seemingly befuddled admiration.
“No details yet. But if you’d like to work here full-time after graduation, I would be willing to give you a percentage—a small percentage—of the business.”
Carol seemed to hunt for oxygen. “I—I really—you don’t mean—“
“Why not? We’ll talk about it next week, all right?”
“Oh, Mr. Broadwood, I don’t know how to—“
“Look, we’ll talk later. I’m tired. Good night.”
Her step was light and quick. “Good night!” she called as she hurried away.
“You won’t forget to mention this to Mr. Weisbrod, will you?”
To her credit, she didn’t pretend. She gave him a delighted smile of complicity and headed straight for the gentleman’s guest room.
Besides bagels and brisket, what are their special foods?
Carol would again come to the rescue, with Weisbrod’s hidden help.
As he got to the bottom of the stack, he saw a typed envelope with no return address.
Get a grip on your heart, my boy. Most unlikely.
He tore it open. His trembling hands dropped it when he saw the signature at the end of the short, neatly written letter: JK.
He picked it up, afraid to look at the words. There was no date. He avoided the body of the note, allowing himself to see only the salutation:
Dear Douglas,
He felt sick with fear and irritation. Why now, after all this time? Why at all, really? This was a complication that—
He turned the letter, the single sheet of the brief missive, turned it over. He put a paperweight, square of granite from the garden, over it. He got up and walked around, making odd fretful sounds to himself.
He went back to his desk and, sighing, read:
Dear Douglas,
It’s been so long since we parted but the world and we have changed, and I fear we and it are going to hell on a sled. You always got angry at my Catholic guilt-mongering, I remember how your face curled up when you said those words, so I will cease and desist this line of thought.
I am writing to invite you personally to the party being held on September 7 to mark the official launch of On the Road, the book you inspired me to write even when I had given up on it or on myself or both. Somehow I always thought you would have made a good editor and all-round literary helpmeet and I benefited so much from your being my first reader.
Please say you will come,
Yours,
JK
[In the letter Jack Kerouac says that On the Road was being published soon, and that he hopes D. will join him in NY for the celebrations…”you were so important in helping me form this thing, and I’m very grateful for your ‘intercessions.’” – etc. I must study Kerouac’s epistolary style.]
Panorama. Sizzling
Bill was leaning against the pedestal of the statue to the Civil War dead in front of the town hall, and he let go a mighty belch after swigging a bottle of Coke. He wondered if Don and Elaine would ever have their big fight and make up or break up, whichever they felt like doing or whichever the fates or Yahweh or Elaine’s mother decreed. He sure as hell was sick of tagging along after her and regretted calling her up to
Elaine gave him a contemptuous look and said, “That’s not our style.” But he drank ginger ale that evening as she got smashed on gin and tonic. He drove her back to her motel on Route 1 in Selene, and he walked the sober mile home. She was on the phone early the next morning, demanding to know when she could pick him up. “If you’re in any condition to go out,” she added with jolly belligerence.
He pitied her effort to keep up appearances. He felt guilty enough to keep going out with her. It made him anxious to waste his work time collecting evidence against her husband. The almost-completed novel weighed heavily on him, it gave him a full-to-bursting feeling that was like the overcharged sensation that distracted a man until he had an orgasm.
Don’s inattention was as irritating as Elaine’s attention. It surprised and disconcerted him that Don didn’t pester him about edits or new pages. Whenever he brought them up, Don brushed them aside and paced around the room sniffing like a drug addict.
Bill had hoped to reveal Elaine’s presence. He had planned a mysterious build-up and then imagined Don would cower and beg for aid in placating her. He had looked forward to their tearful reconciliation, and to their grateful indulgences, which would be expressed with glowing looks and squeezes of the hand for each other and a publication date timed for the gift-giving season to reward him. Don’s reaction was not at all what he had envisioned.
Don—who was not one to shout—Don shouted, “Go back to your damned novel and leave me alone! I know Elaine’s in town, do you think I’m blind and moronically moronic? I do not care. I see her lurking about in her clown clothes and I know damned well you put her up to it!”
“I try to talk sense into her!”
“Don’t insult my intelligence. You summoned her up here to begin with. I discovered you placed a call to her the day before she zoomed into town in that ridiculous two-toned sports car.”
Don laughed at him as if to say, What a hick.
“Well, fine. Be a prick to me. But what about Elaine? She’s desperate to have you back.”
“She can’t stand the shame, that’s all. Her pretentious mother fills her with venom. How I hate those people!”
Bill recited, “My mother, my mother, my mother.”
Bill held out his palms. “Well? If she’s desperate to have you back…?”
“I’m not. I’m not crazy enough to have her back. I’m bored with her. All her
“She fucking loves you. Does Brenda?”
Don smiled. “Since when did love ever enter into the equation for you? Or is it ‘love’ when you hit the urinals?”
Bill opened his mouth to reply but didn’t know how to. Take that one lying down, he told himself. For the book. It was noble, turning the other cheek. It pissed him off, though.
Don pressed on. “Oh, pardon me. I went too far, didn’t I, my scribe?”
“Don, you should know about Brenda.”
“I know enough to know that I am in love with her.”
Don gave him a withering look, then turned away. “Brenda’s no whore, Bill.”
“No, she’s not. A real whore would take her payment and split. She wants to suck you dry and throw you away.”
Don’s face assumed a smug expression. He relaxed his shoulders. He said with a quiet joy, “Brenda’s asked me to move to
Bill sighed, shaking his head, and gave Don a look of angry pity. “Doing what at the studio? Fetching her highness coffee? Musclemen from the beach?”
Don sighed and reached out to clasp Bill by the shoulder. Bill shied away. Don tried to smile. “I hate this, Bill. We’re not enemies. Far from it. But you have to realize that Brenda’s changed my life. I feel more alive with her. Pleasure is more pleasant, reality is more real. Life is more—everything. Her love has opened, is opening, new vistas and perspectives—“
He went on. Bill tuned the words out and examined his editor’s rapturous face, the exaltation in his eyes. He heard the crooning intonation in his voice.
He’s a fanatic. Lost. Past the point of no return. Nice doing business with you, Donny boy.
When Don fell silent at last, Bill said, “What shall I tell your wife?”
Don had an exit line ready. “Tell her to go regulate some other schmuck’s life.”
Now here it was the next day and Don was still playing cat and mouse with Elaine. He seemed no closer to leveling with her. And she was as paralyzed as before.
Brenda caught his eye and gave him a triumphant smirk. He followed her gaze as she turned toward another corner, the lane that led to the water, where Evelyn Lamb’s shop stood open to the throng. Dave was leaning against a clapboard wall, wearing sunglasses, palpating his own triceps, eyes never off her. The expression on his shaded face had nothing of the puppy-dog friendliness he habitually displayed.
Bill spotted a trash can and threw the Coke bottle in. He leaned over it and heaved up his breakfast toast and coffee. A tourist in a halter top hurried by muttering, “Dirty drunk!”
Once he would have shouted something back. He let the impulse subside as he took the long way back to his hotel. He avoided the direct route, right through the town square, because he had no desire for encounters with the unmoored dinghies down there.
As he walked around the center of
Russell Cobb sat before him in glassy-eyed astonishment. He assumed that’s what it was, because the man’s mouth was hanging open and his spectacles reflected the light from the gauzy curtains at the windows of his office. Russell got up and shook his hand across the surprisingly messy desk. “Bill, I—well, this is quite the—“
“Allie wasn’t at the door, so I came in. I didn’t see your secretary either.”
“I had to let her go. Collections are way down.”
“Oh. I hope that’s a temporary…” Bill’s voice trailed off.
Russell pointed to a chair. They sat. “Well. Well well. Bill? What can I do for you?” He spoke in a quieter tone than usual, and when he took off his glasses, his intrusive gaze seemed to be turned inward.
Bill relaxed when he sensed no looming onslaught of Christian bonhomie. For once Cobb wasn’t flexing spiritual muscles or doing evangelistic hand stands. The man was preoccupied and let Bill take his own time to divulge whatever had brought him there.
Bill cleared his throat and sought to begin in a light tone. “I haven’t seen much of you two lately.” He noted a tremor in Russell’s cheek. “This has been a crazy summer, hasn’t it?” Still nothing. “When is that party of yours, exactly?”
Russell stared into the middle distance. “Is there a problem you need to talk over?” His voice was soft. His attempted smile was a miserable failure.
Bill was torn in two. He wanted to know what had finally shut off the evangelizing dynamo. But he really didn’t want to hear why.
What the fuck. Put yourself out for once.
Russell moved his mouth but paused before he spoke. “No. Are you?”
“No.” Bill thought about his reflexive pessimism, his automatic nay-saying. It didn’t work any more, at least not at this moment. He felt good. He felt free of something that had weighed him down and curdled his moods. He watched Cobb put his glasses back on. The reflection of the white curtains swayed in the two ovals of glass. He mugged and grinned. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“That’s great. Great. God speed, Bill.”
Bill sat there for a minute, gaping at the man whose outside seemed, unexpectedly, to have turned inside. He got up and tiptoed out. Russell was still reliving some non-liturgical scene. He closed the door quietly and stood on the stone porch, which was back from the street and looked onto a U-shaped courtyard. It was cool and still. He was puzzled. Things were changing all around him.
He’d stepped offstage for a few minutes, it seemed, consenting to watch others act out their own stupid dramas, and he’d come back to a world that had shifted somehow in that short absence. Even the Cobbs were at odds: Russell was shocked into silence and Allie nowhere to be seen. When had that happened? What was that all about?
As for Don and Elaine, two of the most intelligent and sophisticated people he knew, they had disported themselves with so little sense and decorum that he was actually ashamed for them. He considered the hypothesis that he’d never known them at all; either their
Of course I don’t know them. I don’t even know myself.
This was another cliché, of course.
He stewed about it for a minute. Then his inner vision fixed on Douglas, and suddenly
His mind ran a newsreel. Critical images of Douglas, dreary hangdog Douglas, the crypto-sensualist with the enigmatic Archaic Era smile. The outwardly naïve, inwardly corrupt Douglas pornographically photographed in grainy black and white, Douglas the secret manhunter, always pursuing—in his mangy cardigan and threadbare khakis—some new hypermasculine specimen, desiring only the conquest and, after throwing away the actual man who was fool enough to fall for the sad act about his loveless, spinsterly life. Alas poor Douglas, who desired only the delicious regret of another disastrous romance, he was prompt to cast himself anew in the tragic role! Oh this was the Douglas who had always been and would always be, dry-as-dust Douglas, dead head Douglas, Daddy’s dutiful
Seething, Bill approached the over-manicured grounds of L’Auberge du Capitain. He realized now he much he loathed Douglas Broadwood. It wasn’t for
But at long last he allowed himself to see what he had given to Douglas—how much Douglas had extracted from him while appearing to cater to his every need. He recalled the changes in the way
So, he thought as he trudged up the granite steps of the hotel, there were a lot of reasons for hating
Bill laughed a little at this ludicrous image. He was standing in the lobby contemplating the front desk, where a prissy faggot in an Ivy League suit was sternly informing new guests of the rules of the house.
I really don’t need this bullshit. Or Don. Or
He went up to his room and packed. Within ten minutes he was checking out.
“Is Mr. Wassermann taking care of this?” the clerk snapped.
He went out and felt light, light and free.
He rented a room in a shipshape little Greek Revival house in an unkempt section of town. It was close to Dempsey’s Dump. He had seen the sign in the front window many times. ROOM F R RENT. The missing letter had probably lost its glue a couple of years earlier. The place was cheap. There were no meals provided. It was just a room. Bare but large, clean and well-lighted. He paid cash a month in advance after he saw the window-side writing table. Mrs. Shaw, the sixty-ish proprietress, said that she would give him a cup of tea if she was having some. In her
Mrs. Shaw introduced Mr. Uccello, who barged into the front room without knocking. He was a roly-poly barber Bill had seen in town. He spoke with a strong Italian accent. “Francesca, is lunch ready?” Ees lahnch rrready? Mr. Uccello was about fifteen years younger than the landlady. He had the glint in his eye. Bill thought maybe he should leave.
He got up and looked at Mrs. Shaw.
She smiled grimly. “I feed him because he lives here.” She turned her head to Mr. Uccello and snarled, “Hold your horses, Cosimo. Can’t you see I’m dealing with our new boarder?”
She got up and went to the kitchen, muttering about men. Mr. Uccello gave Bill a merry nod of recognition. “Benvenuto.” And he headed abruptly for the kitchen. A few seconds later Bill heard a slap and “Jaysus, Cosimo!” followed by their smothered giggles.
After Bill went to Dempsey’s for a sandwich and a ginger ale, he holed himself up in his attic scriptorium. He liked the scrubbed simplicity of the place. It was quiet under the sloping roof. There were spruce trees at the end of the yard, and there was a maple tree near the house, and through its shade dappled sunlight played on the broad wooden expanse of the writing table. A light breeze scented with spruce washed over him and with it a deep sense of well-being as he opened the notebook containing his latest work. He had scarcely looked at it in two weeks, and his momentary dread of what he might find became a sort of astonished joy. The insights, the felicity of phrasing, the deft revelatory touches of each movement and speech of the characters—the last pages were better than anything so far, he felt, and he foresaw the inevitability of the climax and resolution of the book. The end beckoned to him, and for once he didn’t approach it with something like the horror of death. This time he wouldn’t be tempted to sabotage it, or delay it any longer. This book would end simply and well. Resolved but not wrapped up in a big red bow. There would remain enough tension and ambiguity to suggest the characters’ continuing, secret existence in a kind of alternate universe. The reader would desire this and be given enough hints to imagine it for himself. The conclusion would be satisfying aesthetically, morally, dramatically.
He started working in mid afternoon and was surprised to have the setting sun trouble his sight. The waving dappled light made him feel as if he were on a bobbing boat. He shielded his eyes with his left hand and kept going till it was too dark to go on. He set the pen down and stared at the purple sky beyond the black silhouette of the maple. He was within striking distance of the conclusion. Perhaps a week’s work to write and polish the last part of the novel. He’d arrange for typing in the morning. He knew where there was a small secretarial service—on a side street near Mrs. Shaw’s, in fact.
He sat in the deepening twilight and wondered. He felt calm and steady. For once there was no underlying panic. “And then what” included the writing. What would he write about next? What would be his approach, style, attitude? He wasn’t sure, but he did know that another book was in him, and this certainty was a new thing. What about the other part or parts of “and then what”? Here his certainty deserted him. He had no idea, no vision of what his life might be like, or where he’d settle.
Now the sun sank behind the line of spruces, and the breeze was stilled. Without the glare he could see more clearly what was in the room and the yard below. Mr. Uccello was in an
Mrs. Shaw picked up the cuttings and passed near Mr. Uccello, patting him the head. In the late dusk he tried to catch her arm, but she had moved toward the house, out of sight.
For some reason, Bill thought of
The week went by fast. His routine was simple. He was prodigiously productive. He was usually awake before six and well into the work by the time Mrs. Shaw knocked on the door with his small pot of strong coffee at seven. She also brought a glass of Donald Duck orange juice and a piece of toasted Wonder Bread with half an inch of sweet butter smeared over it. A small dish of expensive marmalade sat next to it on the tray. She nodded briskly and said, “Mornin’” and left. She didn’t seem to mind that he grunted at her and kept his eyes on the page, fiddling with some bit of dialogue or paring down a descriptive passage. She didn’t ask him for additional money either. Even this modest breakfast had not been part of the deal.
He would work in a gloriously concentrated state until twelve or one, then look out the window, see the sun beginning to shine from the west, and realize he was exhausted and starving. He’d shave, shower and walk to one of the little eateries nearby, where only townies ate. Diner food. He packed in everything they gave him, even the parsley garnishes.
Then it was on to Dempsey’s Dump or another little dive du quartier. He allowed himself two drinks, no more. He’d stroll around the edge of the town in the late afternoon, taking care to avoid the places Don, Elaine, Dave and Brenda would go at that time of day. More than once he found himself strolling along
Bill turned and went the way he had come.
Today he was walking the same route, satisfied with the progress he had made on the almost-completed novel today, with maybe two-three days’ work left. He had worked from six until two. Then, spent, he went to a late lunch and had two beers at Dempsey’s. He felt light-headed from fatigue and the powerful sense of accomplishment, which had been building in him all week. He was determined to finish the thing and move on to a new book right away. He had other things to write about now—more honest things, he told himself. If no one would publish it, that’d be OK too. Some things had to be said. Somebody had to write the truth about certain subjects; he figured he might as well take the chance. What else was there for him? He had to level with himself and the world, and not merely in his own head.
What the fuck. Blat it out. Better out than in. If they reject it—me—then…
When he glimpsed
“
“Bill? What’s wrong? You seem out of it.”
Bill turned and went toward the car. He stopped about four feet from it. “I wrote for eight hours straight today. I’m preoccupied.”
“Do I?” He supposed that he was. He wondered why
“The editor was here looking for you. Very upset. Almost frantic.”
Bill smiled. “Really? I’m surprised he noticed. That I’d checked out.”
Confused, Bill squinted inside and saw one of the college boys who tended bar. He was a big blond kid with blue eyes and an aquiline nose.
“You remember Bob, don’t you?”
Bill ignored Bob. “Where you off to?”
“The liquor wholesaler in
“OK, then.” Bill gave him a little wave.
“Bye.” Bob’s low voice echoed.
Bill watched him go, observing that he needed to change the oil. He followed the exhaust fumes, feeling much less tired and out of it as he thought of
But something rankled. Was it his game to torment him with Bob? Had Dave faded from the scene, to be replaced by an even younger, bigger, handsomer specimen?
No! It was genuine. He was glad to see me. The kid’s his employee. Straight little Irish-Catholic arrow.
Bill walked faster. He was tempted to run after the beat-up old woodie and try to catch up to it at the tangle of traffic and lights that would delay
Bill slowed down. A voice urged caution.
Wasn’t
“Fuck!” Tears of rage filled his eyes. Whether his fury was aimed at Douglas or himself was something he wasn’t in a position to figure out. There was a way to help him clarify all. Of course.
Bill marched over to Dempsey’s and ordered a straight Scotch. Which he vowed would be the only one as he puzzled things out. “Don’t Be Cruel” was playing on the jukebox. He celebrated. He mourned. He wouldn’t be writing much tomorrow. What was a book compared with life? His shitty, thwarted, pointless, sick and tired life?
“Welcome back,” said the sardonic bartender. “Got a five? Here’s quarters for the juke.”
“Still got ‘I Walk the Line’?”
“Shit, no. You wore that one out. What about ‘Walkin’ After
Bill slid him a fiver. He found “I Walked the Line” in its usual location. “I’m Walkin’” by Fats. Patsy Cline. All songs about walking, going someplace, finding a way back to the lover. About being lonely, obsessed, tortured, loftily fucked up.
The well-being of an hour ago seemed like some impossible condition of a fictional character. He was sure of that when he returned to his seat at the bar. At his place, neatly lined up, were four new shots of Scotch. The first one was, somehow, all but gone.
He screwed up his mouth and looked at them as the bartender watched from the end of the bar. Johnny Cash was singing I keep my eyes wide open all the time.
“He seems like a nice man,” Bob said perfunctorily.
“I suppose so.”
“Here.”
“Sorry!” Bob’s face got red, and he looked out the window, embarrassment distorting his features. “Can I pick the station?”
Bob put his hand out, gingerly, to adjust the right-hand knob. After sliding around the dial, he stopped at a station on which the small-town DJ, with the goofy voice and slightly fruity delivery they had all around the country, was jabbering through some commercial. Then he announced the next song, “Big big hit of the summer by the one and only Elvis the Pelvis!” “All Shook Up” came on.
“Sorry,” Bob muttered anxiously. With polite dread he added, “They were playing ‘Hernando’s Hideaway’ on—“
“No, leave it on. It’s wonderful. Wonderful.”
Bob reached carefully to turn the music louder.
Bill paid for the shots and left as “I’m Walkin’” was playing for the second time. He left the undrunk drinks for the bartender, who funneled them back into the bottle. He emerged into the sunny early evening and gloated as he considered his sobriety and his strength. He’d write tomorrow after all.
He was halfway to Mrs. Shaw’s, mellow and content, indulgent toward Douglas and himself. The yellowy flowers of the season shone against the brick foundations of the old houses. People were cutting their small patches of front yard with push mowers, modestly dressed in out-of-fashion clothes, and it felt like his boyhood.
He paused to cross the street and was looking sharply to the left when he noticed a station wagon approaching. It was a new model and had “L’Auberge du Capitain” stenciled on the side. It pulled over to the curb. The rear window slid smoothly down.
“Never mind, driver. It isn’t the person I thought it was. Proceed.”
Dora smiled at him malignly. She threw a cigarette butt onto the sidewalk.
He awoke to the sound of the
No work will get done today.
It was an admission of failure and weakness.
He got to his feet, assisted by his arms pushing down on the mattress, and he made halting steps to the tray. He poured coffee, spilling some, and drank it, cold as it was. The caffeine worked, cold or not. He drank down the pot as he stood there, thinking about the horrific dreams of the night. He wondered if he really hadn’t seen Dora at L’Auberge last night—if they hadn’t had a nasty argument, with unfettered name-calling on either side. He wondered if he had hit her so hard she fell down and stared up with those spiteful eyes over a dislocated jaw. If that had happened, the police would be looking for him. There’d be a scandal and he’d never get to finish the fucking book, unless he wrote it on strips of jailhouse toilet paper.
He stretched and swung his arms around a few times to get the circulation going. He finished the coffee. He even ate a piece of hard, burnt toast. Mrs. Shaw was down in the back garden, weeding her vegetable plot. Mr. Uccello was off shaving children’s heads. He had the house to himself for a while anyway. He went to the bathroom down the hall and felt more rational after a good dump.
After brushing his teeth and shaving, he sat down at the table and pulled out his work. Blearily, he looked over yesterday’s pages (that made 20 closely written pages he had to take to the typist), made a few edits, and consulted some notes about the conclusion of the novel. By the time he had to go to the toilet again, he’d written another eight pages.
I’m on fire!
Twenty-eight for the typist—about 55 or 60 double-spaced. He had one short chapter—maybe two-thirds as many as what he’d written today—and he was done. The end was in sight.
The end in sight is like a death, I guess. Like coming to the edge of a cliff. Then you—
He pictured a body falling over and over toward the bottom of the
He consoled himself by switching to scenes of editing. It would be tedious and so forth, but it wouldn’t be the hard labor he’d been at all summer. Don would manage the process as efficiently as ever, whatever turmoil he was going through—and he knew Don wasn’t going to live in
The falling sensation returned, and he fixed his gaze on the pages before him to protect himself from panic. He couldn’t imagine himself back there--there was a blank page in his mind’s eye when he tried. There was no quality of home about it now.
He brushed away crumbs from the table’s surface as he vowed to start the new project right away, no matter what. Even if he had broken Dora’s jaw last night.
When the landlady came indoors, he changed into his bathing trunks. He planned to spend the rest of the afternoon alone in Mrs. Shaw’s back yard. He sprawled out, sunning himself, and it delighted him to think that no one knew where he was or what he was doing. Don may have finally waked up to the fact that his scribe had vanished. Dora wouldn’t even know where to start looking. Maybe
He had dozed for a time when Mrs. Shaw’s sharp voice called from the kitchen door. “Telephone for you!”
Falling!
“Who is it?”
“Douglas Broadwood.”
Now the sensation was one of joy, like an expanding tickle in his chest. “Who?”
She repeated the name with irritable precision, doing something Irish with the D’s in Broadwood. “Broadh-woodh.”
Bill scampered up the steps and into the cool kitchen, which smelled of tea leaves. He grabbed the clunky receiver from her. “Hello?”
“Mr. Blake?”
“Yes, I know,” he laughed. Then: “Who’s there? Not—“
“Yes. There is a Mrs. Blake here.”
“What about the cops?”
Long pause. “Excuse me?”
“Is her jaw broken?”
“Uh, no.”
“Too bad.”
* * *
Dora remained unmoving, perched on the edge of the Morris chair, which she had regarded with shivering distaste when he’d motioned her to it. “Well? Is he coming or must I hunt him down myself?” Her voice oscillated between hauteur and quavering plaint.
Diminished or not,
Dora gave him a sourly assessing glance and busied herself with a platinum cigarette case in her small black leather purse, a real Chanel. She posed with the cigarette (no holder in sight), and held the pose until he had lit it. She let the smoke stream slowly out of her nostrils without inhaling. He thought of how Bette Davis would look when she hit seventy.
Dora bleakly grinned. “How like him. Always running away from the inevitable.”
“Are you ‘the inevitable’?”
She returned his sang froid. “Like death and taxes.” She regarded him with, he thought, a slightly less low opinion.
“You take it wrong. I hired a plane in Angleport and flew to the strip at whats-it.”
“That must have been exciting.”
She looked away, irritated by his failed attempt at irony. “You can take me to where he is staying.”
Dora looked around and sighed, pantomiming contentment. “Your place seems charming. Full of Downeast touches. I can see you’re doing a good business.” She spoke that last sentence without irony; she respected money too much.
“It’s been a good season. Exceptional, in fact.”
“So I understand.” She was bitter as she said, “I saw Billy last night, you know. He was walking around in some lousy neighborhood. I’ve never seen him look so well. Something here must agree with him.” She changed her tome as her expression softened. “He looked as though he’d been writing quite diligently. He always has a glow about him when the work’s going well. It pleases me. Very much. Donald Wassermann thinks he has a best-seller on his hands. Even that wretched old Greenleaf is a believer now. Finally.”
He stood there and said, “You know, I don’t see him. He moved out of here a while ago.”
“You knew where to call him, though, didn’t you.”
“This is quite a small town.”
Dora craned her neck to get a closer look at him. “I wish you’d sit down. You’re so tall. Billy comes from a short family, alas. I nevertheless think of us as commanding. I am anyway.”
He sat and she looked him over. “By the way, I’d love a martini.”
He motioned to Bob, who was at the bar, and mouthed martini. It was in her hand before they spoke again.
Maybe he created a character. “Dora Blake” inexpertly played by Dora Blake.
“Tell me, Mr. Broadwood, do you own this place outright or do you have a mortgage?”
Before he could stop himself he said irritably, “I own it, of course.” Dora sipped and nodded her head in agreement like a sage old woman.
“Mmm. Good. I mean the martini, and the point. I like your place. Victorian white elephants aren’t really the thing, but this is less hideous than most. I assume it was the family manse before you opened it up to the polloi. Like a stately home in
Dora was taking stock of the large room more carefully now, conducting an inventory of similarities and differences to her own house. “I have Wallace Nutting in my house, too. Not on the main floor, though.” She shook her head resignedly at the braided rugs.
Dora smiled with a hooded expression, another echo. “We’re not altogether different.”
“I’m sorry. Who—“
“Oh, you know who. Where is my boy really staying? Have you hidden him away here? In one of those turrets perhaps? Rapunzel, Rapunzel.” She was alert as he showed his surprise at that hit, mistimed though it was. She said, “I wish you’d call him again, wherever he is. I need to see him. It’s a matter of extreme importance—a family matter—one of some delicacy, actually. Poor Billy, he’ll be…” Dora’s gaze turned inward for a moment, wandering in halls of woe. She brightened and put on a face of good-natured raillery.
“You’d better phone him again and tell him to put on some long pants. I don’t want to see his knobby knees and toes sticking out of his sneakers. You’d think he didn’t own a stitch of good clothing.”
“How do you know the way he dresses here?”
“I’ve had reports.”
Her glance hardened. “So I’ve heard.”
“He began writing again when he was staying with us.”
“With you.”
He felt himself coloring. “As you like. But the fact was, he wrote prolifically and well. I helped him. I tried too hard, perhaps, to vet his pages before he gave them to the editor, but—“
“Then why did he leave? Simply to placate Donald Wassermann?” She seemed to find that doubtful.
“Well, I have a million things to do.” He got up.
Dora’s face registered a peculiar mixture of pleasure and displeasure.
“I’m not done with you yet,” she told him as she stood and raised her arms in welcome.
Don and Dora did a minuet of mutual appraisal. They exclaimed over how well the other looked, chortling at the devastations they did not mention.
And Douglas observed Dora hold back tart comments about the editor’s dissipation, his thin pale drawn face and the dark pouches under his eyes, and his hanging clothes, which were shockingly loud, unstructured and resort-y. She arched her eyebrow as if to say, “I must find out the story behind this transformation.”
He stood over them like a figure on
“You look so comfy, Donald. I wish I could unbend and dress like a Middle-Western tourist.” She indicated for him to sit where
Don laughed stagily. “Dear Dora, you couldn’t be anything but the great lady you are. The Dowager of New Angleport. Of all
Bridling at the dowager crack, she recovered enough to reach across the space and grab his hands. “It’s been too long, dear boy. What a pity it’s another scrape of Billy’s that brings us together.” She sighed and smiled an appeal for help.
Don didn’t hold her gaze. He looked away wistfully.
“Is he nearly done with the book? How is it going? When do you think it will be published? Donald, is it really good?”
Perhaps despite herself,
Don murmured, “It’s very good, Dora. I promise you we’ll publish as soon as we can. It will require a lot of editing yet,” he added sternly. “Bill’s gone off into new territory—you know what that means. More reflection, more revision, more time.”
Dora wasn’t pleased. She took away her hands and sat ramrod straight. “You’re saying you haven’t a clue, Donald. Are you actually paying any attention to him? What are you about these days?” She leaned back and frisked him with her eyes. “You are hardly yourself, it seems to me.”
“I might say the same of you,” Don retorted.
Her wattles shook a bit. “Would you like a drink, Donald? I’ll have that martini now, thank you.”
Don wore a sickly expression on his face as he looked up at
She was white-lipped with anger at him, but this comparison pleased her. “If that little worm of a Cheever can do it…”
Don added smugly, “I’m sure there’s a
“Really, Donald? Isn’t that wonderful! Is there much money in it for a writer like Billy? I mean, he’s not exactly one of those best-seller sausage machines, is he?” Dora was all intensity. “Would he have any type of artistic control, or would he be another literary DP out there? I can only grieve when I think of F. Scott. Not to mention that sad case of the Southerner—Faulkner, I think it was.” She turned a 200-watt smile on Don.
He left to order the editor’s drink and told Bob to serve it. He beckoned to Carol, who was in the hall saying goodbye to Mrs. O’Connor, who was weeping at the prospect of returning to
“Uh-oh. What is it?”
“Who’s got the Jewett room the next couple of nights? Those people from
“They canceled. Mrs. O’Connor had it for tonight. But her boyfriend wanted her home a day early. God knows why.”
“Can we move people around—reduce their rate or whatever?”
“It won’t be easy. I’ll manage something.” Carol looked shrewd. “Is someone coming back to us?”
“Oh,” she smiled, “there’s no doubt in my mind.” She looked up at him with affectionate pity. “By the way, Mr. Broadwood.”
“
“
“Should the drinks be on the house?”
“No!” He dropped his voice further. “Eavesdrop as much as you can.”
“Don’t worry. I remember the guy. When Brenda Ballard was here that night.” Carol looked sharply at them under her professional smile. “I’m glad they’re not staying with us. There’d be no pleasing them. Especially the Duchess.”
Dora was watching them out of the corner of her eye as Don was delivering an oration of self-defense. Her expression revealed her mounting displeasure.
He idled at the reception desk before leaving. He heard Dora exclaim, “Of course I’d like to meet her! You must think I’m a fatal prude right out of The House of Mirth. Dear Donald, if you are happy, then I am. Marriages don’t last for ever. Not now and not ever, if truth be told!” She grasped the grinning editor’s hands again and glanced at
He made a little bow to Dora, who returned it with, he suspected, a succinct commentary about the editor.
As he went across the drive to the station wagon,
Still, he wanted above all to protect Bill. From her, and from that preening little dictator Wassermann.
As Douglas turned the key in the ignition to drive the four minutes and many social leagues to Mrs. Shaw’s, he wondered if he was the only one who hadn’t hitched his wagon to Bill’s literary star. He wondered if he was the only one who cared about Bill the person.
He drove very cautiously down the road, past the wooded lots of grand houses on the way to the cheap part of town. His vision was obscured by tears, tears for the very purity of his unconditional love for his handsome novelist.
* * *
The sun was dipping behind the spruces when
“Good afternoon. Or is it evening?”
Mrs. Shaw sharply snapped to. “Hello, Mr. Broadwood! Why, what an honor this is! Would you like a nice cup of tea?” She jumped up and wrung her hands like a maid interrupted on her day off.
“No thanks, Mrs. Shaw. Do you mind if I speak with…?”
“Please,” she cried, animated by her ambiguous role. She grabbed her mug and hurried into the house. He noticed that she busied herself in and around the kitchen sink. Her head kept popping into view as he talked with Bill. He lowered his voice to almost a whisper.
“Bill, you can’t stay here. Your mother will—“
“Where, then? This fucking town is so minute.”
“I know. She’s persistent as the clap.”
Bill looked up and laughed too. “I like it here, damn it. I’ve completed the book—well, not quite—and I need a little more undisturbed writing time. A couple more days, and I’m done with
As they smiled at each other, Douglas felt the beginning of that soaring happiness again—that surging joy in his chest, rising from the buried vision of the wild beauty of their drive home from the beach, the wheeling gulls, the taste of salt on Bill’s lips, their first kiss on that hot afternoon in May.
May? Hardly two months ago? It seemed an emblem of a mythical period, a personal Golden Age. Over so soon. Well into the age of brass now, he gloomed.
He pulled himself together and managed to say, calmly, “Tell me about the new book over dinner. We’ll go over to…” He pondered a moment as the robins and gulls turned to butterflies in his stomach. “Let’s go to a rather posh place I know in Tappan. We—you can’t stay here.”
“Posh? Did you actually say ‘posh’? Let me dress up a bit.” Bill got up. He touched
“Bill,” he urged, “pack all your things now. I’ll put you up. For a few days, if you like. It won’t be safe to come back here later. She’ll have found out where you’ve been staying and she’ll camp out here till we get back.”
“Not if we stay out late enough.” Bill leaned closer to him and whispered. “Herself hits the hay by nine every night. She and the barber, rockin’ and rollin’ all night long.”
“I’ll wait out front,”
Dusk was falling fast.
Bill was rattling the door handle to be let in. “That was fast.” He reached over to unlock it and was even more surprised to see the way Bill was dressed. He’d put on a blazer and lightweight wool trousers, new-looking loafers, even socks. His white shirt was crisp, and he’d tied a beautifully dimpled knot in his navy and polka dot tie.
“You bastard.”
He felt his face get hot. “I was really thinking that I’d never—never seen you look so handsome. You are a real beauty, William.”
Bill said stiffly, “You did say we were going to a posh place.”
“It reflects well on you.”
“What does?”
“That you’re not deeply vain--you can’t take a compliment.”
“I’m not used to getting them.”
“Oh, that’s not true and you know it.”
“Not from a man, anyway.” Bill rustled uncomfortably in the seat, impatient to be gone.
They left Mrs. Shaw’s neighborhood in silence as the first lights went on in the little houses. From his rear view mirror
“Where—“ Bill cleared his throat. “Where are we going?”
“Tappan.”
“I’ve never been there. Is it posh?” He pronounced it in what he believed was an upper-class English accent.
“A bit.”
“Is Tappan a town or a restaurant?”
“You really have spent too much time in Selene,”
“Oh my. I should have worn my dinner jacket. And you, your diamond tiara.”
This put Bill on edge. “I suppose this is better than facing Dora.”
“You don’t sound convinced.”
“I’m not. Not matter how posh our destination.”
Some cozy conversation, a special dinner, a bottle of claret. They would come to terms. They would clear the air. He would find out once and for all if Bill was going to remain in Selene. With him.
“Turn off the road now.”
“So what.”
“And you got dressed up.”
“Fuck that.”
It was almost full night by now, and the crickets of late summer were giving their raucous performance. The cool air smelled of Queen Anne’s lace and mud flats. He parked at the head of the lane overlooking the water. Boats were stranded at drunken angles. In the late twilight a family was clamming, the kids running and shrieking with laughter as they flung mud at one another. Lights shone on the water farther out.
He heard Bill grunt. He turned to see him take of the tie and fling it into the back seat, then unbutton his shirt collar. Bill lowered the window all the way.
“Jesus Christ,” he muttered. “That’s more like it.”
Bill took his time answering. “Yes.”
“Mm.” He removed
Bill reached up, took hold of
“Hardly!”
“The first one that counts.”
“Not till now—not for me.”
“What’s changed?” He sat back, trying to read Bill’s expression in the darkness.
Bill shrugged. “Songs of innocence, followed by songs of experience.”
Don hugged him tenderly. He found himself weeping. He tried to be silent so that Bill wouldn’t be alarmed.
“Jesus.” Bill grabbed
“The King’s Arms.”
Bill disengaged himself and grumped, “Oh, so that was your game all along.” He mock-punched
He started the car, turned in the narrow lane and drove slowly up to Route 1. “Wasn’t it yours?”
“Yes, then. I certainly am.”
They went another mile up the coast. It was full night as
He led them into a dining room so dark they couldn’t see the extent of the place. Tiny pools of candle light illuminated each table, even though over half the tables were unoccupied. They carefully threaded their way through this dark maze and the maitre d’ slowly, with much squinting, pulled out their chairs. Bill wore a satirical expression as he peered at the heavy, masculine furnishings.
“Nice place, isn’t it?”
“Mm. Très posh. It’d be a lot posher if I had a drink.” The waiter must have developed batlike hearing in this dark habitat, and he had taken their order within ten seconds.
Bill sighed with contentment when his Scotch and water was set before him. “So what’s the situation chez Broadwood these days? Are we still in the grip of something?”
Bill raised his hand. “You owe me no explanations,” he said grandly. For that matter, I don’t owe you any, either. Certain things happen, and you can accept or—“
“I know, Bill.”
“In the turret?” he asked with mock dread. “Like Rapunzel?”
“At my old rate?”
“God, yes. I can see you are your mother’s son.”
“I’m not used to public displays.”
“What about your old tanning rock?”
Bill raised his glass and his brows. “Good serve.” He favored
Bill had a serious face on now, and he cut him off. “Maybe we won’t have the same, the same spark or whatever you call it. It might be over. Has that occurred to you?”
“I’m not sure. It just occurred to me, sitting across from you in this spooky joint. The King’s Arse. I don’t know.”
“What are you doing all night? Why not find out tonight? Let’s end all uncertainty. Let’s face the reality of it.”
Bill picked up his drink and took a longer sip than before. His hands trembled. “Right upstairs?”
“Do you know what you want?”
“No. Well, I do know I don’t want to be alone--like I was before you came along.”
“Not intending to stay.”
“But you seem to be doing just that.”
“Seem.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I don’t know, what else could it mean?”
“It might mean you don’t intend to stay at all, that you’re toying with me, with all of us here.”
“Why do you have to bring all of Selene into it? Don’t you just want to go fuck?”
He suppressed a sigh; really, sometimes Bill was too reductive. “You’ve become part of the town, whether you realize it or not. Despite everything you do to put people off, they seem to like you. They usually hate outsiders. They like you. Maybe you’re crusty enough for them. And then, I like you, and I’m part of this town.”
“You’re part of it as I could never be. But even though you’re such a big wheel around here—“
Bill waggled his forefinger at him. “They’ll turn on you when they figure you out.”
“Bill, they already know. They’ve probably always known. They know about you and me, too, and no one seems particularly fazed.”
“They do? They really know? But,” Bill reasoned, “how much does anyone really know about another person’s private life?”
“Like Mrs. Shaw’s?”
Bill fell silent, staring moodily at his drink. He picked up the menu and studied the heavy, Belle Epoque type selections as he regained his composure. “They must be expecting Grover Cleveland to eat here.” He made a face. “Do you really want this stuff? I’d rather have a ham sandwich and a beer.”
“We can order it from the room.” They closed their menus at the same time. “Let’s finish our drinks.”
“Shit on the drinks. We can order them from the room, too.”
It would be wonderful to show that man to Jack at his book party.
* * *
How many times did he come? How many vivid hot images swirled through his mind? How many breathless dives far beneath the sea? How many waves pounded him and threw him up gasping on the shore of horny isles of desire in the infinite ocean of lust? And how many times had he dived back in, aching for the warm brutality of the breakers that seized and rolled him round and round, head over heels? What had brought him to this world of strenuous pleasure and disbelieving happiness?
Lust and more. Oh it was lust united with love. Oh hadn’t he been right, wasn’t the evening’s first kiss the first kiss that counted among all the make-believe kisses they’d kissed before? And now the kisses gave him the air he needed to go underwater, to swim and dive and endure the pounding of the waves, the kisses were oxygen and food at once, the kisses were love’s truest expression and the source of the desire for life and more life.
Love, was it? It was a light and fluid thing, but it had a tangible weight. It fed him images of infinite vistas and Olympian sentiments, but it was tied to place and time—here and now—like nothing else. It was universal and all-embracing, but it was concentrated in the sleeping man next to him. It was courageous in the abstract and cowardly in the concrete. It showed him the way to transcend himself and told him he’d better learn to live with his limitations.
The things they’d done—each to each other, top and bottom, down and up—jumbled together in his morning head. Every orifice invaded, every part of the body touched, kissed, rubbed, smeared. Maybe they’d done all this before. Their earlier, their proto-historical phase was a blur. But ah this time there had been an abandon, a wildness and directness of desire and of feeling that was new. All coyness, gone. All shyness, dissolved. All the wiles of self-protection, obsolete. The world was new today. Or he was. Presumably they both were.
And even now he worried about how it would look--how others would react to him. What would his relation to the world be from now on?
Now that I’ve given myself over to—
He hadn’t the heart to articulate even the thought. There were lingering fears and regrets for this road chosen, or this fate submitted to—even today, the first day of a new order.
Well, he was armed with love, wasn’t he? His sword and shield. His rod and his staff. Yea, love would comfort him, though he walk through the valley of the shadow of social extinction.
He recalled what they said before they fell asleep.
“Why did we make things so damned painful?”
“Ssh. We were afraid.”
“Fear itself.”
And then they held each other and drifted off, worn and glowing, the inevitable aches of the morning already seeping into the muscles of their thighs.
Now the early light garishly outlined the dark, thick shades of a room that smelled of their fluids.
He checked the bedside clock: almost seven. “Wake up. Work to do in Selene.” He prodded him. He studied the peaceful face that was blinking at the ceiling.
“What? Oh God.” Shifting laxly.
“How do you feel?”
“Exhausted. Wonderful. You?”
“Same.” He considered what he was feeling now, and what the days and weeks ahead held in store. What had appeared unclear, unknowable, was becoming clear as their voices created a kind of force field. It was like science fiction, in a way: they were a new breed of man, and the old categories of thought and habit, of love and duty, were swept aside. He began to see a habitable future. A tolerable present. He disengaged himself and stretched. “Know something? I don’t give a shit any more.”
“About what?”
“What anybody says or thinks.”
“Does that mean you aren’t afraid?” The gentle skepticism wounded him.
He shrugged and answered truculently. “I’ll do as I like. And love as I like.”
“You must be the village idiot.” Bill leaned into
Somewhere between bafflement and anger, Bill couldn’t get his bearings. Something had changed in his few weeks away. As he leaned against the wall in the TV lounge, which was closed to guests for the duration of this summit meeting, he was struck by the main-chance thinking and the passionate intensity, which were transforming the dumpy Broadwood Tourist Home into a “force in the local hospitality industry,” to quote Arnold J. Weisbrod, long-term guest and self-appointed publicity consultant. It was sort of ludicrous, all this energy and passion expended on pumping up a fucking hostelry instead of on an epic poem or a symphony for kazoos or something of intrinsic merit. It amused and revolted him. It was a realm where he didn’t belong.
The writer from
Everyone was on a first-name basis, apparently as equal partners in the enterprise. He wondered when
Not like it’s my business or anything.
Yet—obscurely—he felt it somehow was his business, in every sense of the word.
“Arnie, I think we should—“
“No,
“Carol, honey, with all due respect—“
After hammering out whatever details needed hammering, they all laughed and raised their coffee cups to the success of their “snow job of blizzard proportions,” as Carol phrased it. More laughter. They were light-hearted and optimistic. He marveled at the difference in the talkative, confident
Less than five months ago, although it feels like five years. All the changes, all the churning and--
He closed off the thought like a draughty room at the top of the house. Whether he was more disenchanted by the changes in
Bill sighed and let the conversation flow on without heeding it. He watched
Seeing how “enterprising” and commonplace
Bill told himself he loved the finely developed aesthetic sensibility in Douglas; another voice whispered, very softly, that he resented not being able to despise and pity
“Now we need to plan for the closure in the winter,”
“Not till after New Year’s, I hope,” Arnie Weisbrod said. “You are going to do the special Chanukkah package, aren’t you?” He lowered his voice and asked Carol, urgently, “You did mention this, didn’t you?”
She smiled and patted his hand, “Yes, of course I did, Arnie.” Carol had started using
“Repeat business?”
“We’re going to use a mailing list from my synagogue,” Arnie told him. “You’ll get plenty of new business, too.”
“The brochures will be ready in about two weeks,” Carol said. “The only problem is that Chanukkah starts on December 18 this year and goes till Christmas. How shall we handle that?” She looked earnestly about. “Jewish guests aren’t gonna be too nuts about Christmas decorations. And the Christians won’t be happy if there aren’t any--and there will be Christian guests this holiday season. I’ve got a Christmas brochure in the works, too. Several guests are interested in the Christmas package: one lady whose husband’s a big shot at one of those Route 128 companies wants to bring her married daughter and her family up for Christmas.”
“Who’s this?”
“Mrs. Elton. Room Five.”
“Oh.”
“You can see there’s a lot at stake here,
“Anyway,” Carol continued, a little irritated by her boyfriend’s oversell, “let’s figure out how to handle this conflicting holidays thing. It could be a huge problem. That and teaching my aunt how to make potato pancakes.”
“Latkes.”
“Yes, Arnie. Latkes.” Carol and Arnie exchanged a sort of secret smile. Bill wondered if anyone besides him found the age difference between them as appalling as he did: the bald, wrinkled 50-year-old with the pot belly and the alimony payments; and the slender fresh-faced blonde of twenty-one who was younger than her future step-children. If marriage was in the cawds.
There was a collective furrowing of brows. After a moment Mr. Weisbrod said, “A mixed couple I know—“he glanced quickly at Carol—“hang the tree and Christmas stuff in the living room. They put the dreydels and the Jewish stuff in the dining room. Their relatives were a little put off when they first walked in the door. They got over it by dinnertime. Why don’t we do something like that? As long as we don’t Jesus it up too much.”
Carol leaned toward
“There will be on the mountain. We can transport the adventurous ones to the ski run.”
“Maybe we could put in holly trees.”
“They don’t grow this far north.”
“True.” Then Carol brightened. “Maybe we could buy some plastic ones.”
Weisbrod guffawed.
Oh shit. This is like the Peaceable fucking Kingdom.
They looked at Bill as he stirred. “Sorry to ignore you, Bill,”
“What’s this about closing for the winter?”
“Well. As you’ve pointed out on many occasions, Bill, the place needs a good deal of updating. We have the money to make improvements now—to invest. We have to—to keep the guests coming. There won’t be a film company next summer. No
“Thank God!” Carol exclaimed. Everyone laughed in agreement, except Bill, who remained the Great Stone Face.
“And we’ll put in new carpeting, a new heating plant and wiring. We’ll have to wait till next winter to do the furniture and curtains, but we will make the place much more comfortable for everyone in the meantime.”
Carol piped up, “By 1960 we should be able to charge as much as the Auberge.”
“That pretentious hole!” Arnie cried, adding loyally, “Broadwood’s has much more character.”
“They offer room service,” Bill told them.
“You get room service,”
“I meant for everyone. That means a new phone system and more staff. And so on.”
“How long do you expect to be closed? And what will happen to long-term guests? Like the Mortons?”
The tension in his voice dampened the jolly mood.
His insides felt churned up; why hasn’t
Or was it? Hadn’t Douglas mentioned, in passing, that he had to go to
Weisbrod stood up, checking his watch. “I have to leave for
“You don’t say.” Bill, sulking, headed for the door.
Weisbrod said, “
“Carol, is there room for the photographer? One of the turrets?”
Carol began to react in horror, but Weisbrod said, “Oh, don’t worry. They always share the same room.”
Weisbrod said, “Oh,
Carol recovered herself and asked, “What’s the photographer’s name? It isn’t Robert E. G. Smith? He makes places look incredible.”
Weisbrod cried joyfully at his prize pupil, “You do your homework! Yes, Bobby Smith does all of Fairley’s photography.” He gazed around with renewed admiration, as if to remind everyone, She’s as smart as she’s gorgeous!
Like Carol,
Bill hung at the doorway, grimacing at the archness of it all. “No, sleep in my bed.” Everyone froze. “I’ll sleep on the sofa. Or reclaim my room at Mrs. Shaw’s; I did pay for a month in advance.”
He left the room, slamming the door. He stood in the hallway a moment, waiting for
He went upstairs, passing the Mortons who were descending to a late breakfast. A frosty nod from those two refugees from a Henry James short story. Claire was no friendlier when she came to fetch his breakfast tray. “Jour.” And she left as quickly as possible.
Some homecoming. But what did I expect? Brass bands? Festoons?
He sat at the desk, which had been moved closer to the window for better natural light. It was a cool, misty morning. The smell of the sea was strong. Noises like the shutting of car doors or voices of the visitors were muted. The rising sounds of anger filled his head. He opened the notebook, reviewing the latest chapter. As his sense of anger and hurt mounted, phrases and scenes began to come to him, connections and reversals came to him as if emerging from the mist outside. In a fog of his own, it was clear there were only two things he could do right now: go see Dora or finish the novel. His concluding chapter. The denouement. The end of the road. The birth of the idiot baby.
Oh God, let’s get it over with. I’m sick of it all.
He locked his door, hanging a laminated new DO NOT DISTURB sign on the knob. He sat down again, picked up the pen and said, “Fuck ‘em all.” Even saying goodbye to your baby was better than saying hello to your mother.
He wondered why it felt like an act of contrition, of sacrifice, of suicide. Oh God, let’s get it over with indeed. He worked all day in a kind of terrified fit. Anger and anxiety fueled the final chapter, the last five, no six, no seven thousand words, and his vision of a
Yet what if his protagonist, ill and ashamed, guilty and on the run, ended the book with a poem—Bill grinned grimly at Don’s reaction to this one—that sounded, what, a note of hope? Reconciliation? Maybe it was another bullshit elegy, and here was the craven author indulging again in half-assed spiritual sops.
Words fall away under the holy static
Of the sun's light and the boats dance
Whitely in
Monarchs in the old Buick cry out
For joy at the splendor of Little Boar's Head.
Little Boar's Head reflected in
The cumuli where angels play 1948
For ever in a rear-view mirror
Wars foreign and domestic are forgiven
Past and future tremble together on high.
That coast lives in some
Future of mine consumed by fire
(Is it the Holy Spirit or worse?
My cowardice will not remain unpunished)
Accept this bargain I beg you Lord:
Sacrifice my children for a safe-passage
Round the coast to Little Boar's Head again.
In a state of artistic possession or a manic despair, he wrote the lines. They came to him in a white light of remembrance and regret.
Bill sat back and stared at the words. The final words of
God, it’s so holy this and holy that. Where’s that coming from?
He stewed over it for a while but let it stay. There was something in him that craved the holy, although maybe not as much as it craved, say, the intoxicating. Still, he perceived that whatever went unacknowledged would burst forth of its own volition, and now he understood that he should let this impulse have its say. Anyway, reviewers and serious readers loved last-minute uplift. Redemption sells.
After a time he rose and stretched. With a curious lightness of heart he undressed and took a shower, and in his heightened state, he experienced a literal and a figurative cleansing. He dried himself and caught sight of his beaming face in the mirror. A radiance seemed to emanate from him. He felt mercilessly happy.
A knock on the door, one of
Bill smiled serenely up at him. He ignored the deathly expression on his face. “Here are the final pages.” He indicated them over on the desk; they were in sunlight, moved gently by the breeze. He shrugged. “Tell her I’m busy. Writing. Working. Completing a major novel that will finally make her proud of her only spawn.”
“She’s downstairs. I’m afraid she has some unhappy news. It will—I think it will affect you. Us.”
“Dora’s aim in life is to deliver unhappy news.” Then furiously: “She’ll not fuck me up in my golden moment!”
“All right. All right, dearest.”
Bill sat at the desk, watchful until he saw Dora mince down the walk, overdressed as usual. Towering over her and reducing his steps to hers,
Bill remained at the desk. He looked at the last few chapters, making notes, trying to sustain the sense of perfect attainment that was disappearing in the afternoon sunlight like the mists of the morning.
* * *
He couldn’t remember another day that had started so well—so much promise—and was turning so wrong. First that damnable Dora Blake with her crises and demands, now the vile Mr. Fairley and his companion, the snappish photographer who was annoying the guests and complaining about everything in the place.
“
They left the lounge to the guests and retreated to
Now the guests were buzzing about the outrageous behavior of the famous travel writer and his photographer.
Carol came up to him and squeezed his hand. “I’m sure it will work out. Maybe he’s —that way.”
“We’re not gonna let one fussy old qu—“She caught herself and said, “It isn’t the end of the world, and Arnie will fix something else up.”
“I don’t know if we can take any more of his fix-ups.”
She nodded. “Some public relations genius he is. Well, I’ll make sure he doesn’t foul it up next time.” She went in search of her mentor, possibly to discuss an adjustment in that relationship.
Bill was still working. He didn’t look up when
“Everything’s wrong. All shit.” Bill shrugged him off with a muttered, “Christ!”
“I know.” He stood up and tried to look at the papers spread over the entire surface of the desk. He couldn’t focus. He went over to the bed and lay on the coverlet. “Bill, it went badly with the writer.”
“Which writer? They’re all trouble.”
“Oh, that queer from
“Did he?”
Bill turned around and said, “Why the hell are you crying? Haven’t I got enough on my mind?”
He sat up and wiped the tears from his face with the backs of his hands. “Bill, this is one of the worst days I can remember. Can’t you come over here and let me hold you?”
Bill sighed with exasperation. He got up and said, “I must get back to…” He sat next to
“
“Bill, don’t leave me. Don’t leave me again.”
“Who said I was going to?”
“Your mother.”
“Don’t believe anything that old bitch tells you. What the fuck’s up her sleeve, anyway? What lies did she tell you?”
He saw himself wearing the heavy old cardigan again, the moth-eaten thing Bill had always ridiculed. He saw himself alone all winter—no closing for improvements, there wouldn’t have to be any, no one was ever coming back to this benighted place—shivering in low-watt light and going to church for the tepid companionship an hour or two a week. Evelyn would come over—carrying bakery cakes and pies for which he’d be grateful—dropping them and escaping to some new boyfriend after half an hour. He saw it clearly and knew that it was the truth.
Bill was looking at him with concern, confused as his creative heat cooled. “I have no idea what you’re talking about. I’m not going anywhere, Douglas. I’ll stay put.”
“That’s not what your mother says. She seems adamant.”
“Well, bub, so am I. I’m not going anywhere.” Bill struggled for a moment and then said, “I need you!” He saw Bill’s shorts tent up. Bill moaned and shut his eyes.
Visions of the cold, lonely winter were burned away by the fire that rose in him. A purgation. It was like a farmer burning off the underbrush for a better harvest.
When he opened his eyes he saw Ted Fairley standing in the entryway with a drink in his hand. Though his sight was bleared with tears, it seemed Fairley’s smile was benevolent; he had lost some of his pissy manner.
They separated, but his arm was still around Bill’s shoulders.
“Mr. Broadhurst, I assume you have plans to upgrade this place. Why don’t we talk about them over dinner tomorrow? Just you and me. Not Arnie Weisbrod. He did you no favors by overselling you to me.” He polished off his drink. “You make an attractive couple, you know. Bobby will have to get a shot at you two. Of you.”
Fairley left. Bill looked at
* * *
Was it their last night together? He believed it might be. If so, he was disappointed. Bill was worn out from his work. After a few hugs and chaste kisses on the cheek, he turned over and left
He gave up after a while and lay staring at the ceiling, obsessing about the next day. Everything was at stake. Nothing would go right, he was certain of it. Fairley’s offer to talk was probably a way to cadge a free meal at some overpriced restaurant. Happiness and prosperity—they were for other people to grab onto and enjoy as their very own. Not for him. That was simply the way it was and would ever be.
He was awake, restless in the dusk before dawn. Bill yawned and propped himself on one elbow. “So? What’s…?”
“Sure.”
“Take off your clothes. Let me fuck you.”
“OK.” With sleepy movements Bill did as he was bid.
“One last time.”
“I’m not that clean down there.”
“That’s all right, darling.”
“Just so you know. Where’s the Vaseline?”
“Did you hear me?”
“What are you talking about? Shit. Let me go back to sleep. I recently finished a novel, in case you didn’t hear me.”
Bill rolled off and buried his head under a pillow. He was snoring in a minute.
Tears rose up again, this time from an even deeper well within.
This is goodbye, whether he knows it or not. Goodbye to him and goodbye to love.
In this elegiac mood, he took his erection in his hand and masturbated as he gazed with infinite regret and tenderness on his author—his author, unlike Jack, who haunted him always but was never and would never be his author.
When he came, he shut his eyes and what he saw wasn’t Jack or Bill. He knew it—no elegy was perfect, no longing was uncontaminated.
The one he saw was Dave. He moaned loud when he came in a spike of excitation with Dave’s powerful torso and submissive smile before him. Bill remained asleep, blessedly unaware of the shocks about to hit him.
posted by Terence Hughes at 4:22 AM
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