“You call him a fag. I never did. And I never said you were in love with him or Henry. I didn’t mean—” But had she just said what he thought she said? “You do love me? In some way?”
She lowered her face behind her knees. “I don’t know what I feel. I wanted to love you. Maybe. But I sure the hell can’t now. Not after hearing what you think of me.”
He was tempted to backtrack, tell her he was sorry, plead with her. But no, he refused to be tricked into taking the blame.
“Bullshit. You’re not ready to love me. You’re not ready to love anyone. Or let yourself be loved. Because you’re too in love with success—Caleb’s success, Henry Lewse’s success—to make your own life. And you know why you need success? Because you don’t like yourself enough. Well, I like you. I love you. And if you had any brains at all, you’d understand that that was success enough.”
She looked stunned, confused.
Frank was amazed at how articulate anger had made him.
Jessie looked down at the mattress, eyebrows and mouth pinched tight. Finally, she found what she wanted: her sweatshirt. She pulled it over her head and yanked it over her nudity. “Okay,” she said. “You win. I’m a self-hating piece of shit. Now get the hell out of my bed before I push you off.”
“Jessie, I didn’t—”
“Fuck off. You made your point. Just get the fuck out.”
He scuttled over to the ladder but stopped at the edge.
“I go to bed with a guy I like,” she muttered at the mattress, “and he dumps his righteous shit on me. He stuck his tongue up my twat, so he thinks he has a right to lecture me on what a mess I’ve made of my life.” She looked at him. “You’re the mess, Frank. You can’t succeed at what you love, which is theater. So you walk away from it. And you expect me to walk with you. No way. I won’t be your fucking consolation prize because you failed as an actor.”
“What the fuck does that mean?” cried Frank. “This has nothing to do with that! I love you for you.”
“Yeah? So why aren’t you in love with someone who doesn’t know shit about theater? Who has no ties, no knowledge, nothing?”
His mind was blank with anger, white with rage. He did not know how to answer. He started down the ladder before he threw something at her. “Fuck you,” he said and tripped on the last rung.
He did not fall far but slammed against the wall. He stumbled out to the living room. He began to pick up his clothes off the floor and pull them on. Venus in Furs leered from the wall.
“I know three Obie winners!” Jessie called out. “I work for someone who’s sure to win a Tony! But what have I done? Not a damn thing. It must make you feel real good. To love somebody who’s an even bigger loser than you are.”
“I am not a loser and neither are you. You are so full of shit.”
“If I’m full of shit, why’re you in love with me?”
“Because I didn’t know there was so much shit that I’d never be able to save you from it.”
“My hero,” she sneered. “My savior.” Their words sounded even more vicious when they couldn’t see each other’s face.
His sneakers were cold and wet. Frank pulled them on without the socks. He wanted to throw his sopping socks at Jessie or stuff them into her broccoli, but he left them on the floor.
“All right. I’m leaving,” he announced.
“Good. I have nothing more to say.”
“Neither do I.”
He stood under the loft bed. All he could see was a bare foot at the edge of the futon, big toe angrily snapping against the index toe.
“I’m just glad,” she said, “that I learned tonight what you really think of me. Before I cared enough about you for it to hurt.”
“Fuck you,” he told her foot and slammed the door behind him.
It was still raining outside, only a light drizzle, but Varick Street could not have looked more desolate. Everything was closed for the night, so it was all black or gray, with occasional sparks in the puddles where rain struck. Frank kept opening and closing the five-dollar umbrella he’d bought on his way downtown, but the spokes were broken and the thing made no sense anymore. He tossed it in the trash, then clutched his coat around his throat and walked more quickly, heading north to Christopher Street to catch the PATH train.
It was not even nine, but he’d already made a full night of it. Bad sex and a vicious argument. Which was better than most people do over a weekend.
Fuck her, he thought. He didn’t need her. What did he see in her anyway? She was a basket case. So what if she were funny and smart and pretty? He loved her—had loved her—despite her theater thing, not because of it, and not because he hoped to break her of it. That was bullshit. Wasn’t it?
It was definitely bullshit when she called him a fag hater. He had nothing against gay men. He liked them, he envied them, especially now. They could get laid whenever they wanted, with no complications or heartache. But Frank hadn’t even gotten his rocks off tonight.
32
Henry Lewse stood on the bright stage of the Booth Theatre, wearing a yachting cap and wagging dinky pretzel eyeglasses at the female lead as he talked a song at her:
It’s awful to be rich.
You may not own a stitch.
But sing about your poverty
And folks will give you sympathy,
While I can never bitch.
How awful to be rich.
Toby sat in the sixth row, in a blue blazer and red striped tie—Frank’s tie, which he had forgotten to return after rehearsal—slunk down in his seat. He felt very grave and professional watching Henry Lewse perform. What a fine actor, he thought. What a great man. Why was he wasting himself in crap?
Toby hated Tom and Gerry almost as soon as the curtain went up. It was so silly, so unrealistic—even for a musical. And adding to the pain, each and every male actor, from the lead down to the Pullman porters, made Toby think: I could be him, I could do that. It hurt like hell that he wasn’t onstage with the others.
But he didn’t feel like that with Henry. No, Henry was brilliant. Henry was irreplaceable. Henry was his friend. The man seemed so much larger here, magnified by lights and audience and laughter, than he had visiting the Apollo Room at the Gaiety.
“I suppose your husband is big,” said Henry.
“Oh, quite big,” said Gerry, the runaway wife.
Henry sighed. “One of the tragedies of this world is that the fellows most in need of a thrashing tend to be enormous.” A perfect note of absurdity made the dry words hilarious. Not that Toby laughed, but he felt the line click. And the audience laughed—good, strong, hundred-dollar guffaws, which was how much tickets cost.
As soon as Henry stepped offstage, Toby went back to hating the play. It was a bored kind of hatred, a bad mood that dug up all the dark thoughts he’d been having today. About Caleb, of course, who not only broke his heart but also accused him of being a whore who’d go to bed with a Broadway star. Ridiculous. Then Frank, who said Caleb wasn’t rejecting love, he was rejecting Toby. What did Frank know? And here was Henry Lewse himself, who assumed that just because he was a rich and famous actor, he could snap his fingers and Toby would come running. If he thought dinner and a ticket to a bad musical were all it took to get into Toby Vogler’s pants, he was even dumber than the others.
Henry reappeared and Toby couldn’t hate him anymore. Hackensacker and his sister, the much-married Princess Centimillia, sang a duet, “Loving Lovely Love,” where Henry took the dumb rhyme of “matrimony” and “baloney” and made it funny with a deft little pause. But Henry Lewse onstage was different from the fellow who’d meet Toby after the show tonight, magical and airy. Did some of that Henry rub off on the letchy, earthy, human Henry? The letchy Henry was the only Henry that liked Toby.
The show got better before it got worse. The ending was real stupid, with the introduction of identical twins followed by a double wedding. But when the curtain came down, the audience jumped to its feet. They coul
dn’t wait to give it a standing ovation.
Toby remained stubbornly, righteously seated—until Henry came out. Then Toby rose, and his beating hands joined the others. When he heard a few hollers, he let out one of his own. “Bravo!” he cried, but was ashamed his voice sounded so thin.
Henry stood twenty feet away, smiling, bowing. And then he saw Toby. Yes, he must have seen Toby because he winked. Toby almost burst out laughing, he was so tickled. He turned to the middle-aged couple beside him to see if they saw that. But no, they were busy picking their programs off the floor.
And then it was over. The cast stepped backward, the curtain fell, the lights came up. All over the auditorium people were smugly smiling and sighing, as if after sex. Toby joined the throng moving toward the row of open doors, although nobody was in a hurry to get outside. It was still raining.
Toby opened his umbrella, stepped into the patter, and went around the corner to Shubert Alley. It felt good to be out in the cool air and tapping rain—so good that he was tempted to keep walking and head home and forget about dinner with Henry.
He came to the stage door. He was surprised that nobody else stood there: no friends or fans or autograph hounds eagerly waiting under the dripping eaves.
People began to come out. Toby had to look twice to recognize cast members: he saw Gerry behind a young woman’s yawn, the Princess Centimillia in a motherly profile. Toto the gibberish-talking houseguest was just another East Village homo—he actually cruised Toby as he walked by. Then came Henry, who had started the evening as Henry, turned into Hackensacker, and now was Henry again. He wore denim, just like the night they’d met.
“Tobias! Hello!” He lifted both arms, uncertain if they were at the embracing stage yet, then lowered one arm and shook Toby’s hand. “I forgot it was tonight. Such a nice surprise to spot you at the curtain call. So. Did you like it?”
“I liked you. You were wonderful. Henry.” He almost said “Mr. Lewse,” but no, he would call him Henry tonight. “You turned a pig’s ear into a silk purse.”
“You think so? Well, it’s not great theater, but it does provide one with opportunities. I try to make the best of them. I’m just glad you enjoyed it.”
“Everybody did. The audience loved you.” Which was true, but Toby feared Henry wouldn’t believe him when there were no other fans. “Uh, I’m surprised I’m the only one out here.”
“So you are, so you are.” He looked around. “It is a weeknight. And it’s raining. And stage-door Johnnies are a thing of the past. Except in your line of work.” He smiled. “I see you brought an umbrella. Very smart. Shall we?”
They stepped out into the rain. Henry stayed close, but he didn’t touch Toby, only the slender shaft of his umbrella.
“Let’s catch a cab. And then, if you don’t mind, I’d like to swing by my place and change into something more spiffing. Jean Georges is a coat-and-tie kind of restaurant, even at midnight. I look rather grungy in my blue jean layabouts. Like rough trade.”
“Sure,” said Toby, even as he thought: Don’t give me that change-my-clothes crap. You just want to get me home and get me into bed. It’ll serve me right. It’ll serve Caleb right too.
Henry flagged down a cab. “West Fifty-fifth and Broadway,” he told the driver, then fell back into the cushions and grinned at Toby. But instead of pouring on the flattery, as Toby expected, he fretted about his performance. “You think it went okay? I wish I could say the same. I had it a few weeks ago. Now it’s beginning to slip.” He shook his head. “The hardest thing about comedy is keeping it new. With drama you can explore, build, try other approaches. But with comedy there’s usually only one way to do it, and once you find it, things start to go downhill.”
They arrived at a brand-new apartment building and entered a glassed-in lobby with a doorman in a white shirt.
“Good evening, Mr. Lewse. Good show tonight?”
“I’ve done better. But I’ve done worse too. Thank you for asking, Mike.”
Toby watched the doorman’s face for a smirk or scowl, something to indicate what he thought of Henry Lewse bringing a young male home, but the man betrayed no reaction.
As they rode up in the elevator, Toby decided: Oh, all right. Go ahead. Take me to bed. Let’s get it over with.
He smiled and nodded at Henry Lewse. Henry Lewse smiled and nodded back.
The elevator doors opened and they walked down a carpeted hallway. Henry unlocked a door. “My home away from home.”
Toby followed him inside. Everything was in whites and grays, with one room filled by a sinister steel contraption that Toby didn’t recognize at first. “You have your own Nautilus machine?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time. The convenience. Exercising at home, however, you don’t meet as many interesting men as you would at a gym. Go ahead. Give it a test drive.”
Toby entered the room, but he did not go to the machine, he went toward the huge windows that looked out on the city. They were fifteen stories up and buildings stood all around. The illuminated peaks seemed to steam in the rain.
“Oh wow. It’s like one of the Batman movies.”
“You think?” said Henry. “Not Blade Runner?”
Toby stood there, looking at the view, at his reflection, at the reflection of Henry Lewse in the doorway behind him. He waited for Henry to come up, embrace him from behind, and—
“Excuse me.” Henry’s reflection turned away, entered another room, the bedroom, and closed the door.
Toby was confused. He was hurt. What’s going on? Had Henry Lewse changed his mind? He doesn’t want to seduce me?
Toby went to the bedroom door. He lightly knocked. “Henry?”
“Yes?”
“Here’s a suggestion. You want to skip going out and order in? Pizza or Chinese food?”
The door popped open. Henry was barefoot but in his jeans and a sleeveless undershirt. An ugly unmade bed gaped behind him.
Toby expected a lewd smile, but the old man only looked confused. “Are you sure? I wanted to take you to Jean Georges. I hear it’s very good. And it’s so rare I get company for dinner.”
“Seems like so much trouble,” said Toby. “And it’s expensive. And late. And I’m not that hungry.”
“We could stay in,” Henry offered. “There’s first-rate Chinese nearby.” He let out a long, mock sigh. “You spoil my plans. I was going to wine you and dine you, stupefy you with food, then bring you back here, show you some dirty pictures, and take advantage of your innocence. But I suppose none of that appeals to you?”
He was smiling. He sounded deliberately absurd, a bit like Hackensacker, in fact. Toby didn’t know what to say.
“I see,” said Henry—Toby couldn’t guess what he saw. “Well. First things first.” He led Toby into the kitchen and took out a Chinese take-out menu. “I don’t know about you, but I’m famished.”
He picked up the phone and placed an order.
“Scallion pancakes. Crystal shrimp dumplings. General Tso’s chicken. Broccoli with garlic sauce.” Everything sounded new and wonderful when read out in that deep plush voice. “That should be enough, don’t you think?” he asked Toby. “Fifteen minutes? Thank you.” He clicked off the phone. “There. We’ve taken care of dinner. Would you like a drink? Oh sorry. You don’t drink. Only hot cocoa.”
“No, I’ll have a drink.”
Henry gave Toby a surprised, disapproving look. “That’s a bad idea, don’t you think?”
“Why?” Was he kidding?
“If we both start drinking, we might forget who we are, and who knows where that might lead?”
Toby laughed. “Isn’t that where you wanted it to go?”
“Of course. But I presume you don’t.”
Toby could feel himself stirring in his trousers.
“Maybe I do. Tonight.”
“You’re just being polite,” said Henry.
“You don’t know what I want,” said Toby with a nervous laugh.
“
Do you know?” asked Henry.
Toby stood by the refrigerator, Henry by the stove. He did not look so old despite the gray hair peeking from the neck of his undershirt.
Toby stepped forward. He slipped his thumbs into the denim belt loops. He pulled Henry toward him. He’d forgotten how much taller he was than Henry.
“What’s this?” said Henry. “And this? And what about—”
Toby silenced him with his mouth. He was startled by the lively tongue inside, but he pressed on and embraced Henry harder. Without thinking, he shoved a hand down the seat of a famous man’s jeans. He stroked a cool, hairy butt, not as hairy as Caleb’s, and not as solid as Toby liked, but not flabby or clammy either.
He broke off the kiss so he could think more clearly. “Wow. Double wow. I can’t believe I’m doing this with an actor whose work I admire so much.”
“My boy—If you’re going to blow smoke up my ass, wouldn’t you be more comfortable doing it in bed?”
33
Peach skin. Blond haze. Freckles. The body stretched out before him, nearly level with his eyes, a lion-colored landscape, a Sahara of flesh. The slope of abdomen rose in the distance to the ridge of rib cage. Down below was a belly button like a water hole and, closer still, just under Henry’s nose, a pale briar of pubic hair.
It’s remarkable how sexless sex can be after the first half hour. Henry had to remind himself that the rubbery stiffness filling his mouth was Toby Vogler’s penis. He pictured Toby himself on the other side of his rib cage, head on a pillow, hand behind his head, frowning at the ceiling. The boy was not a terribly demonstrative bedmate, offering little more than an occasional murmur from the back of his throat, like a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep.
Toby or not Toby. That is the question.
Here he was, the Hamlet of his generation, down on all fours between a muscular pair of American legs, trying to make it talk.
Toby lifted his hips, took a sharp breath, and seemed to swell against Henry’s tongue. But no. He was only readjusting his buttocks, as if one cheek were going to sleep.
Lives of the Circus Animals Page 18