by Julia Glass
“So you’re, like, going to disown me or something if I don’t go to Stanford like right away? Wow, Dad. Wow.”
Surprisingly, Werner seemed to have no ready answer.
Walter raised his hands, the benevolent traffic cop. “Werner, listen to me. Chill a teensy bit, will you? Twenty these days is young—and I admit, I’m jealous too! But I am willing to take responsibility here. Let’s say I raise the bar for Scott, make him take on more challenging work. Maybe he could take a class in business accounting. You know, I’ve been thinking of starting a second restaurant. He could be very helpful there.” Had he been thinking of this? Why in the world was he so keen to hang on to Scott? How nice it would be to have the apartment—even The Bruce—all to himself once again.
Tipi looked at her husband and then at Scott. “Sweetheart,” she said, “do you really love this work? Is there a possible career for you in this? I mean, one that will support you in the manner to which you are accustomed? The music just isn’t likely to do that.”
Werner snorted faintly, but he had lost the spotlight.
Scott shrugged. Walter glared daggers in his direction, forcing him to straighten up and declare, “Mom, I’m not a liar. The restaurant is cool, it’s a cool place, cool work. But it lets me be on for my music, too. It’s like a ripe combination. The right job at the right time. Dad, I am not going to morph into some kind of deadbeat, okay?”
Werner shook his head with dismay, but Walter could see that Scott, for now, had won. “So much for the Taittinger,” said Werner, and flagged the waiter to order a more modest, less celebratory wine.
Instinctively, Walter watched to see how quickly the waiter would respond—and looking in that direction, he saw Stephen enter the dining room. Not with Gordie, saints be praised, but with a middle-aged woman. Still, Walter did not want to make eye contact with him. Yet why in tarnation should Walter feel guilty? Alas, the host led Stephen right past their table. He saw Walter and looked away. Walter wondered if Stephen knew that he, too, had been dumped by Gordie—forgotten more than cast aside. Yet how could Walter even think of such a comparison? He had never lived with a lover at all, never mind a lover who became, over more than a decade, a mate. When his attention returned to the table, Werner and his family were discussing Julianne Moore. Candace had just said how amazing she was in Boogie Nights; from a twitch on Candace’s face, Walter could see that she realized, too late, she ought not to have mentioned this movie.
Tipi looked at Werner. “I think we missed that one. Is it out on DVD?”
Scott covered his mouth, trying to hide his laughter. When Walter met his eyes, they lost control in unison.
Tipi smiled. “May I ask what’s so hilarious?”
“Oh,” said Walter, “that movie is kind of like a remake of The Sound of Music. But it’s not well done. You can give it a pass.”
“Yeah,” said Scott, “like Julianne Moore, Julie Andrews—same diff.”
“Can Julianne Moore really sing?” asked Tipi.
Walter and Scott were now laughing so hard that tears ran down their cheeks. Candace, blushing scornfully, excused herself.
Stephen, seated two tables away, stared right at them all with such menace that Walter became instantly sober. “But seriously,” he said, his voice low, “you have got to see her in The End of the Affair. Her accent could have used some extra coaching, but does she ever have gorgeous breasts. Werner, would you pass that sinfully exquisite bread?”
THAT NIGHT, ONLY A MONTH BEFORE, had been a high point in Walter’s connection to his nephew. It did not take Dr. Freud to interpret Walter’s longing for that connection as much more than family feeling. Walter knew he was grasping at youthful straws (now that he was grecianizing his hair), pathetically hoping that Scott’s loose-limbed ways and callow sense of immortality might rub off on him just a little, lending him that peerless sheen.
Now, as he walked brazenly along the Hudson River at two-thirty in the morning, something else occurred to him. All Walter really wanted (well, not all, but quite a lot of all) was to be genuinely, uniquely needed. He had believed, falsely, that the risks Gordie took to be with him in the beginning were sure proof of such a need. The greater the risk, the greater the need; wasn’t that logical? And though Scott had never conveyed anything but a sense of independence, Walter had believed that his nephew’s gratitude would grow into a yearning that paralleled his own. But now, if there was anyone Scott needed, or believed he needed, it was probably Sonya.
“Of all people,” Walter said aloud, “I’ve been robbed by Spider-woman.” He laughed quietly. He wished he had brought The Bruce along, not for protection but to look up at him when his own lame jokes broke the surface of his lonely, opinionated psyche. Well, T.B. needed him. That was nothing to sneeze at.
The towers that defined the city’s skyline remained bright even at this ungodly hour, like punch cards coded with fluorescent light. Were all those illuminated offices empty, or were bankers and traders still up there, alongside the janitors tending to trash cans filled with the documentation of yesterday’s monetary tides? Walter sighed as he turned back east on Christopher Street. He had a much nicer life than any of those people, no matter his measly troubles.
When he entered the apartment, it was, as he had hoped, silent. It smelled of pizza, and half of Sonya’s grisly garb festooned the couch—but at long last it was silent. He went to the kitchen for a glass of water. On the way, he realized that his right shoe was sticking to the floor.
Green chewing gum: Sonya’s trademark substitute for conversation with grown-ups. Walter threw it in the sink, where it landed on a long tomato-stained knife laid across a stack of plates. The pizza box protruded from a garbage bag that ought to have been trussed up, taken downstairs, and replaced. Walter resolved to have a paternalistic word with Scott. Again. Sonya’s gum would give him a more than justifiable entrée. It’s her or me! flashed through his mind. As if.
When he filled his glass, he noticed a small slip of paper adhering to the bottom of the water pitcher. He peeled it off. It had been folded several times, and the ink was waterlogged and blurry, but the message still stood out, as legible as it was blunt: BIG HARD PRIMED TO FUCK YOUR DAYGLO BRAINS OUT MAKE YOU EXPLODE LIKE A TANK UNDER SIEGE.
Walter gasped and dropped the note. He knew this language well—no Tipi Kinderman, he—but in his own kitchen, right under Granna’s demure samplers, written out boldly, no qualms whatsoever…Was that Scott’s handwriting? Sonya’s? It was unnaturally tiny and cramped, though the intentions expressed were anything but.
Walter crumpled the message and pushed it deep into the garbage, past the pizza box. When he pulled out his arm, there was grease on his sleeve.
DURING THE LAST WEEK OF AUGUST, Walter accepted an invitation to Fire Island. Scott would play host at the restaurant, with Ben looking over his shoulder. “I warn you, Ben will let me know if you are so much as a nanosecond late,” said Walter. “And if you get in over your head, you can always call me. I don’t think we’ll have a full house, even on Saturday, so reservations shouldn’t be a problem, and Hugo’s a genius at guessing how much of everything we need. Really, the place should run itself.”
T.B.’s eczema had flared up again, as it always did after prolonged exposure to heat. That was another good excuse to get out of town. They’d be staying in a huge glass house shared by two wealthy couples, and the parties promised to be dense with beefcake. In one fell swoop, Walter would renew his sorry tan and his moribund libido. And heaven only knew, maybe he’d meet someone.
On the morning he packed, the phone rang. For the first time in nearly a month, he heard Greenie’s voice.
“Dear stranger!” he exclaimed. “You very nearly missed me! I’m off to the land of no cars and way too much sex.”
“I can’t say I’m envious,” she said. “I’m too tired for way too much sex.”
“How are you?” he said, sitting down on his bed. “How’s that glistening man from your past?”
/>
The pause that followed was so long, Walter expected the worst.
“Walter, I think we’re going to get married.” Her voice was soft, almost resigned, and it took him a moment to understand.
“Bless my jaded soul,” he said. “But could we sound a little less blue?”
“I feel…I’m like an outlaw these days. I’ve lost touch with so many people—entirely my fault, I know they wouldn’t judge me, but suddenly it’s like I’m this pioneer woman off in the desert, severed from everyone I knew before.”
Walter knew all about the child and his misbegotten prank. Greenie had called Walter during that mess, and twice in the past month he’d spotted the boy on Bank Street. He rode on his father’s shoulders, grasping at branches, laughing as if his little life were perfect. Alan looked happy too, though more quietly so. Once, seeing Walter, he’d lifted a hand from George’s sandaled foot to wave. Walter waved back, but they had not spoken.
“So when will I meet him, this Galahad?”
“You’ll have to come out here,” said Greenie. “You can have my house, throw parties, do whatever you like. Basically, I live at Charlie’s.”
“A house to myself in Santa Fe? Honey, count me in.”
“But I’ll see you soon anyway. I’ll be back there in a month.”
“I can’t wait to see you, sweetie,” he said. “But if you don’t have much time for me, I’ll understand. And business promises to soar, so I may not have a life. Is the good governor jumping on this all-eggs-no-toast bandwagon?”
“Walter, he’s practically driving. But it’s not a diet, it’s just his innate sense of immortality.”
“Talk about comebacks,” said Walter. “First John Travolta, then Tony Bennett, now What’s-His-Face Atkins. Bacon is the new bok choy! Hugo’s made enough omelettes this summer to sink the Titanic all over again.” Walter sighed. “But you know, I liked it better when I was the countercuisine. I’ve got these customers who talk to me now like I’m their nutritional guru. All these neo-carnivores raving about ketosis—frankly, I wouldn’t know ketosis from halitosis.”
Greenie laughed. She sounded more like her old self. If Walter was good for one thing, it was amusing people out of a funk. No small talent, though he would rather have charmed them into commitment. Greenie’s life right now wasn’t one to be envied—but still. This was the second man whose heart she’d won over completely.
Walter told her he had to fly but that he’d call her when he returned. He packed all his most flattering pale-colored clothes, including a vintage dinner jacket à la William Holden that he hadn’t worn in three years, along with a toilet kit monopolized by an optimistically thick accordion of condoms and a large plastic bottle of T.B.’s eczema cream. He taped the cap to the bottle, to be sure it wouldn’t burst inside his suitcase. Odd miniature disasters seemed to lurk in wait for Walter these days, so he took whatever precautions he could.
THE WEEK ON FIRE ISLAND was pleasant but predictable. Predictability was a great relief at times, but on this occasion it felt vaguely sad to Walter. There was plenty of fine beach weather, and he saw everyone he expected to see, whether by design or happenstance. Along the boardwalks, he had that funny sensation of spotting one familiar face after another—only to pass them and realize, from the mirroring of his own baffled geniality, that he recognized them from the restaurant. These encounters were satisfying—especially when someone nodded or greeted him in such a way as to express approval—yet each time a twinge of loneliness passed through Walter, the transient fear that he knew everybody a little bit and nobody all that well.
He regaled his friends and new acquaintances with tales of what it was like to be the surrogate parent of a rock ’n’ roll teenage boy, while The Bruce made time with a new crowd of pooches, mostly upscale purebreds. T.B. had more success on the romantic front, stealing the soul of their host’s Rhodesian ridgeback—while Walter had more success in the zipless department. What was it about the ocean that made you think of nothing but sex, sex, sex? Did salt draw lusty fantasies from your reptilian brain the way it drew moisture from flesh?
Walter had hoped to meet someone he’d see again, in the city, through the fall and winter, when lying against another person, night after night, the whole night through, mattered most of all. Once again, wishing for love had kept it at bay. No matter: by the end of the week, thanks to sex and sun (and sleeping late), Walter could look in the mirror and see, no small consolation, that he glowed.
Ben had called Walter just once that week, to double-check on their credit with a vendor. When Walter asked how Scott was holding up, Ben had said, “Needs a haircut, but no complaints.” Thus believing that everything was “copa,” Walter could not have anticipated the state of his own apartment when he walked through the door that Labor Day afternoon.
Granted: Walter did not often see the place in full sun. Right away, the veneer of dust dismayed him. But dust was insignificant next to the clutter of clothing, musical instruments, dirty dishes, empty beer and soda cans, and used ashtrays—that is, dishes used as ashtrays. Scott did not smoke; not even Sonya smoked—or did they? Walter dropped his bags and examined the ramekin-ashtray on the coffee table: nothing illegal, at least.
Some kind of speaker (amplifier?!) stood under the dining table. Black cords meandered and coiled beneath the furniture to join to it a guitar and an odd-looking flute. Two other guitars leaned against the couch, over which drooped a couple of T-shirts and a denim jacket encrusted in rhinestones.
“Holy smokes,” he exclaimed. He laughed aloud at his prissiness. The amusement was brief. Here he was in the middle of a frigging opium den (well, not quite) and he was talking like Anita Bryant. “Jesus Christ!” he said for good measure. Which, automatically, redirected his eyes toward the kitchen wall. Corner to corner, the glass that covered the sampler with the little dog was cracked.
Dishes filled the sink and covered half the counter. (There vuz a party? Like, was George W. Bush the goddamn court-appointed president?) Out of curiosity, Walter opened the dishwasher. In the bottom lingered a pool of brackish water. “That explains something,” he muttered. But then he saw the two wineglasses, stems snapped, balanced atop half a dozen liquor bottles in the recycling bin.
Walter walked in the front door of Walter’s Place just behind a family of tourists looking for an early dinner (for whom he held the door). Scott greeted them—and then saw his uncle, along with his uncle’s expression.
“Show them a table,” Walter said through his clenched smile. T.B. made a beeline for the front hearth and stretched his plump body on the cool brick floor.
While Scott escorted the family to one of the rustic booths and handed them menus, Walter went to the bar and greeted Ben. Ben welcomed him back as if he’d been absent for two hours. Walter glanced over a copy of the evening’s menu. Heirloom tomatoes grilled with bluecheese. Hudson Valley corn on the cob with maple butter. The catch of the day was stuffed bluefish. Some things did not fall apart. Walter took a deep breath as Scott came slowly back toward the bar, stopping at empty tables to straighten place settings.
“Scott!” Walter pointed back toward the kitchen.
As they passed through, toward the office, Walter waved at Hugo and said, “I owe you my firstborn. You are responsible for my sanity. What remains of it, that is!”
The minute Walter closed the door behind them, Scott said, “Okay, man, I know you’re pissed. I’m really, really sorry about the mess. I thought you’d be taking like the last bus back.”
“Well, at least you didn’t blame it on a poltergeist. Just when, may I ask, have you found the time to turn my nice neat apartment into a lowlife nightclub? Oh—at night. Silly me. Have I been served an eviction notice yet?”
“Look. Really. I’m totally sorry,” said Scott. Walter could not tell if he looked genuinely contrite or simply terrified. “Like, we did have a couple friends over to jam, but we kept it pretty low. I promise! We’re totally in this momentum you wouldn’t belie
ve, and I guess I lost track of time and I figured I’d clean up when I got back tonight, and really, man, you wouldn’t have noticed a thing.”
Walter wondered whether it would have made a difference only to suspect that the place had been trashed in his absence. Should he maintain something like the army’s don’t-ask-don’t-tell protocol on queers? Out of sight, out of mind? “And these ‘friends,’ they, like, smoked up a storm?”
Scott looked sheepish. “You never said no cigarettes, Uncle Walt.”
“Right. And I never said no pottery kilns, no prostitution, no…let’s see, off-track betting? Use your common sense, Scott! Do I smoke? No. And what’s with the dishwasher?”
“Sorry. Like I had no idea who to call. For repairs.” Scott was looking at his shoes by now—a pair of orange high-top sneakers. Had Walter’s dress code for Scott’s week as boy maître d’ even specified shoe restrictions? Probably not. Maybe orange high-tops were fine. Don’t get hysterical, Walter warned himself.
He sighed. “I’ll take care of that. Appliances break. But listen.” He told Scott that he would take over for the evening while Scott went back to the apartment and cleaned both the kitchen and the living room, top to bottom. “I’m going to ask for a moratorium on the music this entire week. Doesn’t Sonya have a place of her own where you can practice? Never mind. Just give it a break. I am going to have to gauge how angry the neighbors are. And frankly, I wouldn’t mind a break from Sonya herself.”
If Scott was annoyed, he didn’t dare show it. “Was your vacation cool?” he asked Walter, as if he wasn’t sure he should ask.
“Just dandy,” said Walter. “Now vamoose. And take T.B. He needs a long walk. That, too, if you please.”
Scott saluted.
“Don’t test my sense of humor,” Walter said. “And—not so fast—get a haircut. Tomorrow morning. I will have your great-grandmother’s sampler reframed, but you will reimburse me.”