In Eliot's absence, Philip found himself possessed of an unprecedented, raging libido. Unable to concentrate, acutely sensing his aloneness, he returned to his old habit of buying pornography, and wondered how he'd been able to manage it when he was a teenager, the magazines were so expensive. Every few nights, when he was sitting down to thumb through his magazines, he would find that the images had lost all their potency and then, like a junkie in need of a fix, he would have to head out to find fresh images to fuel his need. He avoided the back booths in the porno shops and the movie theatres only because he didn't trust himself, and because the news about AIDS was so frightening. But he did allow himself to make frequent nocturnal excursions to an Upper West Side bar that was decorated in a plumbing motif and that featured two video screens on which pornographic films were perpetually shown. The repertoire was the same night after night, and soon enough Philip had it memorized. One night—it was March by now, and the first tentative spring buds were cracking through the ice of Central Park—a fight broke out at the bar. It took place somewhere behind where Philip was standing, and he was aware of it only as a lot of shouting and a pushing in the crowd, the ripples of which nearly knocked him off his feet. When a pudgy, bearded man in a suit was carried out, blood dripping from his nose, eyes closed in rage, Philip found himself pressed against the wall and against an affable-looking young man with dark, straight hair, big brown eyes, wire-rimmed glasses very much like Eliot's. "Excuse me," he said.
"It's all right," the young man said. "Do you know what happened?"
"A fight, I guess."
"Jesus."
Philip stood on his toes to see if there were any police.
"I'm Rob," the young man said, and held out his hand to shake.
Surprised, Philip turned and saw that he was still pressed firmly against Rob's blue sweater.
"Philip," Philip said.
They shook hands. "Nice to meet you, Philip."
"Nice to meet you, Rob." Philip laughed.
Rob was a junior at Columbia. His declared major was history, but he was thinking of switching to English. He seemed to Philip to be terribly, terribly young, though in fact he was twenty—only five years younger than Philip himself. They talked some more, amicably, about being an English major, and how Rob's father was pressuring him to go to law school. The chaos that had been touched off by the fight subsided. Muscled men in white T-shirts mopped up the blood and glass. Then Rob just stood there, not moving, glancing at his feet, glancing at Philip, turning away whenever Philip's eyes met his.
"Well, it's getting pretty late," Philip finally said, after they had stood there for five minutes without saying a word.
"Yes," Rob said.
"I should be getting along."
"Yes. I should, too."
"Shall we walk out together?"
He smiled, grateful. "Sure," he said. "Just let me get my coat."
As they waited at the coat check, Philip watched Rob close his eyes once, twice, open them, turn, and say, "If it's not too late for you, would you like to come back with me to my room for some tea or apple juice or something?"
Why had Philip made him go through that? Had he enjoyed withholding the offer that would have been for him so much easier to make? Perhaps. "That would be nice," he said, and relief suffused Rob's face. Philip recognized that for possibly the first time in his life he was the more experienced, the older partner, expected to carry the show. He wasn't at all sure that he could live up to the expectations of a boy who was clearly very inexperienced, maybe even a virgin, who probably wanted to be taught what to do.
They took a cab uptown; Philip paid. Rob's stuffy single room was familiarly messy; there were clothes and underwear tangled among the bedsheets, copies of Rolling Stone, crumpled sheets of paper strewn on the floor. "I'm sorry this place is such a wreck," Rob said, frantically picking things up and pulling sheets straight. "I'm usually neater."
"Don't worry," Philip said. He sat down on the regulation college bed underneath a big poster, a variation of a famous New Yorker cover, showing Venice from an insider's point of view—there was San Marco, the Lido, Milan, Paris, San Francisco. Rob bustled about, picking things up, throwing things away. Then he disappeared into the hall and emerged a minute later with a hot-pot full of water, which he plugged into an overburdened extension cord. "Were you in Venice?" Philip asked.
"Yes," Rob said, "just this summer. Have you been there?"
"Not since I was a kid."
"Venice is beautiful," Rob said, arranging one tea bag in a Garfield mug, another in a mug sporting a picture of a comically ugly man in jail-stripes; it said underneath the picture, "Mug mug."
"A good friend of mine is in Venice right now," Philip said, although he actually had no idea where in Europe Eliot was at that moment.
"Really," Rob said. He poured the hot water into the mugs. "Here you go," he said, and handed one to Philip. Uncomfortably, he slid onto the bed next to him.
They sat for a few moments drinking tea, and then Philip moved closer to Rob, put an arm around him, put a hand on his knee. Rob was shaking violently. "Are you okay?" Philip asked.
"I think I probably just had a little too much to drink," Rob said. "You know, when it's cold, alcohol thins the blood."
"Lie down on your stomach and I'll give you a backrub," Philip said.
Rob obliged. Philip rubbed his shoulders, pounded his back, untucked his shirt and sweater and reached under to touch warm skin. Rob's shaking subsided. He turned over, and Philip kissed him. Rob hugged back and let out a little gasp.
He was right. He had to take the lead completely. Rob just lay there. When Philip's penis approached his mouth, he took it in, no questions asked. When Philip lifted Rob's hand and placed it where he wanted to be caressed, it caressed in a nervous circle, but never of its own volition. The night wore on toward dawn. Rob was enormously excited, much more excited than Philip himself. Philip thought this to be impolite on his part. In his opinion, when one made love to someone for the first time, one was obliged to exhibit a healthy erection and at least feign great enthusiasm. But he had masturbated twice today and could probably do neither. When Rob came, it was with incredible force. A drop landed on his chin; the rest pooled on his chest. Philip brought himself, by furious and concentrated masturbation, to a climax of sorts about ten minutes later.
"A football player lives next door," Rob whispered just before Philip came. "Try to be quiet."
By the time they had mopped themselves up, Rob was shaking again. "Do you want me to stay or go?" Philip asked.
"Don't go," Rob whispered, his voice edged with panic. "Please don't go."
"I'll stay then," Philip said. He rubbed Rob's back some more, then wrapped himself around him from behind and tried to go to sleep. But Rob was not sleeping. Philip could feel his heart throbbing against him. He was lying awake, astonished, and Philip was moved by the spectacle of this boy, who reminded him so much of himself only a few months ago, the first night he had slept with Eliot and hadn't been able to get to sleep the whole night. And he thought of the Jumblies, the rhyme his mother had taught him as a child, and how Eliot had recited it to him, urging him on toward sleep.
But he could not sleep either. Eyes open, he surveyed this unfamiliar Columbia dorm room where clothes draped over chairs threw bizarre shadows on the wall, where the smell of cigarettes blended with the smell of mildew to create an oddly sweet, oddly nostalgic aroma.
Then dawn was breaking again. He missed the days when he had slept through dawn.
He left an hour or two later, countering Rob's pleas that he stay for breakfast with his own insistent claim that he had work to do. He had slept only two hours, and as soon as he got home, he showered and fell instantly into his bed.
Around three he got up and went out for something to eat, and when he got back he found a message from Rob on his answering machine. He did not return it. There was another message the next day, and another; still he did not answer. The m
essages stopped. He was a little sorry that they did. At another point in his life, he realized, he might have jumped full-force into a love affair with someone like Rob. But Eliot—or rather, the ghost of Eliot, the shadow—had him by the scruff of the neck and would not let him go, would not disappear. It seemed to him ironic that he should be doing to Rob exactly what Eliot had done to him. The oppressed, once again, became the oppressor. Men were assholes, Sally had assured him, and now, for the first time, regretfully, Philip felt himself sinking into the ranks of men.
OWEN, HUDDLED in the dark claustrophobia of his office after eleven, cradled the phone in his lap like a baby, held the receiver tight against his ear, and dialed. "Hotline," Jerene said. "Can I help you?”
"Uh, hello," Owen said. "I'm calling because—" He broke down. "I need some help," he said very quietly, sobbing, to the alert voice on the other end of the phone. He tried to focus through the tears screening his eyes: night, the dark window, the fifth of bourbon leaning like a tower on his desk.
"It's okay, I'm not going to hang up," Jerene said. "Stay calm now. Just breathe in and out. We don't have to talk until you're good and ready." Owen followed her instructions; breathed in and out. "Now tell me how I can help you," Jerene said. All Owen could get out was, "My son—" Then he started sobbing again.
"Your son," she said. "Go on."
"My son—he told me and his mother that he's—"
"That he's gay?"
"Uh-huh," Owen said.
"And how do you feel about that?" Jerene asked.
"I don't know. I'm confused—very confused—"
"Well," Jerene said, "why don't we start by talking about exactly what's confusing to you?"
"You don't understand," Owen said. "These things—they're very hard for me to talk about. I mean, I've never—" He faltered.
"Listen," Jerene said. "It's okay to talk about them with me. I'm not here to pass judgments, just to offer some help, a little advice. We all need someone to talk to every now and then, don't we? And that's what I'm here for."
"My son—" Owen said. "I've never been enough of a father to him. Always involved in my own life. And I can't help but wonder—"
"If it's your fault?"
"Yes."
"Listen, you shouldn't worry about that," Jerene said. "It's not a question of fault. Your son is what and who he is. That's not going to change. Now the important thing is to make things as good for him as you can."
"But you don't understand," Owen said. "It's not him I'm worried about—it's me."
There was a pause.
"Okay," Jerene said. "Go on."
Owen hung up. He poured some more of the bourbon into his glass and drank it down. A little spilled on his suit. He took a tissue and tried to wipe it off. From the wall, Rose and Philip stared at him, his Ph.D. stared at him, all the posed Harte boys stared at him. He looked at them for a few minutes and then he picked up the phone and dialled again, this time a number he had long since memorized. After one ring, a frantic-sounding man's voice answered.
"Is Alex there?" Owen said.
"Just a second, I'll check," the voice said. "Can I ask who's calling?"
"Bowen," Owen said.
"Hold on."
Owen held his hand before his face, watched for shaking. After a few seconds, Alex Melchor picked up the phone.
"This is Bowen," Owen said.
"Bowen?" Alex Melchor said. "Do I know you?"
"We talked on the phone a while ago," Owen said. "Remember, I thought you'd left me your number? But it all turned out to be a big mix-up."
"Oh right, of course. Well, uh, what can I do for you, Bowen?"
"I was wondering if we could meet, have a drink, maybe," Owen said, his voice shaking. "A lot's been going on in my life. I'm very confused about some things and I just need someone to talk to. We all need someone to talk to sometimes, don't we?"
"Uh—sure. Gee, Bowen," Alex said. "I wish I could help you, but you know I'm awfully busy this week and next week I—"
"It won't take long," Owen said. "Please, even over the phone. My son, you see, he came home last week to tell me and his mother—"
"Bowen, you know, I'm sure this is very hard for you. Listen, have you thought of maybe seeing a shrink? Because it sounds to me like you may need some professional help, certainly better than I can give you, God knows. I've been seeing a shrink myself for twenty years now, and believe me, I'd be loony as a tune if I hadn't—"
"My son, you see, he's a homosexual. And I'm worried that it's my fault. I mean, it's not that I'm a homosexual myself. I am a bisexual. But you see, I've never been enough of a father to him and now I'm scared."
"Bowen, that's very unfortunate, but I really don't know how I can help you. Listen, why don't you call one of those hotline things? They have professional people who can talk to you about things like this—"
"I'm scared," Owen said.
"Listen, I'm looking in the phone book right now. Now stay calm. Here—the Gay Hotline. Bowen? Do you have a pencil? Can you write down the number?"
Owen hung up.
The next number he dialed was Philip's.
"Hello," Philip said. "This is Philip."
"Philip, it's your father."
"I'm afraid I can't come to the phone right now, but if you'll leave me a message when you hear the beep—"
"Fag, fag, fag, your father is a goddamned fag," Owen screamed into the phone.
"—happy to call you back as soon as I can."
"Fag," Owen said morosely.
"Thank you for calling."
"Fag father of fag son," Owen said.
The beep sounded.
Owen hung up.
Rose knew. He knew she knew. But somehow they never talked about it; they must never talk about it. Instead they talked, endlessly and obsessively, about the apartment which, if they didn't buy, they would have to vacate in August. If they didn't buy, there would soon begin an onslaught of prospective buyers, people who were rich enough to displace them. The ultimate shame, Rose felt, would be having to clean up for the arrival of those people. If they had to be out, she wanted it to be before that stage. Every Sunday, now, instead of going their separate ways, she and Owen scanned the "Real Estate" section of the Times, and on Wednesdays did the same with the Voice. It became apparent early on that they were not going to get anything for under fifteen hundred a month, an unthinkably high price, but one they could just barely manage. More than anything else, the immense downpayment a co-op would require boggled them. They had never owned anything, not even a car.
One Sunday there was an ad which read:
Lrg 1-bdrm, lux drmn bldg. Eat-in ktchn w/DW
Sthrnexpsr.A steal.
They went in the afternoon to see the place. It was in a tall, dirty building on West Eighty-sixth Street, near Amsterdam. The agent, a small woman with blue fingernails, led them up in the cranky elevator to an old, crumbly apartment with a marble bathtub in the bathroom, no views, and a bedroom the size of Rose's closet. She told them that it was a steal at seventeen hundred a month.
"Now if you're interested," the agent said, "I'll really have to know by this evening, because, needless to say, there's a lot of other people who want into an apartment house like this, a big old-fashioned West Side apartment. These are hard to come by these days. I have a lot of clients who are very interested, but depending on how enthusiastic you folks are, maybe we could arrange something."
They promised to call her if they were still interested.
Outside, in the street, Owen could feel his arms shaking in the sleeves of his coat. It was a cold spring day, windy and bright. By evening there would be rain.
"What are we going to do?" Rose asked.
Without much conviction, Owen said, "Don't worry, honey, we'll find something. You just have to keep looking. Remember you said it took your friend Donna six months to find her place?"
Rose kept her eyes on the ground. "I'm a little scared, frankly," she said.
> Owen looked away. "Don't be scared," he said. "Things will work out."
"I don't want to move to Queens," Rose said with sorrow and distaste.
"We won't have to move to Queens. We'll stay right here in Manhattan. Don't worry."
They approached the park, and Rose said, "Owen, are you sure we can't stay where we are? Are you sure?"
"I don't know."
"Have you tried to work out the finances? Let's try to stay, Owen, please? We've got good, long employment histories. We're such good credit risks, I'm sure they'll give us a loan. And maybe we can borrow some money from Gabrielle and Jack, some money from your sister—"
"I don't know," Owen said. His voice cracked. She took his arm as they entered the park, clinging hard to him. A few blocks downtown Yoko Ono was still building Strawberry Fields. Yoko Ono had four or five apartments in the Dakota, Rose had read. Did she really need them all? Couldn't Rose and Owen have just one of them? Or perhaps they deserved to be homeless.
From behind them, swift as a mugger, Philip leapt, a gangly dog in running clothes. Rose screamed. "What's wrong?" Owen shouted.
Out of breath, all arms and long legs, Philip reeled back. "I'm sorry if I scared you," he said. "I was running, and then, all of a sudden, there you were. I had to sprint to catch up with you." He wiped his mouth off on his sleeve, and smiled. He smelled of cold sweat, cotton, grass.
Owen looked around himself. Searching for signs, his eyes found the hill where, even on this cold spring day, men lay shirtless in the sun.
"I'll walk with you a little way," Philip said.
"Yes," Rose said. "Please do."
They headed east. "So where are you guys coming from?" Philip asked.
"We were just looking at an apartment on Eighty-sixth Street," Rose said.
"West Eighty-sixth Street?" Philip said. "Wow, it'd be great if you lived there, you'd be so close to me."
"I don't know," Rose said. "It's expensive."
They passed a playground where a group of black children walked strong together like paper dolls in a chain. "Everyone is so afraid of losing their children these days," Rose said. "So afraid of kidnappers. It's hard for me to imagine what it must be like to be a mother now, scared all the time."
The Lost Language of Cranes: A Novel Page 20