“Out by the pond. I passed it today. It’s all closed up. You don’t need a full studio, do you, Ben? Of course he doesn’t. He’d love the little cottage.”
“It’s a half-hour walk from here to there,” Ormond said, unpersuaded.
Ben suspected he’d be crazy about the little cottage.
“He’s young,” Victor argued. “It’s not far for him.”
“But it isn’t ready.”
“Sure it is. You helped clean it up yourself. Remember? It can’t have gotten more than a little cobwebby in the meanwhile. Besides, he can’t go all the way back now, can he?”
Ben told them he’d already sublet his apartment in the city. He had nowhere else to go.
“You see!” Victor was triumphant. “We’ve got no alternative. Come on, Ben. Dinner’s ready. Afterward, I’ll take you to the little cottage.”
“Victor,” Ormond said, his voice unexpectedly throaty, “That cottage belonged to Hunter.”
“It belongs to the colony.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Ben’s here,” Giove said firmly. “Hunter isn’t.”
“That’s true enough.”
“Then it’s settled.”
*
Four of them ate dinner. Joan Sampson was to have joined them but she called to cancel, saying she had work to do.
Ben did know they had no such thing as community dining at the colony, didn’t he, Frances Ormond asked. Everyone took care of themselves. Except, of course, everyone dined with whomever they wanted to. She hoped that Ben would feel as welcome at her table as Dr. Giove was. It was impossible for Ben to not like the transplanted urban woman who’d evidently found peace in Sagoponauk Rock. Like Victor, she radiated health and happiness. Ben would later discover that as a rare enough quality at the colony. Others had brought their sufferings and neuroses, unable or unwilling to let them go. They argued around kitchen tables just as badly as they had in Manhattan bars. They outraged and scandalized each other in country bedrooms with infidelities and treacheries as though they still lived in West Side apartment complexes. Over the following week, Ben sized up the colony members quickly. Only Mrs. Ormond was judged to be sound.
And Victor, of course. Victor who was the reason Ben had come to Sagoponauk Rock, and the reason he had almost not come. Even after Ben had sublet his apartment. Even after Ben had turned off the exit from the New England Thruway and had driven north for what seemed hours more.
After dinner, Victor got into the Volvo’s driver’s seat and drove through the dark, rutted road to the little cottage. Ben held an extra kerosene can Frances Ormond had provided, unsure whether or not the electricity was turned on.
It was, they discovered, after a longish, silent ride through the deep darkness of the country, passing what would later become landmarks to Ben on his night walks and night drives: the community house, the first two studios, then Victor’s, the apple orchard, then the fork past the pond.
The cottage was L-shaped: a large, bare bedroom separated by a small bathroom and cavernous storage closet from a good-sized study area that opened onto a small, single-wall kitchen with a long dining counter.
Victor built a fire to help clear out the mustiness and the unseasonable chill. Ben went through the kitchen cabinets and found a bottle half full of Fundador. They sipped the brandy, talking about the program they’d tentatively set up the past April at school, which Ben as an apprentice writer would follow at the colony. He was only to show Victor a piece of writing when he was satisfied with it, or unable to find satisfaction in it. Some of the others at the colony never shared their work with each other. Victor and Joan had agreed to meet regularly to read to each other. If he wanted, Ben could join them.
Although it was only a three-and-a-half-month stay, Ben had decided he would write day and night. Not only the few short stories Victor asked for, but a novel too: the novel, the one he’d planned, the one he believed he’d been born to write. Free here of most distractions, he felt certain he’d get much of it done before the last school year rolled around again. He already loved the cottage.
Only the bedroom—after a second look—didn’t seem as cozy as the rest of the house. Ben thought the bedroom’s coldness was due to its appearance: low ceilings, uncarpeted dull wood floor, only a few pieces of furniture—hardly inviting. Perhaps a single night’s sleep would warm it up. The double bed—higher and wider than the one he was used to—was firm yet comfortable when he tried it out.
Victor had gone into the bathroom. He found Ben stretched out on the long wide bed and he stopped, lingering on the threshold.
For a long minute, they looked at each other. Ben—his hands under his head for a pillow—felt suddenly exposed, then seductively positioned, inviting. Giove seemed suddenly bereft of his usual composure; uncertain, fragile, even frightened. Neither of them moved. Ben could feel the tension of the possible and the impossible filling the room like a thick mist.
“It’s getting late,” Victor said, his voice subdued, his hands suddenly gesturing as though controlled by someone else. “I’ll come by in the morning to show you around the colony.”
Ben was embarrassed now too and quickly sat up, then got off the bed to see the older man out. In an attempt to cover over the shame he’d unexpectedly felt, he asked, “Who had this cottage before me?”
“Stephen Hunter, the poet,” Giove said, looking out into darkness.
“You’re kidding! I didn’t know he stayed here at the colony.”
“Oh, everyone important comes to Sagoponauk sooner or later.”
Ben was about to say something about how happy he was that the cottage had such a stellar literary past, but Giove said good-bye and was gone.
Ben settled into the dank chill of the sheets they’d located in the big closet and thought of that moment in the bedroom, of Victor’s suddenly coming upon him on the bed, his hesitation, his distracted gestures, the sudden quiet tone of his voice and his sudden decision to leave. If he had remained another minute, come into the bedroom, come closer to Ben, the impossible would have been possible—in this very room.
Ben climaxed with a sharpness he hadn’t experienced masturbating in years, not since he was an adolescent. Wiping his abdomen with a hand towel, he wondered whether it was the fresh country air or seeing Victor Giove again after so long.
*
Victor didn’t come by in the morning to show Ben around; Ben didn’t see him until dinnertime. But that was only the beginning of Victor’s fluctuations of intense consideration and total aloofness that formed itself into an inescapable pattern.
That first morning, Ben didn’t much care. The bedroom faced east and he awoke to a sunny splendor of bright clear light through nearby trees flooding every inch of what seemed to be a really handsome, though sparsely furnished room.
After a breakfast of bread and honey provided by Frances Ormond the night before, Ben wandered around the colony. He was still too awed to closely approach any studio, believing the other colony members would be intensely concentrating on their writing, and thus not to be disturbed. But he had enough to look at: the pond, surprisingly large, still and lovely, quite close at one edge to his cottage; the apple orchard stretching for miles; the lively stream that formed a tiny marsh where it entered the pond; the large old trees, many varieties he’d never seen before; the young saplings everywhere; the fruit and berry bushes in demure blossom; the wildflowers surrounding the houses; the cottage itself, beautifully crafted out of fine woods, so that built-in tables, drawers, and cabinetry were perfectly integrated by color and grain, all of a piece.
Following Mrs. Ormond’s instructions, he skirted the colony later on, driving up to and along the two-lane highway, locating in one direction a truck-stop all-night diner, a gas station, and after another five or six miles, the tiny hamlet of Sagoponauk—where he purchased a backseat full of groceries and supplies. Driving in the other direction past the colony, Ben found another gas station and an old clapboar
d roadhouse containing a saloon and an Italian restaurant.
The peace that had settled on him momentarily the dusk before returned when he drove back to the colony and arrived to see the little cottage—highest placed of the houses on the property—aglow with fuchsia and orange, its western window reflecting a brilliant summer sunset.
Victor apologized when he saw Ben. Besides doing some writing that day, he said he’d had to fix a propane gas line to Joan Sampson’s oven and hot water heater and then help Mrs. Ormond pick early apples for saucing.
Ben was embarrassed by the apology. He could spend all day with Victor. That was why he had come to the colony. But now that he was here, he could not justify deserving Giove’s attention. Victor wasn’t merely gorgeously unself-conscious, he was altruistic, giving his time and energy to anyone who needed it. Obviously there were others in the colony who needed it as much as Ben.
So Ben contented himself. Especially after the first few weeks, when he began to realize the impossible love between them could only occur suddenly, impulsively, unforgettably: like any other miracle.
Victor’s comings and goings appeared to fit some obscure plan. Ben wouldn’t see him for days, only come upon him mowing a shaggy patch of lawn, or wrapping heavy black tape around a split waterpipe of one of the studios. Then Victor would come by the little cottage early one afternoon, spend all day, remain for a hastily concocted dinner, talk about people and writing and books until past midnight. Only to disappear again for days. Only to reappear again as suddenly, stretched out on the yellow plastic lawnchair at midday as Ben returned home from a walk, or suddenly diving past Ben’s surprised face into the clear water of the pond and swimming to the other shore. His appearances were unpredictable; the hours he spent with Ben so full of talk, of complete attention that Ben would be charmed into persuading himself that Giove was merely being careful; getting to know Ben better: making sure of him totally, before he would suddenly turn to Ben, put his arms around him, and…
That was when Ben would feel frustrated all over again, full of lust, and he would have to go into the bedroom, to lie down, to picture how it would be, sometimes masturbating two or three times after Victor had been with him, feeling his fantasies becoming so real that the impossible had to happen.
Once, Victor came by after dinner when Ben was writing. Giove lay down quietly on the sofa, began to read a magazine and fell asleep. When Ben realized that, he could no longer concentrate. Even sleeping, Victor was too disturbing. Ben wandered around the cottage, trying to wake the older man by the noise he made. He even tried to fall asleep himself. But it was an absurd attempt—the bedroom felt as cold, as uninviting as the first night he’d spent there.
Finally he decided to waken Victor—he was so tall he had to sleep bent up. He would awaken with cramps, pain. Ben didn’t say it to himself, but he suspected that once they were in bed together, Giove would relent.
Victor woke up, stretched, stood up, looked once at the bedroom hallway, as though trying to make up his mind whether or not to stay, then said he wouldn’t hear of it.
That night, it was hours before Ben could fall asleep, even after he’d taken a mild sedative.
He had purposely not touched himself during those tormenting hours of unrest. During the night, however, half-awakened, he felt heat emanating from his genitals, couldn’t fight it off, and worked groggily if efficiently to bring himself to orgasm. Dazed, exhausted, he sank back into slumber.
The following afternoon, Victor was at the pond again when Ben arrived for his daily swim. With Victor, sitting on the tiny dark sand beach, wearing a huge sun hat, was a chaperone: Joan Sampson. Ben remained with them only long enough to be polite.
After that day, Victor and Joan always seemed to be together. Victor was seldom alone.
Even without her interference, Ben thought she was the least sympathetic person he’d met in the colony. She epitomized all he disliked in the others: their utter sophistication and true provinciality; their brusqueness, their bad manners, their absorption with themselves and lack of interest in anyone else except as reflections of themselves. Joan’s frail child’s underdeveloped body and the expensively casual clothing she wore, her birdlike unpretty face and unfocused blue eyes that seemed to look only with disdain, her arrogance, her instant judgements and devastating condemnations of matters she couldn’t possibly know, her artificial laugh, her arch gestures and awkward mannerisms—she might have been a wind-up toy. Next to her, large, naturally graceful, athletically handsome Victor, his Victor, looked bumbling. Together they were grotesque.
Ben now went out of his way to not see them together. He pleaded work when they asked him to join them for dinner. He didn’t show up for readings of their work. He stopped going to where he thought they were likely to be.
The impossible, he began to see, was indeed impossible. He had to forget Victor, to forget him, and above all to stop fantasizing about him.
*
When the cold showers and manual work he made for himself around the cottage no longer served to keep his mind off Victor Giove, Ben began to run miles every day along the two-lane road, to swim hours at a time, in another, larger, pond he’d discovered a short drive away. When he realized these methods were not working either, Ben got into the Volvo late one night and drove to the all-night truck-stop diner.
Two vehicles—one he recognized as belonging to the owner—and a large red semi were parked in the gravel lot. Ben pulled up close to the truck, hidden from both the diner and the road, and waited. When the truck driver finally came out of the diner, Ben rolled down his window and asked for a light for his cigarette.
The trucker was close to middle age, and heavy set, definitely not Ben’s type, but he had kind brown eyes and an engaging grin. He lighted Ben’s cigarette. When he asked Ben if he wasn’t a little young to be doing this sort of thing, Ben shrugged, then leaned back in the car seat with a loud sigh. A second later, the trucker’s lower torso filled the car window frame, the worn denims were unzipped, not another word said. Ben sucked him off and came without touching himself.
The following night, Ben stopped at the roadhouse and struck up a conversation with a traveling salesman who had a suitcase full of encyclopedias. After a few drinks, Ben was able to convince the man he wanted something other than books. The salesman was younger than the trucker, thinner, better-looking, just as obliging. They drove separately away from the roadhouse, met a mile farther at a turn-off, and made love in the backseat of the salesman’s car for over an hour.
Ben drove out late every night. One time he picked up a long-haired hitchhiker who offered him grass. They smoked, and Ben drove twenty-five miles before he got up the courage to ask if he could blow the kid. Sure, the hitchhiker said, unzipping. I was wondering when you were going to ask.
Several times, he repeated his first night success at the truck stop. He also discovered the Exxon station outside of Sagoponauk had a removable plank at exactly the right height between the two booths in the men’s room. High school boys came there after unsuccessful weekend night petting sessions with their girls, and local older men furtively used his services at various odd hours. Ben became bolder, picking up strangers leaving the roadhouse. He was often misunderstood, at times threatened. The bartender, a married partner in the place, offered to guide likely men Ben’s way in return for occasional favors. A week later he took his first payment, sodomizing Ben on a shiny leather sofa in the office after the roadhouse had closed.
During all of these experiences, Ben never felt less frustrated, less craving of sex, or less in love with Victor Giove. But he told himself that whatever else he was doing, at least it was better than fantasizing about Victor and masturbating. That seemed to help.
*
Although he had gone to sleep very late and was even a little drunk when he’d finally gotten back to the cottage, Ben awakened instantly, fully, as soon as he thought he heard the footpads in the darkened room. Fully alert, tensed, he kept his eyes
closed, pretending to be asleep. Whoever had stopped at the foot of the bed was looking down at Ben.
Despite his terror, Ben didn’t panic. Then, oddly, he felt a wave of intense lust passing through his body. Odd, since the young man he’d spent two hours with on a blanket inside a clearing they’d driven to had been both passionate and solicitous of Ben’s pleasure. Ben had felt both mollified and physically exhausted when they’d parted with a long, lingering kiss. Despite that Ben now felt a biting, itching, erection, a pressing need to masturbate, as though he hadn’t had sex in a month.
The fear returned, Ben almost shivered. He pretended to be disturbed in his sleep, mumbling loudly, rolling onto one side before waking up.
During his exertions, whoever had been at the foot of the bed left the room. Ben felt alone again. He listened for noises in the other rooms, waited a long time hearing nothing, then got out of bed and crept first into the corridor, then into the rest of the cottage. The doors were locked, the rooms empty. Puzzled, wondering if it was a dream, Ben went to sleep.
*
Several nights later, he again wakened, sensing someone at the foot of his bed. Once more he felt a scalding, sweeping lust over his lower limbs, the need to touch himself. Then fear reasserted itself, and he was cold again. While he was sleepily trying to get out of bed, whoever it was got away. He was certain it wasn’t a dream this time.
Ben thought about the matter for the next two days and determined to ask Frances Ormond who else had a set of keys to the cottage. Walking to the Ormond house, he came upon Victor Giove, surprisingly alone, sunning on a blanket spread over the grass behind his A-frame studio. Victor’s gloriously tanned body was clad only in a pair of worn, red swim trunks.
Ben moved on with a wave, but Giove hailed him over so insistently that Ben reluctantly joined him, and even took off his shirt to get some sun.
He was “pale as February,” Victor assured him, and he would burn unless he put on some suntan oil. When Ben began to splash it on, the older man said he was doing it all wrong; he would show him how. As Ben lay on his stomach, he expected to feel the large, strong, applicating hands transformed into messengers of caresses. They weren’t. They were brisk, efficient, they spread the lotion evenly, nothing more.
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