by John Irving
"Not Trowbridge!" I cried; I couldn't believe it! I'd last seen Trowbridge in his pajamas! Kittredge had accosted him when the round-faced little boy was on his way to brush his teeth. I was very upset to think of Trowbridge dying in Vietnam.
"Yes, I'm afraid so--Trowbridge, too, Billy," Mr. Hadley self-importantly went on. "Alas, yes--young Trowbridge, too."
I saw that Grandpa Harry had disappeared--if not in the way Uncle Bob had recently used the word.
"Not a costume change, let's hope, Bill," Nils Borkman whispered in my ear.
I only then noticed that Mr. Poggio, the grocer, was there--he who'd so enjoyed Grandpa Harry onstage, as a woman. In fact, both Mr. and Mrs. Poggio were there, to pay their respects. Mrs. Poggio, I remembered, had not enjoyed Grandpa Harry's female impersonations. This sighting caused me to look all around for the disapproving Riptons--Ralph Ripton, the sawyer, and his no-less-disapproving wife. But the Riptons, if they'd come to pay their respects, had left early--as was their habit at the plays put on by the First Sister Players.
I went to see how Uncle Bob was doing; there were a few more empty beer bottles at his feet, and now those feet could no longer locate the bottles and kick them under the couch.
I kicked a few bottles under the couch for him. "You won't be tempted to drive yourself home, will you, Uncle Bob?" I asked him.
"That's why I already put the car keys in your jacket pocket, Billy," my uncle told me.
But when I felt around in my jacket pockets, I found only a squash ball. "Not the car keys, Uncle Bob," I said, showing him the ball.
"Well, I know I put my car keys in someone's jacket pocket, Billy," the Racquet Man said.
"Any news from your graduating class?" I suddenly asked him; he was drunk enough--I thought I might catch him off-guard. "What news from the Class of '35?" I asked my uncle as casually as I could.
"Nothing from Big Al, Billy--believe me, I would tell you," he said.
Grandpa Harry was making the rounds at his party as a woman now; it was at least an improvement that he was acknowledging to everyone that his daughters were dead--not just late for the party, as he'd earlier said. I could see Nils Borkman following his old partner, as if the two of them were on skis and armed, gliding through the snowy woods. Bob dropped another empty beer bottle, and I kicked it under Grandpa Harry's living-room couch. No one noticed the beer bottles, not since Grandpa Harry had reappeared--that is, not as Grandpa Harry.
"I'm sorry for your loss, Harry--yours and mine," Uncle Bob said to my grandfather, who was wearing a faded-purple dress I remembered as one of Nana Victoria's favorites. The blue-gray wig was at least "age-appropriate," Richard Abbott would later say--when Richard was able to speak again, which wouldn't be soon. Nils Borkman told me that the falsies must have come from the costume shop at the First Sister Players, or maybe Grandpa Harry had stolen them from the Drama Club at Favorite River Academy.
The withered and arthritic hand that held out a new beer to my uncle Bob did not belong to the caterer with the dyed-red hair. It was Herm Hoyt--he was only a year older than Grandpa Harry, but Coach Hoyt looked a lot more beaten up.
Herm had been sixty-eight when he was coaching Kittredge in '61; he'd looked ready to retire then. Now, at eighty-five, Coach Hoyt had been retired for fifteen years.
"Thanks, Herm," the Racquet Man quietly said, raising the beer to his lips. "Billy here has been asking about our old friend Al."
"How's that duck-under comin' along, Billy?" Coach Hoyt asked.
"I guess you haven't heard from her, Herm," I replied.
"I hope you've been practicin', Billy," the old coach said.
I then told Herm Hoyt a long and involved story about a fellow runner I'd met in Central Park. The guy was about my age, I told the coach, and by his cauliflower ears--and a certain stiffness in his shoulders and neck, as he ran--I deduced that he was a wrestler, and when I mentioned wrestling, he thought that I was a wrestler, too.
"Oh, no--I just have a halfway-decent duck-under," I told him. "I'm no wrestler."
But Arthur--the wrestler's name was Arthur--misunderstood me. He thought I meant that I used to wrestle, and I was just being modest or self-deprecating.
Arthur had gone on and on (the way wrestlers will) about how I should still be wrestling. "You should be picking up some other moves to go with that duck-under--it's not too late!" he'd told me. Arthur wrestled at a club on Central Park South, where he said there were a lot of guys "our age" who were still wrestling. Arthur was confident that I could find an appropriate workout partner in my weight-class.
Arthur was unstoppably enthusiastic about my not "quitting" wrestling, simply because I was in my thirties and no longer competing on a school or college team.
"But I was never on a team!" I tried to tell him.
"Look--I know a lot of guys our age who were never starters," Arthur had told me. "And they're still wrestling!"
Finally, as I told Herm Hoyt, I just became so exasperated with Arthur's insistence that I come to wrestling practice at his frigging club, I told him the truth.
"Exactly what did you tell the fella, Billy?" Coach Hoyt asked me.
That I was gay--or, more accurately, bisexual.
"Jeez . . ." Herm started to say.
That a former wrestler, who'd briefly been my lover, had tried to teach me a little wrestling--strictly for my own self-defense. That the former wrestling coach of this same ex-wrestler had also given me some tips.
"You mean that duck-under you mentioned--that's it?" Arthur had asked.
"That's it. Just the duck-under," I'd admitted.
"Jeez, Billy . . ." old Coach Hoyt was saying, shaking his head.
"Well, that's the story," I said to Herm. "I haven't been practicing the duck-under."
"There's only one wrestlin' club I know on Central Park South, Billy," Herm Hoyt told me. "It's a pretty good one."
"When Arthur understood what my history with the duck-under was, he didn't seem interested in pursuing the matter of my coming to wrestling practice," I explained to Coach Hoyt.
"It might not be the best idea," Herm said. "I don't know the fellas at that club--not anymore."
"They probably don't get many gay guys wrestling there--you know, for self-defense--is that your guess, Herm?" I asked the old coach.
"Has this Arthur fella read your writin', Billy?" Herm Hoyt asked me.
"Have you?" I asked Herm, surprised.
"Jeez--sure, I have. Just don't ask me what it's about, Billy!" the old wrestling coach said.
"How about Miss Frost?" I suddenly asked him. "Has she read my writing?"
"Persistent, isn't he?" Uncle Bob asked Herm.
"She knows you're a writer, Billy--everybody who knows you knows that," the wrestling coach said.
"Don't ask me what you write about, either, Billy," Uncle Bob said. He dropped the empty bottle and I kicked it under Grandpa Harry's couch. The woman with the dyed-red hair brought another beer for the Racquet Man. I realized why she'd seemed familiar; all the caterers were from the Favorite River Academy dining service--they were kitchen workers, from the academy dining halls. That woman who kept bringing Bob another beer had been in her forties when I'd last seen her; she came from the past, which would always be with me.
"The wrestlin' club is the New York Athletic Club--they have other sports there, for sure, but they weren't bad at wrestlin', Billy. You could probably do some practicin' of your duck-under there," Herm was saying. "Maybe ask that Arthur fella about it, Billy--after all these years, I'll bet you could use some practicin'."
"Herm, what if the wrestlers beat the shit out of me?" I asked him. "Wouldn't that kind of defeat the purpose of Miss Frost and you showing me a duck-under in the first place?"
"Bob's asleep, and he's pissed all over himself," the old coach abruptly observed.
"Uncle Bob . . ." I started to say, but Herm Hoyt grabbed the Racquet Man by both shoulders and shook him.
"Bob--stop pissin'!" the wr
estling coach shouted.
When Bob's eyes blinked open, he was as caught off-guard as anyone working in the office of Alumni Affairs at Favorite River Academy ever would be.
"Espana," the Racquet Man said, when he saw me.
"Jeez, Bob--be careful what you say," Herm Hoyt said.
"Espana," I repeated.
"That's where he is--he says he's never coming back, Billy," Uncle Bob told me.
"That's where who is?" I asked my drunken uncle.
Our only conversation, if you could call it that, had been about Kittredge; it was hard to imagine Kittredge speaking Spanish. I knew the Racquet Man didn't mean Big Al--Uncle Bob wasn't telling me that Miss Frost was in Spain, and she was never coming back.
"Bob . . ." I started to say, but the Racquet Man had nodded off again. Herm Hoyt and I could see that Bob was still pissing.
"Herm . . ." I started to say.
"Franny Dean, my former wrestlin'-team manager, Billy--he's in Spain. Your father is in Spain, Billy, and he's happy there--that's all I know."
"Where in Spain, Herm?" I asked the old coach.
"Espana," Herm Hoyt repeated, shrugging. "Somewhere in Spain, Billy--that's all I can tell ya. Just keep thinkin' about the happy part. Your dad is happy, and he's in Spain. Your mom was never happy, Billy."
I knew Herm was right about that. I went looking for Elaine; I wanted to tell her that my father was in Spain. My mother was dead, but my father--whom I'd never known--was alive and happy.
But before I could tell her, Elaine spoke to me first. "We should sleep in your bedroom tonight, Billy--not in mine," she began.
"Okay--" I said.
"If Richard wakes up and decides to say something, he shouldn't be alone--we should be there," Elaine went on.
"Okay, but I just found out about something," I told her; she wasn't listening.
"I owe you a blow job, Billy--maybe this is your lucky night," Elaine said. I thought she was drunk, or else I'd misheard her.
"What?" I said.
"I'm sorry for what I said about Rachel. That's what the blow job is for," Elaine explained; she was drunk, extending the number of syllables in her words in the overly articulated manner of the Racquet Man.
"You don't owe me a blow job, Elaine," I told her.
"You don't want a blow job, Billy?" she asked me; she made "blow job" sound as if it had four or five syllables.
"I didn't say I didn't want one," I told her. "Espana," I said suddenly, because that's what I wanted to talk about.
"Espana?" Elaine said. "Is that a kind of Spanish blow job, Billy?" She was tripping a little, as I led her over to say good night to Grandpa Harry.
"Don't worry, Bill," Nils Borkman suddenly said to me. "I am unloading the rifles! I am keeping a secret of the bullets!"
"Espana," Elaine repeated. "Is it a gay thing, Billy?" she whispered to me.
"No," I told her.
"You'll show me, right?" Elaine asked. I knew that the trick would be keeping her awake until we were back in Bancroft Hall.
"I love you!" I said to Grandpa Harry, hugging him.
"I love you, Bill!" Harry told me, hugging me back. (His falsies had to have been modeled on someone with breasts as big as my aunt Muriel's, but I didn't tell my grandfather that.)
"You don't owe me anything, Elaine," I was saying, as we left that River Street house.
"Don't say good night to my mom and dad, Billy--don't get anywhere near my dad," Elaine told me. "Not unless you want to hear about more casualties--not unless you have the stomach to listen to more fucking body-counting."
After hearing about Trowbridge, I truly didn't have the stomach for more casualties. I didn't even say good night to Mrs. Hadley, because I could see that Mr. Hadley was loitering around.
"Espana," I said quietly to myself, as I was helping Elaine up those three flights of stairs in Bancroft Hall; it's a good thing I didn't have to get her as far as her bedroom, which was on the frigging fifth floor.
As we were navigating the third-floor dormitory hall, I must have softly said "Espana" again--not so softly, I guess, because Elaine heard me.
"I'm a little worried about what kind of blow job an Espana is, exactly. It's not rough stuff, is it, Billy?" Elaine asked me.
There was a boy in his pajamas in the hall--such a little boy, and he had his toothbrush in his hand. From his frightened expression, he obviously didn't know who Elaine and I were; he'd also clearly heard what Elaine had asked about the Espana blow job.
"We're just fooling around," I told the small boy. "There's not going to be any rough stuff. There's not going to be a blow job!" I said to Elaine and the boy in pajamas. (With his toothbrush, he'd reminded me of Trowbridge, of course.)
"Trowbridge is dead. Did you know Trowbridge? He was killed in Vietnam," I told Elaine.
"I didn't know any Trowbridge," Elaine said; like me, Elaine couldn't stop staring at the young boy in pajamas. "You're crying, Billy--please stop crying," Elaine said. We were leaning on each other when I managed to open the door to silent Richard's apartment. "Don't worry about him crying--his mom just died. He'll be all right," Elaine said to the boy holding his toothbrush. But I had seen Trowbridge standing there, and perhaps I foresaw that there were more casualties coming; maybe I'd imagined all the body-counting in the not-too-distant future.
"Billy, Billy--please stop crying," Elaine was saying. "What did you mean? 'There's not going to be a blow job!' Do you think I'm bluffing? You know me, Billy--I've stopped bluffing. I don't bluff anymore, Billy," she babbled on.
"My father is alive. He's living in Spain, and he's happy. That's all I know, Elaine," I told her. "My dad, Franny Dean, is living in Spain--Espana." But that was as far as I got.
Elaine had slipped off her coat as we'd stumbled through Richard and my mother's living room; she'd kicked off her shoes and her skirt, upon entering my bedroom, and she was struggling to unbutton the buttons on her blouse when--on another level of half-consciousness--Elaine saw the bed of my adolescent years and dove for it, or she somehow managed to throw herself on it.
By the time I knelt next to her on the bed, I could see that Elaine had completely passed out; she was limp and unmoving as I took off her blouse and unclasped her rather uncomfortable-looking necklace. I put her to bed in her bra and panties, and went about the usual business of getting into the small bed beside her.
"Espana," I whispered in the dark.
"You'll show me, right?" Elaine said in her sleep.
I fell asleep thinking about why I had never tried to find my father. A part of me had rationalized this: If he's curious about me, let him find me, I'd thought. But in truth I had a fabulous father; my stepfather, Richard Abbott, was the best thing that ever happened to me. (My mom had never been happy, but Richard was the best thing that ever happened to her, too; my mother must have been happy with Richard.) Maybe I'd never tried to find Franny Dean because finding him would have made me feel I was betraying Richard.
"What's up with you, Jacques Kittredge?" the Racquet Man had written; of course I fell asleep thinking about that, too.
Chapter 12
A WORLD OF EPILOGUES
Do epidemics herald their own arrivals, or do they generally arrive unannounced? I had two warnings; at the time, they seemed merely coincidental--I didn't heed them.
It was a few weeks after my mother's death before Richard Abbott began to speak again. He continued to teach his classes at the academy--albeit by rote, Richard had even managed to direct a play--but he had nothing personal to say to those of us who loved him.
It was April of that same year ('78) when Elaine told me that Richard had spoken to her mother. I called Mrs. Hadley immediately after I got off the phone with Elaine.
"I know Richard's going to call you, Billy," Martha Hadley told me. "Just don't expect him to be quite his old self."
"How is he?" I asked her.
"I'm trying to say this carefully," Mrs. Hadley said. "I don't want to blame Shakespea
re, but there's such a thing as too much graveyard humor--if you ask me."
I didn't know what Martha Hadley meant; I just waited for Richard to call. I think it was May before I finally heard from him, and Richard just started right in--as if we'd never been out of touch.
Given his grief, I would have guessed that Richard hadn't had the time or inclination to read my third novel, but he'd read it. "The same old themes, but better done--the pleas for tolerance never grow tiresome, Bill. Of course, everyone is intolerant of something or someone. Do you know what you're intolerant of, Bill?" Richard asked me.
"What would that be, Richard?"
"You're intolerant of intolerance--aren't you, Bill?"
"Isn't that a good thing to be intolerant of?" I asked him.
"And you are proud of your intolerance, too, Bill!" Richard cried. "You have a most justifiable anger at intolerance--at intolerance of sexual differences, especially. God knows, I would never say you're not entitled to your anger, Bill."
"God knows," I said cautiously. I couldn't quite see where Richard was going.
"As forgiving as you are of sexual differences--and rightly so, Bill!--you're not always so forgiving, are you?" Richard asked.
"Ah, well . . ." I started to say, and then stopped. So that was where he was going; I'd heard it before. Richard had told me that I'd not been standing in my mother's shoes in 1942, when I was born; he'd said I couldn't, or shouldn't, judge her. It was my not forgiving her that irked him--it was my intolerance of her intolerance that bugged him.
"As Portia says: 'The quality of mercy is not strained.' Act four, scene one--but I know it's not your favorite Shakespeare, Bill," Richard Abbott said.
Yes, we'd fought about The Merchant of Venice in the classroom--eighteen years ago. It was one of the few Shakespeare plays we'd read in class that Richard had not directed onstage. "It's a comedy--a romantic comedy--but with an unfunny part," Richard had said. He meant Shylock--Shakespeare's incontrovertible prejudice against Jews.
I took Shylock's side. Portia's speech about "mercy" was vapid, Christian hypocrisy; it was Christianity at its most superior-sounding and most saccharine. Whereas Shylock has a point: The hatred of him has taught him to hate. Rightly so!
"I am a Jew," Shylock says--act 3, scene 1. "Hath not a Jew eyes? Hath not a Jew hands, organs, dimensions, senses, affections, passions?" I love that speech! But Richard didn't want to be reminded that I'd always been on Shylock's side.