by Julia Glass
Walter fell asleep after he came—perhaps for just a fraction of a second; he knew this only by the instant of waking, of feeling his slippery skin against Gordie’s. Walter lay on his back, with Gordie’s face against his neck, a wide smooth palm across Walter’s left nipple, as if to shield his heart.
I will not be the first to speak, thought Walter. If I open my big Teutonic mouth, I will say something completely doltish.
They lay there, breathing audibly, listening to the rain and the retreating thunder, for several peaceful minutes.
“I’m sorry,” Gordie said at last, clearing his throat because he was hoarse, “but I’m afraid I have to know what time it is. I wish I didn’t.” He climbed carefully across Walter’s body. “Yikes,” he said. “We have to get dressed.”
As Walter collected his clothes, he remembered The Bruce. Looking every well-fed inch the martyr, T.B. lay against the office door.
“I don’t know—God, I don’t—listen…” Hastily, Gordie tucked in his shirt, smoothed its front, ran his fingers through his hair, touched a folder on his desk. Finally, thank heaven, he smiled at Walter, who sat on the sofa, stunned, dressed except for his feet. The smile was warm, not guilty or evasive. “Can you come tomorrow afternoon? I mean, at least to finish up the terms of your bequest to Scott.”
Walter said, “I like the ‘at least.’”
“God,” Gordie said, “I don’t know. I just—”
“Oh sure you do,” said Walter. “No ‘just’ about it.” He stood and leaned across Gordie’s desk. He grasped Gordie’s arms and pulled him toward an embrace. The desk was wider than he’d thought, so their faces barely touched, but Walter could feel it: that Gordie still ached to kiss him, that it wasn’t already a thing in the past, an impulse spent.
Gordie pulled away. He said with delight, “Whatever you do, don’t come around this desk. You have to go now. I’ve got someone coming in five minutes. I have to…”
“Calm down?” said Walter, and they laughed. At the door, The Bruce looked tremendously annoyed, as if their joking were infantile.
“No Jiminy Cricket from you,” Walter said in a low voice after Gordie had closed the door behind them. “I will not own a dog who thinks he’s my conscience, got that?” He paused to scratch The Bruce on his neck and behind his ears. T.B. pushed back against his fingers. So kinetic with joy that he could not bear to wait for the elevator, Walter clipped on T.B.’s leash and made for the stairs. They trotted down all seven flights.
In the square—it was market day again—he led The Bruce down the lane between the vendors’ tents. For the dog, he decided on a beef empanada from the pastry man (T.B. consumed it in two noisy gulps); for himself, roses.
“Those,” he said. “I’ll take those.”
“How many?” said the girl.
“The whole caboodle. I’m feeling rich today.”
Wielding twine and scissors, the girl hoisted the roses from the bucket and bundled them together. Before she hooded the blossoms with tissue paper, Walter leaned in quickly and touched his face to the petals. Plush and blousy, the roses smelled like a church prepared for a fancy wedding—potent, ecstatic, sacred—but they were a radiant orange, the color of torches, not of veils and modest lace gloves. Quite a different kind of vow.
The affair—that’s what it had been, after all, though thinking in such terms made Walter wince—lasted two and a half months. It took the claustrophobic shape of passionate meetings in Gordie’s office (without that prudish chaperone of a dog) and furtive weekday lunches in Chinatown, Hoboken, Yorkville, Long Island City—places where Gordie was convinced nobody would know them. Walter didn’t care; he liked to think he’d be happy if they were “discovered.” For most of that time, neither of them mentioned Stephen, and Walter began to let himself hope that Stephen had decamped (perhaps Walter was the grand consoler!) or been dismissed (Walter was the love of Gordie’s life!).
Such wishful oblivion lasteth not forever; Walter knew that. He had been determined, however, that the breaker of the pact would be Gordie—and it was, though Walter was the one who blew his cool. It was the week before Thanksgiving week (the biggest week in the year for guilt trips). They were holding hands under the table at a romantic but oddly macho restaurant on the New Jersey side of the Hudson; out the window, from afar, they could see the rump of the Intrepid. The food was Low Italian, so dependent on bread and pasta and cheese that it made Walter’s Place look like a Weight Watchers clinic. The clientele were mainly men, most of them wearing polyester shirts, wide shiny ties, and navy blue suits with garish buttons.
Gordie poked his lasagna as if it might contain a booby trap. Walter was contemplating his veal chop with ardor, though he did not want to remove his hand from Gordie’s, which he’d have to do to cut the thing. He was wishing that he, too, had ordered pasta just as Gordie said, “Stephen wants to do pheasant this year—pretentious, if you ask me, but he’s bored stiff with turkey. I know you mentioned Hugo does pheasant; do you think he’d share his recipe?”
So there it was: cuckold out of the bag.
“I’m sure he would.” Walter was careful not to sound petulant.
Gordie didn’t thank him or say, How great! Or, What a relief! He continued to perform a postmortem on his lunch. “Well, that was sensitive,” he muttered.
“What?” said Walter, almost breezy.
“I don’t know why I did that.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“Mentioned Stephen. Mentioned Thanksgiving. For all I know, you have no family, no…”
“Friends?” Walter laughed. “Flatter me some more, darling.”
“No, no,” said Gordie. “No plans. You know, Thanksgiving’s the big do for Stephen—he loves having friends with kids, letting them decorate the table with dried leaves and felt Pilgrims’ hats, make place tags, all that. It’s really very down-home, and I like that, I always have. But this year I’ll be thinking about…about you, too. I guess I just assumed that because you have the restaurant—”
“Well, exactly so!” Walter interrupted. “After the crowd of lonely-hearts and can’t-open-a-can-of-cranberry types go home, we’re having our own family fling: Ben and his lover and Hugo and June and her husband and brother, maybe a few orphans yet to be determined—we’re doing a late-night thing with paella and six kinds of wine and chocolate bread pudding. Don’t you feel sorry for me.”
Gordie smiled at him, the rapturous, admiring smile to which Walter had become addicted. “I don’t. Forgive me for even implying I did.”
“Nothing to forgive.” Walter beamed. And perhaps there wasn’t.
But Gordie had little to say as he drove them back to the city, and Walter decided that something had to give; they had to break the constraints of their ossifying routine. Gordie had to see more of Walter, had to have a taste of what it might be like not to watch the clock or the faces passing them on the street.
So Walter did the foolish thing, the fatal thing: He reserved a room at an inn on Cape May, for the weekend before Christmas. Once Stephen’s name had been spoken, it came out again, every so often—and one day Gordie happened to mention that lucky Stephen was off to Santa Fe for nearly a week, to hobnob at a benefit for the opera company, one of the artsy clients for which he apparently harvested money. Walter took the revelation as a hint.
How happily he had sealed the inn’s brochure, with its pictures of tourmaline ocean and canopied beds, in a plain white envelope and placed it inside a necktie box from Barneys. He wrapped the box, tied it with a big red bow, and presented it to Gordie while they were sitting naked on the great fluffy couch in their aerie (office? this was an office?) above Union Square.
“Early Christmas!” Walter exclaimed.
“But I didn’t—”
“Of course you didn’t. I’m being impatient, that’s how I can be,” said Walter. “As you well know.”
Gordie stared at the gift. He hesitated, but he was smiling like a child seated at the
foot of the family tree. “I thought you hated the knee-jerk fashion thing,” he said as he took the box from Walter.
The ribbon slipped across Gordie’s thigh, down the velvet slope of the sofa cushion, and pooled on the floor. “Fooled again,” said Gordie when he saw the envelope. He opened it slowly, not as eagerly as Walter would have liked.
Gordie unfolded the brochure and examined it, front and back. “I’ve heard of this place. I’ve always wanted…I’ve heard it’s incredible.” He looked up at Walter, and there were his easy tears again, but what did they mean?
Walter decided they meant that he was deeply moved. “Two weekends from now. I have a car lined up, first thing Saturday morning. I’ll get Hugo to pack us breakfast for the road. Order whatever your heart desires.”
Gordie folded the brochure back into the envelope. The gift box had fallen to the floor, its two halves face down across the spill of red satin ribbon.
“Oh Walter, I can’t do that. I’d love to, but I can’t.”
“Don’t tell me you have work—and I know you haven’t got pets!”
Gordie leaned away from the couch to retrieve his pants. He pulled them on. “I’ve been a complete ass—to Stephen, but mostly to you—and I kept telling myself that by Thanksgiving…and then by Christmas…I’d…”
“You’d dump me.” Walter said this so that Gordie would object. He wanted to be told he was wrong, so wrong; after all, he was not the intuitive type!
“Walter, I’m…” The tears were now mobile, making their way down Gordie’s cheeks.
“You’re crazy about me,” whispered Walter. He couldn’t touch Gordie, because Gordie was standing some distance across the room now. He was looking down at his shirt, which he held uncertainly in both hands, as if he’d forgotten what it was for.
“I am,” sighed Gordie. “But that’s not—that can’t be something I turn my life upside down for.”
“It can be that for me!” Walter stood; he was the taller man here, and he would not be looked down upon. Defiantly, he did not reach for his clothes.
“But your life…” Gordie shook out his shirt, almost angrily, and started to put it on. “I thought you always knew this had nothing to do with Stephen.”
“How could it have nothing to do with him? Everywhere we go—all these hinterplaces where garment workers and Mafiosi hang out!—all that hiding was precisely about Stephen, wasn’t it?”
“Yes!” said Gordie with unexpected fury. “Okay, you’re right! Okay, I have a vice a little messier than delicious cookies!” He gestured toward the shelf holding tea bags, mugs, and plates. “I’m sorry.”
“So, is it over?” said Walter. Surely this would elicit a denial.
Gordie came toward him, stopping just short of where they might touch. “It has to be, Walter. It just has to be. I’m such a spineless ass.”
“Gordie, dear, the only bit of spine in an ass is the tailbone, that useless vestige of when we used to swing from the trees. Yes, that would describe you exactly, right at this moment.” This insult made no sense, but never mind. Breathing through his mouth to keep from crying, Walter finally reached for his clothes. There seemed to be so many pieces to button and zip; oh for a jumpsuit and shoes that would package him up, neat and ready to go, with just a few tidy straps of Velcro. He was glad The Bruce was safely, ignorantly at home, no witness to this dreadful scene.
TWO MONTHS WENT BY BEFORE WALTER ran into Gordie on the street, just after Valentine’s Day. Walter was hurrying because of the cold, looking down so as not to stumble on the buckled antique flagstones that paved his way to work (treacheries of the past, just waiting to trip you up). He was passing the bookstore when he heard the bell on the door as it opened and then a soft “Walter.” He saw the feet before he saw the man. When he exhaled sharply in sweet, pained surprise, his breath exploded in a cloud.
“It’s good to see you, Walter,” said Gordie with a tenderness that sounded almost desperate.
“The fiscal undertaker himself. Hello there.”
The Bruce sniffed at Gordie’s expensive leather boots.
Gordie looked miserable. He leaned down to stroke the dog.
“Sorry,” said Walter. “How are you?”
“Okay. Okay.” Though it sounded like he was anything but.
“You’re fabulous. Be honest, don’t insult me.”
“Say no if you want, but can I stop by for a drink at the bar sometime? I hate the way we left things.”
“Oh you do?” Walter laughed harshly: another white explosion in front of his face. “Well, how about now?” It was five o’clock, on the cusp of dark. Gordie would make an excuse, and that would be that.
“Now’s fine,” said Gordie. “That would be great.”
The path through the snow on the sidewalk was narrow, so Gordie walked behind Walter and The Bruce. They did not speak until Gordie had checked his coat, Walter had gone to the kitchen to speak with Hugo, and they were seated at a table in the back of the dining room.
Gordie ordered a Scotch; Walter ordered soda with lime, though his heart was clamoring for something far stronger. More than anything (well, except to look at Gordie, to have that face to himself), he wanted to keep Gordie on edge.
“How’s business?” Gordie asked.
“Thriving. Hugo did a dinner last month at the James Beard House. Pennsylvania Dutch. He got a standing ovation.”
“Which he deserves,” said Gordie. “I’m so glad.”
“I’m glad you’re glad.”
“Walter—”
“Yes, Gordie?”
“Walter, it would be cruel to say I miss you, because that would imply…and the problem is, you know, Stephen and I have this very complicated life. It’s like a web.”
“So then, I guess I didn’t hear you say it?”
“What?”
“That you miss me.”
“Oh Walter…”
Walter leaned suddenly across the table and touched Gordie’s hand. It was so wonderfully warm. Physically, Gordie was always warm, out to the tips of his fingers and toes. Just a touch made Walter ache. He said gently, “This really isn’t the place, you know. And please don’t ‘Oh Walter’ me. We could’ve been together, and I could even, I bet, have fixed up Stephen with someone perfect for him…but that was then, as they say.”
“I know. Maybe we—”
“Stop. I don’t want to hear your maybes. Turn them into certainlys and then you can talk till the moon turns green.” Walter wanted to hear every last one of those maybes, but oh how they would dither with his head. Now he laughed lightly, calling up his very best thespian skills. “But you know, I’m really fine about everything now. Once I thought about it, I realized that the last thing I’d want to have on my head is breaking up a monument like you guys.”
Gordie took a deep breath: the relief of reaching the surface, not having drowned. “The irony is, Stephen and I are going through some pretty heavy stuff, and we may have to take a break. I just wanted to be the one to tell you, in case that’s what happens.”
“You’re breaking up?” Careful, you vool.
“No. But there’s this issue, something I never thought would come up between us in a million years—I’m sorry, I promised Stephen I wouldn’t talk about it to other people.” He finished his Scotch. “This is ridiculous, isn’t it? I just saw you and wanted…your company, I guess. This is selfish.”
Walter sat back and looked at Gordie as he imagined a loving parent might. “You don’t have to tell me anything. I like your company, too—as you know.” For emphasis, he laughed the artificially carefree laugh again. And then, as he watched Gordie looking awkward, bereft, clearly wanting to confide, he had a diabolical idea. “You know, it’s none of my business, and please feel free to bite my head off, but I have a good friend whose husband is supposed to be a fantastic…counselor. You know, for couples. He’s right in the neighborhood.”
Gordie groaned. “That’s exactly what Stephen wants. For us to ‘see
someone.’ Work things out like that. I grew up in Montana, though. That’s not how you solve problems in Montana.”
“No,” said Walter, “but I don’t see you driving a truck with a gun rack. And”—Walter looked pointedly at Gordie’s lovely corduroy shirt—“I’m not sure how many guys in Butte wear purple.”
Gordie’s smile was a scold to Walter’s memory. “Bozeman. And I bet you could find at least three guys there who wear purple. Purple socks, at least.”
“Under their cowboy boots and spurs.”
“Yes.” Gordie smiled at Walter, as if remembering something he’d forgotten. Forgotten and missed.
“I’ll get you this guy’s number. I’ll leave it on your machine at the office.”
Gordie’s expression lightened, and he regarded Walter for a moment as if Walter had fixed things already, made things right in his life.
Walter took in the world beyond their table: three couples had been seated, older people who liked eating out when they could have a conversation without turning up their hearing aids. He stood. “Time to schmingle.”
Gordie stood as well. He placed a twenty-dollar bill under his empty glass.
“Oh please.” Walter picked it up and thrust it back at him.
Gordie took it. “Thank you. I’m glad we…”
“Buried the hatchet? Didn’t kiss but made up nonetheless?”
Deliberately solemn, Gordie held Walter’s gaze. “You don’t have to be so witty all the time,” he said. “I was just going to say I’m glad we saw each other, I’m glad we’re in a better place, that we can talk without…”
Scenes. Walter smiled. “I agree. Now follow my advice, go be with him and try to make it work. Sitting on fences does not become you. Even if you did grow up on the range.”
WHEN WALTER WAS THE FIRST ONE IN, he’d switch on the lights to find the place just as he’d left it the night before—three rows of tables like children waiting to be dressed, chairs above, floor below, long bar beckoning from deep in the shadows—and The Bruce would shove past him to bolt for the kitchen, where he knew his master would find him a treat. Following his dog, Walter would think, I’m here for life: always a moment of deep pleasure, always interrupted by barking. “Patience!” Walter would shout at The Bruce, though fondly.