“Well, Richard, here I am, large as life and twice as real.” Struck by an idea, I turned to my nephew. “Let’s have a talk right now. There’s an upstairs den where we can be private.”
I turned and led the way. I had been up the stairs so many times this evening I felt like a twenty-buck hooker. Without hesitating I headed into the den, where I had almost filed a claim. Moreover, I had the added security of a fresh drink, which prudence dictated I sip slowly. I had not deliberately set out this evening to tie one on, but it seemed to be happening nonetheless. I am not an obvious drunk. I do not lurch about and slur my speech like a fourth-rate comic miming a drunk on stage; my voice does not go up in volume; I do not interrupt constantly and bray with mirth at my own bad jokes. Outwardly I remain much the same.
But alcohol allows me to take risks, to leave the middle-of- the-road Geoffry Chadwick stuck in the middle of the road and veer off across the shoulder, under the barrier, across the ditch, and into the wild country beyond. When I was younger, liquor led to sexual escapades. Now that I am older, my faux pas tend to be social. Sometimes I ignore the party line at parties and speak the truth, if not the ultimate truth then reality as filtered through my consciousness. This tendency has greatly reduced the number of invitations I now receive, no great loss I am the first to admit, as most of the time I am invited in my capacity as single man, not because of my winning ways. Perhaps one of the surest signs of middle age is to realize you are far less interested in tailoring yourself to other people’s expectations than in trying to live up to those you have set for yourself.
I sat in one of the wing chairs; Richard took the other, but only after he had Shed the jacket of the dark suit, worn stiffly for the occasion.
“I am not going to ask you about how things are going at Juilliard. I got the impression over lunch that work is progressing well. I am curious to know what you think of Douglas. After all, he is slated to become your brother-in-law, and as such a member of the family. As you no doubt know, I am to give Jennifer away, which involves me in the wedding, more deeply perhaps than I would have wished.”
Richard hesitated. “I like him fine, just fine. I only wonder if he is the right man for Jennifer.”
“What makes you say that?” I made the question sound as neutral as I possibly could. “He is socially acceptable, physically very presentable, and he can read and write and do sums.”
My nephew moved in his chair, less of a shrug than a squirm. “He’s a bit young, for one thing. He’s younger than I am, and I certainly don’t feel ready to settle down.”
In spite of the liquor I was treading softly. “Understandably, but your situation is not the same as his.”
“Less so than you might think, Geoffry.” (I had in the past asked Richard to drop the “Uncle” but to use my full name.)
“Nowadays gays are far more nesty than they used to be. There’s a lot more refinishing furniture and making bathroom curtains than going out to bars. I am reluctant to settle down because I don’t know where my life is going at the moment.”
“What you say makes sense, but Douglas strikes me as a fairly conservative young man. And I seriously doubt Jennifer will dye her hair magenta and ride around on a motorcycle. My principal reservation is that they are perhaps a bit inexperienced to embark on marriage, although for that unexciting institution perhaps inexperience can be an asset. Anyhow, he seems like a pleasant young man.”
“Geoffry – perhaps I shouldn’t even be telling you this, but I think they plan to break off the engagement.”
For just an instant I thought of feigning astonishment, but the scotch stepped in. “So you know. Good. Jennifer just told me, so you and I can stop shadowboxing. What I would like to know is why really they are breaking it off.”
“You mean to say you don’t already know?”
“If I already knew I wouldn’t be asking,” I fibbed. “When Jennifer spoke to me she was both brief and vague.”
“You don’t know that Douglas is gay?”
“Why should I? And is he? I’ve met the young man twice before this evening. He does not swing from vine to vine, but then again vines in this community grow up the sides of houses. Not to be macho does not necessarily mean gay.”
As I had sneakily anticipated, Richard could not resist the temptation to one-up his “sophisticated” uncle. “Perhaps things have changed a bit since you were my age, Geoffry. People send out different signals than they once did.” (I quelled the impulse to correct his usage.) “Take my word for it, Douglas is gay.”
“And how have you found out with such dispatch?” I inquired, springing the trap I had baited with my apparent naivete. “You were invited up for the engagement party to meet your sister’s fiance, not to bring him out of the closet. Now before you waste both our time with indignant denials, let me assure you my spies are everywhere. I know everything. I had Douglas pegged even before I met him. I wanted to find out how much you knew. And I have. My next question is why you have been fooling around with your sister’s fiancé?”
Anger brought colour to Richard’s normally pale skin. “I have not been fooling around, in spite of what that lard-arse Charles may have told you.”
“By ‘fooling around’ I do not mean you have been bumping your uglies. But you have been indiscreet, or candid, or direct, or honest, or whatever the trendy buzzword is for coming on to someone. In my time – remember, I span the plasticine, the epicene, and the obscene geological ages – we called it making a pass. But it amounts to the same thing: letting the other party know you are both knowing and willing. Now, let me ask you one more question. When did you learn the engagement was to be broken off?”
Again I could see Richard hesitate, obviously aware that to answer the question honestly would be incriminating.
“Richard,” I said, nailing him with a look, “we have been honest with one another so far, not only tonight but previously. Please do not tart up the truth to put yourself in a better light. When did Douglas tell you he planned to break off the engagement?”
“This afternoon, after we got in from lunch.”
“I see. He told Jennifer only minutes after I had toasted the engaged couple. I give him D minus for tact. It is, to say the least, a bit humiliating to be told at your engagement party that the engagement is off. And that is why we are having this little talk. It is one thing to learn your fiance does not want to go through with the wedding. It is another to discover the other woman is her own brother. Under the circs, were I Jennifer, and were I to learn what I know now, I would come after you with a meat cleaver and go happily to prison. Douglas is as he is, just like you and me. The leopard and his spots, et cetera, et cetera. I would not expect rational and civilized behaviour from the leopard. But I expect – more than expect, I demand it of you.”
I raised my hand. “Don’t interrupt. I’m on a roll. Jennifer’s ego has just been dealt a major blow. She can cope with it, I have no doubt. But she must never learn that you were the real reason behind the rupture.”
“But don’t you see? I’m not.”
“Okay, let me rephrase that. You were not the cause but the catalyst. Is that better? You did not lead Douglas down the garden path; you just stood there under the lilac bush with your butterfly net until he went past. If you and Douglas have fallen for one another, or been turned on, or whatever happens to young people today, it has happened. I offer neither blame nor praise. Le coeur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît pas. Now listen carefully to what I am going to say. If you and Douglas are going to become lovers, you will wait until the broken engagement has shaken down. A great many other people will be affected: Lois Fullerton, your mother, your grandmother, who has reached the age when members of the family outnumber her friends. At least Mildred won’t be able to gripe too much. She will still have Douglas for a son-in-law, of sorts.”
My remark managed to raise a weak smile.
“I suppose what I am trying to say in a roundabout manner is that if you and D
ouglas have the hots for one another, that is your business. But you will have to postpone the magic moment. A stiff prick has no conscience. Do not allow crotch fog to obscure your judgement and drive you to spend five minutes doing something you may regret for a long time to come.”
I paused for a swallow of my drink.
“And now, Richard, lest you think I am being totally biblical and boring, let me say, in strict confidence naturally, that I am pleased this wedding is being postponed. Douglas’s orientation aside, Jennifer is too young in too many ways for marriage. One day I hope she will find Mr. Almost-All-Right. By then she will understand the compromises involved. As for you yourself, if you are thinking of an ongoing relationship, I could think of many young men less desirable than Douglas. You have much in common, things that will still matter after sex has cooled down: background, intelligence, an awareness of pursuits outside of sex, politics, sports, and money. Be on guard. Don’t forget how expediently he dumped Jennifer. Don’t be astonished if he unloads you one day. Perhaps he won’t. In any case, I happen to think he is getting the better deal, but I confess to prejudice.”
Richard smiled, this time with more conviction.
“I think we understand one another,” I said, wrapping things up. “I know this is strange advice for a cold and stormy night, but cool it.”
“Okay, Geoffry, if you say so.”
“I say so. Will I see you again before you return to New York?”
“Probably not. I’m taking the noon bus.”
“Possibly just as well. Absence may make the heart grow fonder; it also removes temptation from the immediate path. I have to get down to New York sometime in April. I’ll call you and we’ll have dinner, maybe see a show.”
I stood and offered my hand. It was not a handshake of goodbye, but of two men sealing an agreement. The most masculine of gestures to seal a most unmacho bargain, but who’s counting?
“And now perhaps I’ll go downstairs and have something to eat.” I still wasn’t particularly hungry, but the common sense I had been dispensing so liberally dictated I sober up, at least partially. The evening was still not over.
Poor old Charles, how he would smart to be called a lard-arse. A Crisco arse? Not much of an improvement. Those full, round bottoms are a tailor’s terror when it comes to making trousers hang properly, but they are very comforting in bed.
15.
AS I ENTERED THE DINING ROOM I was reminded once again how much I dislike buffet feeding. I dislike it in inverse proportion to the way I like hot hors d’oeuvres, those delicious bite-sized portions brought to where you are standing and eaten in one mouthful, without fuss or fanfare. Another reason I try to avoid buffet tables, aside from the cafeteria overtones, is that by the time I get myself organized to eat, the food has been pretty thoroughly picked over. I end up with the ends: the heel of the ham, sticky with glaze and bristling with cloves; the bottom of the sliced tomato, one half covered in skin and impossible to cut with a fork. Like the poor children in cautionary tales, I have to make do with a crust of bread. The green salads have wilted from boredom, and what remains of the kidney bean salad lies submerged in its own dressing. Only the staunch potato salad never runs out, mealy, dense, viscous with mayonnaise from a jar.
It was therefore with a mixture of pleasure and admiration that I found the table as fresh and inviting as when the hostess had first announced guests could eat. Even though Lois Fullerton stood second on my shit list (number one being my mystery caller), I had to admit that she knew how to pull off a buffet. The secret lies in hard work, an unlimited budget, and all the kitchen help one can get.
I picked absently at a little roast beef, some shrimp, a few slices of avocado. I decided against undertaking one of the half lobsters. They have got to be God’s homeliest creation, edging out even the iguana and the alligator as creatures you would never want for a pet.
Something about holding a plate of food compels me to sit down. The dining-room chairs had been pulled away from the table and placed against the walls. I sat, resting the plate on knees pressed together like those of a convent-school girl on her first date. By sitting I also managed to avoid being drawn into a small group that had formed itself around a French couple, late arrivals. They were from Paris, and never let you forget the fact for a second. In Westmount they are what passes for cultivated people, largely self-proclaimed, although their soi-disant sophistication seems to rest on a taste for Cartesian tragedy, Impressionist painting, Spanish wines, Corsica in the summer, and lesbian movies.
My chair afforded a view of the hall, and I could see Lois coming down the stairs. Gone was her habitual air of assurance; she did not command the staircase. Her descent was less regal than precipitous, and for a moment I feared she might trip over her hem. Spotting me through the archway, she marched up and spoke without preamble.
“Geoffry, I must speak to you at once, upstairs. Bring your plate with you. Take some more if you like. What are you drinking? I’ll get it for you.”
“Scotch,” I mumbled around a mouthful of beef, ever mindful of the childhood injunction never to talk with my mouth full. (“Full of what?” I had once asked, to be met with stony, disapproving silence.)
Lois turned on her heel and strode to the bar. In seconds she had returned to stand over my chair. “If you’d be good enough to follow me. What we have to discuss is private.”
She headed towards the stairs. For a handful of rebellious seconds I thought of staying put and finishing my food in peace and the hell with her. But if and when I had a confrontation with Lois Fullerton it would be over an issue more compelling than half a plate of cold cuts. I stood, forked a couple of slices of beef onto my plate, spooned up some more shrimp, reached for a salad roll, and followed her up the stairs..
She was already past the landing. So conditioned was I by now that I walked right past the bedroom towards the den.
“Geoffry? In here!” she called, and for the second time I entered the white bedroom.
She had already placed a white occasional table adjacent to one of the white brocade armchairs and set my drink on a white ashtray so as not to leave a ring. By the time I sat, put down my plate, pulled up my trouser legs, and spread the double damask dinner napkin in my lap, Lois had shut the bedroom door and crossed to perch rather than sit on the edge of the matching armchair.
I took a long swallow of the extra-strong whisky Lois had carried upstairs. It tasted like carefully aged nitroglycerine. At the same time I was trying to decide whether I felt like someone on a promotional tour, with interviews back to back, or like a spectator at the college production of a Greek tragedy, where messengers come on stage and tell about the juicy disasters that have just taken place offstage right.
“Geoffry,” began Lois urgently, “we have a problem.” By strategic use of a simple pronoun she had already involved me in whatever it was.
“As long as we are implicated, perhaps you had better tell me what it is.”
Her hands gripped one another as they rested on knees clamped together. No longer the siren on the rock, she seemed more like Hecuba dealing with the cleaning staff on the morning after the fall of Troy.
“I’ve just had a talk with Douglas. He was in tears.”
“Big boys don’t cry.”
She ignored the comment. “He told me that Jennifer has just broken off the engagement.”
“He’s a goddamned liar!” As I spoke I moved my dinner plate from lap to table and dropped the napkin onto the carpet, clearing the decks for action.
“He is my son.” Lois tried to appear glacial, but agitation made her sound merely short of breath.
“I know. And that is the problem you said we had a moment ago. Only it’s your problem, not mine. I repeat: he’s a goddamned liar and a manipulative little sonofabitch to boot, no disrespect intended.”
The blast of adrenaline that first flush of anger had sent galloping through my veins made me realize I was well and truly drunk. Although I was still
in control of the physical plant, my social censors had just been bound, gagged, and locked in a closet.
“How dare you speak of my son that way! You scarcely even know him.”
“True, but I know a couple of things about him you don’t – or else refuse to acknowledge. To begin with, if he uses the facts of any given situation to serve his own ends, I think I know where he learned how. That was really cute, the way you blackmailed me into making a speech before a roomful of people, without even a hint of warning.”
“You are standing in as father of the bride. I took for granted you knew you would be expected to make the toast.”
“You take a great deal for granted. But that’s water over the God Damn. What I am more interested in at the moment is why Douglas terminated the engagement, unilaterally I happen to know, and why it is better for everyone that he did – most of all for Jennifer.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you are talking about.”
“Don’t you, now. Well, dearie, let me spell it out. Douglas told Jennifer the engagement is off. I repeat: Douglas broke off the engagement because he is gay, or what people of our age used to call queer, light on his feet, a pansy. He wants to bed boys, not girls! And – much as I realize you love stage cliches – please do not tell me I have taken leave of my senses.”
Lois did her imitation of Queen Victoria in middle age. “And how, may I ask, do you presume to say you know?”
“How the hell do you think I know? Why do you suppose your carefully staged seduction scenarios ended in a draw? Or – again as people of our generation used to say – it takes one to know one.”
Under her foundation Lois’s face flushed. “You have the nerve to sit there and accuse my son of being homosexual and claim to know because you are one too?”
“You’ve got it. Lois, I don’t know how much you have kept abreast of the women’s movement, but it’s time you raised your consciousness above the waist. Still, I am convinced you know, or suspect, far more than you are prepared to admit, even to yourself. Otherwise, why are you trying so hard to hustle Douglas into this marriage? Believe me, it won’t change a thing. It will only make two young people unhappy. For Douglas I don’t much care. That little shit could use a good dose of misery; it might turn him into a human being. But I care very much about Jennifer. And I will not allow her to be sacrificed on the altar of your absurd, lower-middle-class notion of respectability.”
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