It's Not About Sex

by David Kalergis

  “The white guys didn’t go into the weight room?” Lennie asked.

  “Some did, but it wasn’t safe for me. At least not after the trial.”

  “Which trial?” asked Lennie.

  “When they framed me. They claimed I shanked a brother, but I was innocent—I didn’t do it. Someone else did it, another black guy. They got this pimp snitch to pin it on me. They called it manslaughter and gave me twelve more years.”

  “So you didn’t kill the guy—the brother?” Lennie asked.

  “Of course I didn’t kill him. I never killed anyone who didn’t deserve killing, believe me. But they could never catch me doing anything, so they turned the brothers against me instead.”

  Not being exactly sure who “they” were, I didn’t quite follow Ray’s story, but Lennie was obviously fascinated. Lennie considered himself a tough guy—he’d hung around with professional athletes in his younger days and had taken boxing lessons for a few months—but Ray’s guts were in another league.

  “Noboro’s waiting for me, Ray,” said Lennie, after glancing at his watch, “but I’d like to hear more about this sometime.”

  “All you have to do is ask,” said Ray. “I’m surprised you didn’t ask earlier.”

  Now I was surprised. Lennie never had asked him about any of this? Even before taking such steps to help the man?

  “You’re an artist, Ray,” Lennie said. “I know everything I need to know about you from your work. If circumstances had been a little different, it would have been me in prison and you on the outside.”

  Lennie headed down the walkway but turned and spoke again when he reached the Mercedes.

  “See you both at the Big House tonight. Seven o’clock.”

  “That’s a wonderful man,” said Ray, as the car pulled away. “I didn’t know there were such people in the world.” He paused for a moment, not meeting my eyes, then said, “You’ve been a friend too, Bradley.” Before I could respond, he shifted the subject. “Do you really think Platz will pay twenty thousand dollars for one of my paintings?”

  “Much stranger things have happened, Ray.”

  CHAPTER VI

  ◊

  The Hirshes had asked us to be at the Big House by seven p.m., but we didn’t leave the Quaker Cottage until almost seven-thirty. Ray had taken extra time in preparation for his introduction to the Schoolcross social scene, shaving, carefully combing his dark hair straight back, and dressing in the Paul Stuart clothes Lennie had bought him before the opening at Edison’s Electric a distant six and a half weeks ago.

  Although Ray’s skin was still too pale, our mornings outside had left traces of color on his face. As on the evening of his exhibit opening, he was wearing his thin wire-rim spectacles and looked more like an assistant professor of English than an ex-convict. Tonight he was as nervous as I'd ever seen him, certainly more so than at the opening reception, when he hadn’t yet begun to emerge from his shell.

  “How do I look, Bradley?” he asked as we walked up the pathway toward the Big House.

  “You look great. But we're already late. They like to start dinner right on time. What were you doing in the bathroom for so long?”

  “I cut myself,” he said, and pointed to a small clot of bloody tissue on his neck. “I didn't want to get any on my shirt.”

  We hurried up the walkway toward the Big House. Lennie had called earlier and told me to come in through the western entrance rather than the kitchen. The houseguests had arrived, and we were going to eat in Lennie’s studio.

  “Cousin April is English and a favorite of Nora's. She’s just published a volume of poetry and came over with her new husband Hugh Whitworth for a book publicity tour,” he’d said, as if to explain the exalted dining arrangement.

  The days were getting shorter—at 7:40 the glow above the foothills on the western horizon had faded to darkness. As we drew nearer, we cut across the lawn where we practiced kendo. Our steps were illuminated by lights burning in every window of the Big House, intentionally, I was sure, for the dramatic effect. Spotlights strategically located under the fascia of the Big House further lit the grounds. For a moment we were dwarfed by darkness falling from the columns, but we passed through it quickly.

  Music, laughter, and conversation merged and intensified as we pushed open the towering front door that led directly into Lennie’s studio. The room’s dimensions were square and very grand, perhaps forty feet by forty feet, with a fifteen-foot-high ceiling. The center was graced by an enormous antique crystal chandelier, its branches invisibly strung for electricity, its score of flickering bulbs carefully adjusted by rheostat to resemble candle flames. Surrounding the border where the walls met the ceiling was an exquisite faux marble molding. Lennie had told me that a modern sprinkler system had been installed within it during the extensive renovations.

  “For insurance purposes,” he’d said, but the work had been done so skillfully that one had to look closely to detect its existence.

  The molding and chandelier must have cost a fortune, but, to those who appreciate such things, the aesthetic effect was breathtaking.

  The far wall, which faced us as we entered from the west, was the mirror image of the front, with floor-to-ceiling windows that in daylight gave a spectrumed light through drooping panes. In the center of the back wall, another massive door faced eastward onto another identical, white-columned porch that overlooked the east lawn, toward the junction of the Circle and the driveway.

  Off the studio to our left a wide corridor led past the entrance to a rather stuffy, seldom-used formal dining room. The hallway passed through a butler’s pantry and ended in the kitchen, with its dark iron commercial stove set between black and white tile counters. From my previous visits, I knew that alongside this cooking area was a large, often-used country-rustic wooden table with ten matching wooden chairs.

  On the other side of the studio, to my right, another wide corridor led, ultimately, to Lennie and Nora’s library and their spacious private master suite. But first the hallway passed a wide entrance to a comfortable sitting room with a well-stocked bar, where the Hirshes entertained when the kitchen was deemed too informal or insufficiently celebratory.

  After adjusting to the scale of the house, what next caught my eye were the objects—the many things (they called them the things) that were drawn to Nora and Lennie like metal filings to some powerful magnetic force: colored stones and glass of unusual shape, figurative and abstract sculptures of all sizes, exotic sea shells, a camel's saddle, a fan of ostrich feathers. And on every wall were prints, photographs, and paintings, each competing for attention with hundreds of other things.

  In the studio itself, Lennie’s work table, cluttered with paints, containers of brushes, and smeared palettes, occupied a prominent position near the east door. I didn’t see any new work, but three of his completed paintings were displayed on easels. He must have moved his new work for the occasion, perhaps to his library down the hall; like many artists, Lennie wasn’t keen on having others see his works-in-progress.

  The three pieces on display were in his more recent style. In the last five years he had shifted away from his early signature of large-scale, freely scribbled, calligraphic-style graffiti paintings, set on solid fields of gray, tan, or off-white. His more recent paintings and works on paper had moved into a style of romantic symbolism in which their titles were visually expressed through shapes and forms and words. The three paintings on display, which had been featured at the Tate along with two others from the series, were of various inscriptions and interpretations of the word "VIRGIN."

  Although Lennie's studio was closed to everyone during working hours, he and Nora sometimes dined here with visitors on special evenings. Tonight, two of the long country-rustic wooden tables, lit by glass hurricane lamps with candles inside, had been set in the middle of the room. Matching chairs for six—two on each side and one each at the heads and feet—had been arranged in the middle of the room. The guests were all gathered
around the tables, anticipating dinner. The women had already taken their seats; the men stood with drinks in hand.

  At the table to my right were six people—five residents of the estate, including Lennie, who stood at the head of the table, and a newcomer. At a word from Lennie, Kathleen Fox, the pleasant, somewhat heavy-set wife of farm manger Will Fox, rose from her chair at the foot and moved toward the kitchen.

  I hadn't yet placed Kathleen Fox in the hierarchy of the estate's residents. I knew she was a cook of considerable reputation. She also seemed to serve as a troubleshooter for domestic matters, but her demeanor was more like a solicitous houseguest than an employee. Like the other Schoolcross residents, she was totally devoted to Nora and in awe of Lennie, who tended toward remote formality with her and the others who lived in the Circle.

  To the right of Kathleen’s now-vacant place at the foot of the table was the dark-complexioned, smallish, but powerfully built Mario—one half of the couple known as “the boys.” Lennie had told me that Mario, a talented sculptor and woodworker, was the creator of these splendidly crafted rustic tables and matching chairs, which he had built using walnut harvested from ancient Schoolcross trees damaged by winter storms. Mario was the companion of Nora’s Swedish masseur and dear friend, Lars, who was sitting to her right at the other table.

  Lennie broke off his conversation with the stranger and came toward the door to greet us. The young stranger remained standing at his place, and I noted that he was wearing one of those multi-colored button-up cardigans—the kind that are so stylish on an upper-class Englishman when he is casual, but so garish on an American under any circumstances. He could only be Hugh Whitworth, the new husband of Nora’s cousin.

  Across the table from where Hugh stood sat Nora’s friend and yoga teacher, Tamara Skye. She and Mario had had their heads together, talking, but with our entrance into the studio they had both raised their eyes to stare at Ray Martin, whom I suspected had been the topic of conversation.

  Lennie approached us, smiling broadly. After shaking Ray's hand, he guided him to the table on the left, where he was greeted by Will Fox and Noboro, and introduced to Nora’s cousin April. I made my way to the table on the right, where I greeted Tamara and Mario, and introduced myself to Hugh. After I’d completed these pleasantries, Nora called me over to her table, where Noboro first bowed to me and then offered warm handshake.

  “Sit down next to me, Bradley,” Nora said, indicating the chair between her and Noboro. “But first meet my cousin, April. She has a volume of poetry coming out this month with Oxford Press.”

  I expressed my congratulations to April and shook her offered hand. Then I said hello to Lars and to Will Fox, who’d been standing silently in front of his chair at the foot of the table. All the men took their seats.

  April’s grip had been cool and firm. I noted now that she had one of those clear, pale complexions sometimes bestowed on the English—paler even than Nora’s. April was wearing a flattering coral cashmere sweater and a jaunty beige newsboy cap. Under the cap, I could tell that she wore her brown hair fashionably short. For some reason—maybe because she was a poet, or because of the cap and the short haircut—I liked her immediately.

  “We were in New York this afternoon and saw his work at the gallery,” April said to me, glancing at the other table toward Ray. “My God, his paintings are marvelous.”

  I, too, looked at Ray, who'd been immediately included in an animated conversation. Mario was performing for the group, to the accompaniment of much laughter, giving his impression of our morning kendo lessons on the west lawn. Bottles of Lennie's Chianti Classico were being poured freely. This was the first time I’d seen Ray drink alcohol since the two beers in the limousine. The volume of chatter and clinking tableware increased as we all drank wine and ate our salads.

  Kathleen Fox and Gladys Rhodes, wife of the farmhand Claude Rhodes, cleared the salad plates from the tables and brought in trays from the kitchen. Nora helped position the main course, buffet-style, on a side table, and Lennie tapped his crystal water glass with a silver spoon, making a lovely ringing noise. Conversation stopped.

  “I see that the food has arrived,” he said. “So please, everyone help yourselves.”

  The main course was a fusilli bucati pasta, cooked al dente, with spicy Italian sausage and hot crusty garlic bread. Out of long habit, I discreetly examined the china, silver, and crystal. The plates were Royal Dalton Derby—the pattern with the tri-color hounds chasing smiling red foxes in a circle around the outer rim. They were old, but mine, at least, was in perfect condition. The heavy silver was a Saratoga pattern from Tiffany’s—also very old—and the crystal glasses were newer Orrefors, perhaps from the fifties. Taken in combination with the grand surroundings, the total effect was impeccable, and I wished that Linda and my mother and father were with me to appreciate it.

  Calculating rapidly, I figured the combined sets would easily bring ten thousand at the New York Weatherby’s, but I kept that to myself. Such appraisals had been part of my training, and were now something I did for fun. Linda was the only person I could share it with. Nora would have found the exercise appalling, and rightly so.

  Everyone had served themselves full plates and returned to their seats. Soon, judging by the laughter, a riotous time was again being had at the next table. I was glad to see Ray so relaxed. Mario could be very funny, and he was now playing off a willing Lennie as straight man for the benefit of Ray and Tamara, who appeared quite cozy sitting together. While I watched, her shoulder touched his as they laughed, and she looked into his eyes and smiled.

  At my own table, I talked about kendo with Noboro, while, across from us, April and Nora talked family, with Lars sitting silently between them. Then Noboro and I turned our attention to our food, and I tried to listen in on Nora and April’s conversation. Apparently April had visited the Van Leuydens’ Park Avenue apartment that morning to introduce Hugh to Nora's parents.

  “And how was the visit?” Nora asked.

  “Uncle Highat and Aunt Elisabeth were in great form,” answered April. “All dressed up with nowhere to go at eleven in the morning, and on their best behavior.”

  “They hadn’t started drinking yet,” said Nora. “Did they say anything outrageous?”

  “Well, they obviously were very interested in my marriage, but Hugh was an angel. He mentioned friends our parents have in common and changed the subject to Oxford.”

  “You should have seen them the first time they met Lennie,” said Nora. “Mother shook his hand and said to him in this clear voice, as if speaking to a foreigner, ‘We've heard such good things about your people.’ He said, ‘Thank you. They invented the concept of a single God, you know.’ He’s been in the doghouse ever since.”

  They ate in silence until Nora asked, “Did Mother mention me?”

  After using her napkin to blot a bit of tomato sauce from her lips, April said, “You don't want to know.”

  “Oh, but I do. Believe me, it won’t be any worse than what they've said to my face.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, this isn't completely fair to Mother,” said Nora, “because she had been drinking, but the last time she was here she told me Grand Mommy would be spinning in her grave if she knew I'd turned Schoolcross into an insane asylum for Jews and homosexuals.”

  April gasped with laughter, almost losing a mouthful of wine.

  “God,” she said. “That sounds exactly like her.”

  “So what did she say to you this morning?” Nora asked again.

  “Well . . .” April looked across the room at Lennie, who was now deep in conversation with her new husband. “When Hugh went to the loo, she asked me if he was Catholic like the first one. That's what she said, 'like the first one.' She was so relieved when I told her he wasn't. She gave this immense sigh and said, ‘That's good. I could have told you, these mixed marriages never work. Look at poor Nora.’ I said you always seemed wonderfully happy, but she ignored that.” />
  Nora looked across the table and saw that I'd been listening. She smiled wanly.

  “Family talk,” she said to me.

  I wondered what she was thinking. Being Lennie’s wife was certainly not easy for her.

  I made polite conversation with Will about the lack of recent rainfall. Lennie had pulled his chair over to our table, behind me, and was extracting Japanese folk tales from Noboro. Nora's smile lingered in my mind, and I thought of my own struggling marriage. My mood sank as my thoughts drifted. I drank two more glasses of the Chianti, but instead of cheering me up, the wine made me more maudlin.

  “What’s the matter, Bradley?” Nora asked me.

  When I looked around Lennie’s studio, I saw that the others had finished eating and were getting up from the tables. “I was listening to you talk with your cousin, and then was thinking about my wife.”

  The guests were all moving toward the sitting room. Lennie jumped up to start building what he announced would be the first fire of the year in the immense fireplace. Coffee and dessert would be waiting on the big square walnut table in front of the marble hearth. Nora and I lingered at the dinner table. I’d never spoken to her before about my marriage.

  “You probably need to talk to someone,” she said. “Have you seen a counselor together?”

  “Not yet. I know we need to.”

  “You could talk to me in the meantime if you wanted, Bradley. Or maybe you should talk to a man. Lennie probably would be good,” she said.

  “I have talked to Lennie. He’s been very understanding.”

  She raised one eyebrow. “You have talked to him?”

  My warning antennae were signaling, but I couldn’t find the direction of the danger. “Of course I have.” I tried to make him look good. “He’s very perceptive. He thinks Linda kicked me out because she couldn’t bring herself to confess something.”

  She looked me squarely in the eyes. Her irises were green, but the flecks of color weren’t yellow like I’d thought. They were golden.