The Lost Language of Cranes: A Novel

by David Leavitt

  "Why'd you think that?" Philip asked.

  Winston shrugged. "I could just tell. New Jersey's not sights. It's not Ho-Ho-Kus or Lake Hopatcong or the Paramus Mall, though those are all awesome places. No," he said, "New Jersey is a state of mind." He revved his throat like an engine. "Just to be in New Jersey, to feel New Jersey, is to experience... true cosmic oneness with the universe!" He laughed loudly. "So now," he said, "I've told you all about Nancy—it's your turn. Come on, 'fess up."

  "My turn?" Philip said.

  "Yeah, your turn. Come on. Tell me what your relationship status is, as they say out west. It's no fun if you don't too."

  Philip looked out the window. "Well," he said, "I was seeing someone very seriously for a while. But it ended."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "Uh-huh."

  "Okay," Winston said, "come on. Tell me about it." Again, he revved his throat.

  "Not much to tell," Philip said. "He broke it off and went to live in Paris."

  "They do that sometimes," Winston said. "What was the guy's name? I'll beat him up. Hey, eat shit, asshole," he shouted to another taxi that was trying to wriggle by him onto the approach to the George Washington Bridge.

  "So go on," Winston said.

  Encouraged, Philip went on. They were passing over the George Washington Bridge now, a rage of lights suspended high above the dark river. "Maybe I drove him away," Philip said. "Or maybe he was just sick of the relationship. Or maybe he really was a selfish jerk. I don't know."

  He sighed loudly, and Winston shook his head. "You can never tell," he said. "Stupidly, somehow, you both end up being right and wrong, in different ways, every time. "Now," he went on, "now, we are in New Jersey." Like a man possessed, Winston looked around himself, his eyes aflame with what they were absorbing, but in the dark Philip could make out not a single detail. He guessed they were driving through trees.

  "You just feel better in New Jersey," Winston said, pushing hard on the gas pedal. "And you can drive like an American—fast." Again he laughed. Reaching behind himself, he pulled a tape cassette from a box on the back seat and plugged it into the stereo. Bruce Springsteen sang "Born in the U.S.A."

  They sped up, coming dangerously close to the back of a truck. Casually, at the last minute, Winston swept past it, and Philip closed his eyes and grimaced, prepared for death. Winston chuckled. "Did I scare you?" he said.

  "A little," Philip admitted.

  "Sorry. I get carried away when I listen to the Boss." They were slowing to a red light. It seemed they had reached a more populated area now—an ugly strip of motels, coffee shops, discount shoe worlds. "Here's where I eat dinner most nights," Winston said. "Now you can understand why I enjoyed your mom's spaghetti so much."

  "She makes a mean spaghetti," Philip said. He was silent for a moment. "I hope you had fun tonight," he said finally. "My parents can be—to say the least—a little strange."

  "I thought they were great," Winston said. "Anyway, I think your dad's great to start with. He's really one of the awesome bright lights of the Harte School."

  Philip smiled. "Really?" he said. "You know, I went to Harte for a while."

  "Oh yeah?"

  "I hated it."

  "Socially, it's a tougher place than anyone probably guesses,"

  Winston said. "The kids are mean and smart, which is worse than mean and dumb, because they play tricks. And almost always it's the older against the younger."

  "Do they still tell that story about the kid locked up in the basement?"

  Winston smiled. "Every year. And it's hard to punish them. Because unlike most schoolkids, they do not believe in the God-given, terror-inspiring authority of the teacher. They're all so rich, they've been raised by their dads to know they're going to run the world, so what's a schmucky little peasant of a teacher got coming down on them? They just sit there and don't say anything, like they aren't even listening to you, like they own the world. And you know what? They're right. They do own it. That's the terrible irony of the place. They really do own the world." He shook his head.

  "Do you like teaching there?"

  "It's okay. I'm not planning to make it my life's career. But they're smart kids, and if you approach them the right way, they'll do good work for you. I figure I'll stay a year or two more, then probably go back to Austin and get my Ph.D. It's good for the moment. For a Southern boy like me, it's a real trip to be living in New York, let me tell you."

  They were now descending into the greenish depths of the Holland Tunnel. "Isn't this unreal?" Winston said. "Isn't this totally unreal?" Philip nodded. Once, he remembered, as a small child, coming back from Gabrielle's, he and his mother and his father had gotten stuck underground in traffic for a half an hour, and when he had asked when they'd get out, his father had said ghoulishly, "We'll never get out. We're trapped forever." Philip had believed him and started crying right then and there. "Philip, honey, what's wrong?" his mother had asked, turning, alarmed, reaching her hands into the back seat to comfort him. But he did not want to be comforted. This time there was no delay. They sped through the tunnel, emerging suddenly from the green brightness into the dark, cool Canal Street night. "Back in Manhattan," Philip said, and Winston smiled. "Yes," he said. "I could tell. That great New Jersey feeling"—he snapped his fingers—"just like that. Gone." He sighed. "Now where did you say you were going in the East Village?"

  "Tenth Street," Philip said.

  They turned uptown. The wind seemed less violent down here than it had in his parents' neighborhood. Outside an unmarked nightclub, a row of white Mercedes limousines hummed, while a crowd thronged to be admitted. "I'm really glad you came to dinner, and that we got to meet," Philip said to Winston. "My father was very eager for us to get to know each other, you know. He thought we could be friends."

  "So he told me," Winston said.

  Philip was quiet for a moment. "My father—well, sometimes I'm a little embarrassed, you know, the way he tries to fix me up with new friends." He laughed nervously. "I just hope—I hope you didn't feel—"

  "Like a blind date?" Winston said. "No, I didn't think of it that way at all. I had a great time. I really like Owen, he's a good guy, and believe me, there aren't that many really good ones on the faculty. Now where on Tenth Street?"

  "By Second Avenue," Philip said, relieved. "Though actually, I wasn't thinking of a blind date so much as the gentleman caller in The Glass Menagerie. I imagined you must have felt like the gentleman caller, you know—just a normal person coming into a family madhouse."

  "Really?" Winston laughed. "I suspect all vaguely intellectual families are secretly worried that they're the Wingfields. It's a universal American condition."

  "Maybe," Philip said.

  "Now my family," Winston said, "my family is the genuine article." But before he had a chance to elaborate, they were there, at Brad's building.

  "I guess we're here," Winston said, pulling the car up in front of a fire hydrant.

  "Yup," Philip said. "Well. Thanks for the ride."

  "Hey, any time," said Winston. "And let's get together sometime, go to a movie or something, okay?" He hesitated. "I don't have that many friends in New "York. I spend a lot of time by myself, which is fine. I do fine by myself, reading and exploring the Garden State. But I do miss socializing every once in a while."

  "Fine," Philip said. "Maybe next week we can do something."

  "Yeah, that would be great," Winston said. He reached out his hand, and Philip shook it warmly. "Well, so long, Winston. And thanks again."

  "So long, Philip. Take care."

  Then Winston rolled up the window, waved again, and took off down the dark street. It seemed a strange, anticlimactic farewell. "Oh, well," Philip said aloud, and turned to face Brad's building. The wind was calmer now. Seeing the light on in Brad's apartment, he climbed the steps up to the entrance, feeling strangely heavy, and rang Brad's bell.

  "Who is it?" Brad said after a few seconds.

  "Philip."
<
br />   "Hold on."

  There was a loud buzzing noise, and he was admitted into the inner foyer. Brad was waiting by the open door when he got to his apartment, in his bathrobe, smiling. "This is a surprise," he said, and Philip knew he was glad to see him.

  They moved inside the apartment, which was warm with the smell of cinnamon toast and the low hum of Brad's tiny television set. "I just thought I'd drop by for a visit," Philip said. "It turned out this Winston had a car, and he offered me a lift home, and I just thought—well, as long as I can get a ride, I might as well come down and say hello."

  "I'm glad," Brad said. He sat on the lower bunk and turned down the volume on the television. From Philip's angle, the tiny box seemed awash with silent, senseless progressions of light. "I was actually hoping you might come by tonight."

  Philip smiled, sat down next to Brad on the bunk bed. From under the hem of Brad's terrycloth bathrobe, a lithe, well-tanned leg brushed Philip's jeans.

  "So, how was it?"

  Philip bit his lower lip. "Strange," he said finally. "Just—strange."

  "How so?"

  "Well," Philip said, "my mother was angry, so angry. I more or less confronted her when I got home about the way I felt she'd been treating me, and she really lashed back. She said I was being very selfish to assume that I was what was bothering her. And then, when I told her about Dad's wanting to fix me up with Winston, she almost started to cry, said she didn't want any part in it. And then Dad and Winston arrived, and she completely changed her mind. All of a sudden she was the model hostess, all smiles and nice remarks. She really put on the charm for Winston. And my dad—I've never seen him behave the way he behaved tonight. I mean, it was really bizarre. It was as if he had a totally different personality. He was loud, gregarious, for God's sake, which may not sound like much, but for my father it's a revolutionary act. Do you have any orange juice?"

  "Of course," Brad said. He got up to pour some, and Philip lay back to stare at the mute television screen. "Star Trek" was on; Captain Kirk, dressed in a toga, was being forced to kiss Uhura on what looked like a giant chessboard. For a moment Philip thought he must be dreaming, but then Brad, who knew all the episodes of "Star Trek" by heart, arrived with the orange juice and said, "This is definitely one of the strangest 'Star Trek' episodes ever. The idea is that the Greek gods were really aliens, and they're still around, only they've gotten very evil. It's called 'Plato's Stepchildren.'" He handed Philip the glass of orange juice, and Philip propped himself up on his elbows to drink it. "I seem to have appropriated your bed," he said. "It's okay," Brad answered. "I'm small. There's probably room on it for both of us." He sat down on the edge, as if in hesitation, then hoisted himself onto the bed, so that he lay parallel to Philip, and Philip could feel the warm side of his body.

  "So go on."

  "There's not much more to tell. The dinner itself was pleasant, if uneventful. I mean, nothing happened in particular. But everything, everything was strange. And strained. I could tell that underneath her smile my mother was watching me like a hawk, and watching Dad, while the whole time he was trying to pretend she wasn't there."

  Brad lifted himself onto his side, propped his head in his hand. "But you haven't told me the best part," he said. "You haven't told me about Winston, or your ride home."

  "Oh, that!" Philip laughed. "Well, Winston was smart, and very nice. A little bizarre. He had this whole spiel about New Jersey being the center of the universe, or something, and I could tell he thought he was really funny, but also, on some level, I think he believes it. What I like about him is that he seems perpetually enthralled by the world. For instance—did you ever find when you were a kid that when summer vacation ended, and the back-to-school sales started, you would suddenly just want to beat your head against a wall because the vacation had passed so quickly, and you hadn't appreciated it? And you wished you had just a few weeks to live over, so you could sit there in your room knowing you had over a month until school started again, and savor that fact, sit there and relish it?"

  "Of course," Brad said. "But you never could have done that. It's Zeno's Paradox all over again."

  "Maybe," Philip said. "Still, I think Winston's like that. I mean, I think he savors every moment while he's living it the way the rest of us can only appreciate moments when we remember them. Which is a real talent."

  Brad shuffled impatiently. "Was he really all that handsome, like your father said?"

  Philip yawned. "Yes. Very handsome. And very, very straight. He took me on a tour of New Jersey on the way down, none of which meant anything because it was so dark. And he made a big show of swearing at cab drivers and going too fast. It was fun."

  For a few moments they lay there, not speaking, and then Brad said, "I think I'm going to switch off the light now." He paused. "Would you like to spend the night, Philip?"

  "If you don't mind."

  "No, not at all."

  There was no mention of the top bunk this time. Philip closed his eyes and felt Brad get up from the bed and switch off the light. Quietly, in the dark, Philip pulled off his shirt and jeans and got under the covers, delighting in the strangeness of new sheets. After a few seconds he felt a rustling, and Brad got into the bed as well. They lay there, not touching for a moment, and then Brad cautiously put his arm around Philip's chest, and Philip took his hand and held it. Brad's heart was beating violently, so violently he was almost shaking, and Philip gently rubbed the skin over his knuckles and wrist to calm him. "You know," Brad said, when he had relaxed a little, "I was once in love with a straight man. In college."

  "Really?Who?"

  "I don't think you knew him," Brad said. "His name was Richard, and he was in an art history seminar with me. He'd just transferred from the University of Virginia, and he really didn't have any friends at first." Brad laughed. "God, I loved him. He was always confiding in me his worries about the fact that he just wasn't as good as some of the other players on the soccer team. We used to sit in his room at night, and he would read aloud to me homosexual passages from Proust."

  "Brad!" Philip said. "I never knew any of this."

  "You didn't really know me in college," Brad reminded him. "Anyway, you can imagine how excited I was, only I was so naïve then, so unsure of myself, I hardly knew what to do. But the best part—and this is the reason I remembered the story—was his car. He had a car, and once or twice a week he'd call me up before dinner and we'd drive to the outskirts of town, where there was this fantastic Chinese restaurant, sometimes alone, sometimes with a few other people. Anyway, this Chinese restaurant—the parking lot was on a hill, and going down the hill you had to go over this big dip which was made by a bump in the road. It was like a roller coaster. After we'd eaten I'd always say to him, 'Richard, go slowly, you know that dip really scares me.' And he'd laugh, and of course he'd take it as fast as he could, so fast the car would heave and screech, and we'd lift off our seats, and when I screamed he'd laugh hysterically and then drive too fast all the way back, just to scare me even more. I think I loved it."

  "Of course," Philip said. He lay very still, gently tracing pictures on Brad's back with his finger. "Did anything happen?"

  Brad sighed. "One day I couldn't stand it anymore. I remember I was sitting in my room listening to this song by the Tom-Tom Club, and—I swear this is true—just as they sang the lyrics, 'Make your move,' the doorbell rang. It was Richard. He said he was just passing through and thought he'd stop to say hi. He saw I was upset, and he asked me what was wrong. And I told him. I just up and said, 'I'm in love with you.'"

  "You're kidding."

  "Nope. I knew I just had to say it. It was the bravest thing I'd ever done in my life."

  "And what did he say?"

  Brad smiled wistfully. "He was wonderful about it, really. He told me he felt very blessed. And then he went on to tell me he was converting to Catholicism, and this was going to be a significant part of his transformation—because faith is love, and he'd never really be
lieved anyone could love him. Then he told me he loved me as well, and was only sorry he couldn't do anything about it physically."

  "That was very nice of him."

  "Yes," Brad said. "It was."

  "Did you stay friends?"

  "Oh—more or less. Except that soon after that he got a girlfriend, and then—well, he was busy. We didn't see that much of each other. And then he went off to Russia for the summer, and then to Germany for the year, and then—well, I don't know what happened to him. He's still in Germany for all I know." He was silent. "I think he was kind of fascinated by my loving him so much. If I'd been older and a little smarter—but I wasn't." He turned to look at Philip, his face awash with color from the television. "You know," he said, "I've almost never talked about this. Just because—well, it's always been kind of a sacred experience for me. I didn't want to taint it by talking it up to everybody."

  "I'm glad you feel you can trust me."

  Brad moved a little closer to him. "If I didn't feel I could trust you," he said, "I don't think I'd be lying here with you."

  "I'm glad to be lying here with you," Philip said, since it was Brad's bed, and Brad smiled. They were still in the same position, Brad's arm pulled over Philip's chest, holding hands. Then, with his toe, Brad switched off the television set, and the room was dark. They lay silent for a while, matching their breathing to each other.

  "I wish we'd done this sooner," Philip murmured.

  "So do I."

  They turned, so that Philip's mouth was in Brad's hair, his stomach against Brad's back, and Brad gave out a small, needful moan, closed his eyes, and gathered himself closer into Philip, like a mollusk pulling into its shell. Outside the window Philip could hear the sounds of nighttime mayhem and revelry. He listened.