March was going out like a lamb, but the softening weather, the itchiness of tree twigs, the odd pioneer crocus hiding from the wind seemed to weigh on Owen’s spirits. It’s called depression, he told himself, it can be treated. But he recognized it as the sum of the parts of his life, which seemed not only untreatable, but unacceptable. His father had somehow accepted the unacceptable. He smiled sometimes in Owen’s memory but the smile was more rueful than joyous. Isn’t that the way, the smile seemed to say. I guess this is the way, Owen thought. I always seem to return to it. The hell with the way, he said to himself.
They rounded Hamilton slowly, Tasha inhaling the essence of each branch of the crippled yews huddled around the base, awaiting the next attack. Lights glowed from the grand palazzo across the street. The Boston Center for Adult Education was in full cry. Music from the miniature ballroom flooded the avenue. Demi came out.
For a moment Owen wanted to duck. No place to hide for a man with a white dog. She saw him and danced across the street. Faded jeans and a dashing leather bomber jacket. Blue sneaks, not the house brand, but perfect on her. She carried a Reebok bag and looked to him as if she had just stepped out of the shower. “Hello, Owen. I thought that was you.” Tasha waved her plume.
“It is me. You look wonderful.”
“Just finished my class. It’s such a tough workout. But it feels so good when it’s over. I just got out of the shower.” She pushed the dog’s nose away from her as Tasha took inventory.
“Where are you headed?” he asked. Why don’t you return my calls, he wanted to say. What is the matter with me? Why isn’t it us, instead of you slash me.
“I’m going to Copley Square to catch the T home. Will you walk with me?” The evening seemed suddenly softer, more insistent. She skipped and danced and bounced as if she still heard the aerobic music. She chattered like a girl about clothes and her diet.
As they walked up Dartmouth Street past the spot where he had bumped into Leslie a few hours before Owen saw a policeman’s horse. The tall bay hunter was tied with a hackamore to the iron fence of a parking lot. The blue saddle blanket said BPD. “Handsome,” said Owen.
Demi looked at him and smiled then noticed the horse. Her pace slowed.
Owen dropped the leash. “Stay,” he said and walked over to the bay. “No, I meant the dog. Come here.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Come over here. He won’t mind. He’s good with people, I promise you.”
“No, Owen, I’m terrified of horses.”
“Well, it’s time to be unterrified. Come here.” Reluctantly Demi moved toward them. “Give me your hand.”
“Please, no.”
“Just give me your hand.” He took it and placed it flat against the red shoulder. The taut warm hide flexed and quivered as her anxiety entered the animal, was registered, then dismissed like a fly bite. Owen held her wrist and moved her hand slowly over the concavity of the horse’s neck. The great head swung around and velvet nostrils took in her scent: soap and fear and Poison.
“Oh, God.”
“He’s a good boy. A lot of these animals are donated by private owners. Boston police are better mounted than most of my friends back home.”
“Can we …?”
“Come.” Tasha trotted over and the horse leaned down to sniff the dog. Black nose met red nose. “Isn’t he handsome?”
“He, is it a he?”
“A gelding.”
“You mean?”
“Yes, but definitely categorized as a he horse. They can’t use stallions on the streets for crowd control, traffic, things like that.”
“Why not?” She had moved a few paces away from the horse but she could smell it now very clearly: ammonia and leather and iron.
“A stallion would just not be dependable. They have ideas of their own sometimes.”
“Doesn’t he have ideas of his own?”
“Not stallion ideas. Not many ideas at all, as a matter of fact. His brain is not very large.”
“The rest of him certainly is.”
“Yes, that’s what is so wonderful about a horse. He belongs to us. Humans, I mean. He’s here to serve us.”
“Oh, really? And that dog?”
“She’s much smarter. Learns faster. Remembers. Figures things out. A higher order.”
“But still here to serve us?”
“I think so, although I seem to spend a lot of time serving her. If I had a sled or a travois, though, she’d be glad to pull it. She’s bred to pull.”
“What’s a travois?”
“Two long sticks that carry a bundle or a child. Trail on the ground. Like a cart without wheels.”
“And that one?”
“He’s bred to carry, and to pull.”
“Let’s go. Let’s get out of here. I have to get home.” She hurried across Newbury toward the square swinging her little satchel.
“What’s the matter?”
“I hate a world where living things are bred to pull, and carry, and scrub, and cook. What were you bred for?”
“I wonder about that. I haven’t found out yet. What were you bred for?”
“I was bred to be a boy. When that went wrong, I was bred to breed. Goodnight, Owen.” She vanished into the subway entrance.
“Lighten up,” he wanted to call after her, but he didn’t.
Chapter 34
“All right, creatures of the night, we’re on the air, and all is fair, from Boston, the Attitude Capital of the World. Tonight we’re going to talk live and lively with the latest of our state officials to appear in court, the Chairman of the Department of Motor Vehicles. He is, can you believe what I am saying, charged with drunk driving. Yes. You heard me correctly, the ever-popular DWI. The arresting officers said he smelled like Lynchburg, Tennessee, and he fell off every line in the street, including the sewer line. But he wants to tell you his side of the story. Don’t laugh. There are always two sides to the story, as Ted Bundy said. I know that at least half of you have blown into the old balloon yourselves, and the other half just haven’t been nailed yet. So, let’s hear what he has to say for himself and we can take bets on whether or not it even comes to trial.
“Also tonight, we have with us the author of Nuclear Spring, a new book on arms control or something. No, I don’t mean those AK-47s the kids play with in Roxbury and Dorchester. I mean the Russians, you know, NATO, all that stuff. Here’s your chance to contradict a real expert, a Harvard professor, no less. What can he tell you about world affairs that you haven’t already heard from your mother-in-law? But he’s here in the studio with us tonight, and he’s prepared to try to say something intelligent to this audience. Don’t worry, I’ll give you plenty of advance warning so you can hit the john or the refrigerator if you don’t feel up to it.
“Tonight’s first subject was suggested by Jane in Allston: Do you think men’s clubs in Boston should be forced to admit women members? That’s it. That’s our lead-off topic. Let’s kick it around. What do you-u-u-u think? Hello. Karen in Newton … Nope, sorry, you’re going to have to hold your opinions of the Department of Motor Vehicles until later in the show … That’s right. Sit on it. Hello? Sandy in Southie. All right, you’re on the air.”
“Hello, Dan? This is Sandy. Yes. I love your show. We all listen to you at work. We’re on the second shift at Art’s Hearts.” It sounded like Ot’s Hots.
“We pack candy for like Valentine’s and Mother’s Day and Christmas? Specialty things. And I know what you’re going to ask. Yes, we can eat as much as we want, but frankly we don’t really eat all that much. When you handle it for eight hours a day, see it fall on the floor, you know what I mean?”
“Do you want to talk about our topic of the evening? Or your gut?”
“What was it again?”
“Men’s clubs. Should they be forced to add women members. Say, are all you girls sitting around packing candy and listening to the show?”
“Sure are. Listen to this.”
“Here, give me the phone, yes I want to talk about men’s clubs. I think they should admit women, is this a free country or what? This is like a Constitutional thing. Women have rights, right?”
“Yes, but does it say in the Constitution you have the right to force yourself into an exclusive men’s club?”
“Damn straight it does. What’s their address?”
“Have you been nibbling on those brandy centers? You better wait and talk to our government official coming up next, who is out on personal recognizance. Next caller, please. Hello, Doris in Quincy.”
“I think this is the silliest thing. People are starving in Africa and we’re worried about a couple of social clubs in Boston? Why don’t you just leave them alone?”
“So it doesn’t bother you that you can’t go into their elite clubs?”
“No. And neither can you, by the way. They’d never let a slime like you in the door, let alone become a member.”
“All right. We seem to have a substance abuse problem out there tonight. Here’s Jane in Allston. You’re the one who suggested this topic in the first place, which is proving to be no worldbeater, by the way. What do you have to say about it?”
“Hello, Danny. Yes, well, they better let the women in. They’re going down the tubes if they don’t.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, they don’t have that many new members and except for the booze and the food, they don’t get much income. It’s just a bunch of old guys who sit around all day and night and argue and soak it up like sponges.”
“And how do you know so much about what they do, by the way?”
“I work at one.”
“Oh, you work at a Boston men’s club. Which one? The Somerset? The St. Botolph Club?”
“Never mind. They’re not a bad bunch, but you wouldn’t believe some of the things that go on sometimes. They let women in, might settle things down a little.”
“What do you do at this club?”
“Food Service Coordinator.”
“Does that mean like planning meals and so forth?”
“More on the delivery side.”
“Wonderful. Well, Jane, please stand by. Since you have inside knowledge of the, I think it is fair to call it, outrageous things that go on in a Boston ‘gentlemen’s club,’ maybe our listeners would like to ask you some questions. Hello, Henry in Somerville, you’re on.”
“You’re making this sound dumb. It’s an important thing. Clubs are important. You might not want to go to one yourself, but lots of guys do. So take this a little more serious. If the clubs get shut down as far as serving booze, then forget it. They’re history. And then what happens? You’re going to see a big increase in, whataya callem, Domestic Disturbance. Nine one one is gonna ring off the wall.”
“Well, Henry, what is your solution? You want the Licensing Board to back off on this issue?”
“There’s no way. It’s not what I want, you know. It’s politics. No chance they’ll let go of it now.”
“Then what’s going to happen?”
“Maybe Jane is right. If we had a few women who didn’t come too often …”
“Thanks, Henry. I’ve got Roger in Dover on line three. Dover? What made you call in, Roger?”
“I couldn’t get to sleep.”
“All right, I can accept that. What do you want to say?”
“I agree with the last lady. I think it’s time to make a change. High time. Women will be good for the clubs. But, I’m afraid it isn’t going to cut down on domestic disturbances.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Just a little survey I took.”
“Now, Roger, where do you get your information about this question? Are you by any chance a member of an exclusive Boston men’s club?”
“Yes, I am, as a matter of fact.”
“Well, you sound like you might be. Which one?”
“The, uh, Tavern Club.”
“Oh, the Tavern Club. Is that the one …?”
“Yes. We have a tradition of staging a theatrical production each year. The members take all the parts, including the females.”
“You mean …?”
“Yes. We dress up in women’s costumes. Some of the members think having women in will spoil that, but I contend they can play the male parts.”
“Whoah. What have we got here? Jane, what about this? Is this the sort of thing you see in your club, transvestite gamboling?”
“That’s nothing. You should have seen what happened in the elevator a couple months ago.”
“Well, Roger, let me ask you something else. Roger. Roger? I guess we lost him. O-kay, before we take a commercial break, let me summarize. We seem to have uncovered a rather steamy situation here. This raises the question, if women are ever admitted to these clubs will they want to join? To be forced to dress up in men’s clothes? To be caught in elevators and subjected to who knows what indignities? Perhaps these hotbeds of what might be called post-Victorian prurience should be left to fester undisturbed. What do you think? Call in and register your vote before the show is over. Our lines are open and operators are standing by. And now this.”
He flipped switches, turned wearily in his swivel chair, pulled the headset mike down around his sweaty neck. “Give me some fresh. This tastes like Tidee Bowl. Where’s the goombah? Bring him in and we’ll nail him to the cross.” As his assistant started for the studio door he said, “That was better than I thought. What about all those old bankers and lawyers prancing around in pantyhose?”
“Kinda kinky,” she said, “but kinda cute.”
Chapter 35
The Special Meeting was well attended but unexpectedly devoid of passion. From the moment Walter Junior called the room to order at eight o’clock it was apparent most of the members’ emotion had long been dispersed. They sat in folding metal chairs: gray of lock and bald of pate, well padded and cadaverous, clad in expensive suits and wingtips, clutching each his drink but strangely quiet. The President explained in his sonorous, patient voice the issues known to all in the main—if not in complete detail. Questions of nomination and admission were addressed by the Charles Club constitution. A change to the constitution required a two-thirds majority vote of the entire membership of the club. He had received proxies from thirty-seven members who for a variety of reasons were unable or unwilling to come to the Special Meeting. He would entertain any motions members cared to place before the house. A long mutterous pause ensued.
As the President surveyed the group like a collie eyeing his flock, waiting for one to break from the huddled mass, Abel leaned over and handed Owen a note. Owen balanced his half-empty glass precariously on his knee then, on second thought, drained it and handed it to Abel, nodding affirmatively. Two nearby members followed his lead and Abel departed telling himself for the hundredth time it was foolish to come near anyone in this club without a tray in hand. The note was from Gland, who Owen saw, to his surprise as he craned his neck to survey the crowded Dining Room whose tables had been shoved aside, was not present: “Please bring walking stick in hall stand to Ritz lobby at 8:30. Urgent. Seymour.”
“If there is no motion forthcoming from the floor, I am authorized to present one from an absent member, who has submitted his proxy.” Walter Junior unfolded a sheet of club foolscap and read, “‘I move that Article Four, Clause Twelve of the Constitution of the Charles Club of Boston in the Commonwealth of Massachusetts be amended to read “gentlemen and females,” rather than “gentlemen”.’ Do I hear a second?”
The flock stirred. The Distinguished Poet stood up. “May I ask who offered this motion?”
He was followed by Roger Dormant. “Surely it should say ‘ladies’ rather than ‘females’?”
And Owen. “Second it.”
Walter Junior, unfazed by this burst of rhetoric, replied to the Poet, “S
eymour Gland has presented the motion.” And to Dormant, “I will entertain a motion to amend the wording of the prior motion.”
“So moved.”
“Seconded.”
And to Owen, “We will withhold action on the first motion until we have voted on that which is before the house. Is there any discussion?”
“What difference does it make?” said a voice in the rear.
“If we’re going to do it, we may as well be gracious about it,” said Roger.
Appleyard stood up. “I move the question.”
“Second.”
“Gentlemen, we now have three motions pending. I assume you have moved the question of the amendment.” Appleyard nodded. “The question takes precedence. All in favor of the question, please signify by saying aye.”
“Aye.”
“Opposed?”
“Well, what difference …”
“The ayes have it. We will now vote on the motion to change the language of the original motion from ‘females’ to ‘ladies.’ All in favor?”
“I think ‘women’ would be more appropriate,” said DePalma.
The Distinguished Poet was on his feet. “This is another one of those wretched semantic diddles which have become so popular of late. Are we supposed to call persons of color blacks, or Negroes, or African-Americans? It seems to depend on which liberal Eastern op-ed page you read.”
“The Sphere says …”
“I wouldn’t wrap corn cobs in the Sphere.”
“What are you, Owen, New Mexican-American?”
Walter Junior, his flock now streaming over the hill, barked sharply. “All in favor?”
“Aye.”
“What are we voting for?”
“What difference does it make? It’s all the same question.”
“Now, gentlemen, or perhaps I should address you simply as members, it may not be too early to begin to change some of our old habits, I will call for a vote on the original motion, now amended to read,” he hiked his glasses up his long nose and read, “‘It has been moved and seconded that Article Four, Clause Twelve of the Constitution of the Charles Club be amended to read “gentlemen and ladies,” rather than “gentlemen”.’ Is there any discussion?” A silence without mutters followed these words. Then Roger Dormant stood. “I recognize Mr. Dormant.”
The Last Bastion Page 22