Suddenly, hands rested on his shoulders. Philip was so engrossed in these black thoughts, he didn’t notice that Thomas had emerged from the office. He now stood behind him.
“I am sorry,” Thomas said. His voice was silvery and warm. Not a trace of fury to be heard.
Philip placed his hand on Tee’s.
“For what? For using slang?”
“No. I wanted your stay to be unencumbered by my little outbursts. I am embarrassed.”
Philip kissed his hand.
“That was an outburst? Wait ‘til you see me blow my cork.”
Thomas came around. He took Philip into his arms and wept.
“I am sorry.”
“No need to be. That detective would rattle anyone, and Flo’s an asshole. The sooner I get used to that fact, the better off we’ll be.”
Thomas kissed Philip’s forehead.
“My brave sailor. It could have been you instead of Max that they fished out of the Hudson. The thought terrified me. I am so sorry.”
“Stop saying that, Tee. I’m smarter than that. I wouldn’t go off with a perfect stranger.” He smiled at this. “Well, not unless the stranger was . . . perfect.”
“So you are staying? You are not leaving me?”
Philip laughed, and then gave Tee a kiss smack on the gob.
“What? Leave and miss a trip to P’Town. I want to see the whales.”
Tee smothered him in his arms. Philip almost relaxed, but he made a mental note in his own spiral book. Max Gold was dead. Someone snuffed out his life without hesitation. Still, life was too short to forgo adventure. Why ever would one go to sea but not to seek leviathan’s flukes? Philip wanted to see the whales, and see the whales he would.
Part II: In the Hammocks
Chapter One
Old Charlotte
1
The line of sea and sky was broken by the crest of land that he could see when he pushed to the surface, his blowhole seeking the crisp ocean air. He winked at his mate as she swam just beneath him. He would be lashing through the waves toward the sky soon — a playful game for those small craft he spied nearby. He knew that on the prow the humans would wave to him and applaud. He kept his deep blue eye square along the rippling waters. He saw the distant tower that had been his key when in these waters. It pricked the cloudless sky like coral, only in the world of air and sails.
Blow it high so they could see him — a marker of the deep. Laughter churning to the reef. They were still distant, too far to lavish their praise. Still the spout would draw them nigh. It always had. Down through the layers of blacked blue, he felt the warmth of this sunless world, where the krill swam heedless into his maw. His mate turned about and over, her flippers stroking the waters, causing the current to feed them more — to stream the microcosm into their leviathan bulk. It was ever so offshore and in season that he and his mate should cleave the chalice of the sea and then break the cup’s edge into sunlight.
He saw the prow nearing. It was time for a display of mastery — mastery of the deep. These small humans once thought they ruled the waves, but he knew better. He sang to his mate, and she answered the call. Together they broke the surface as surely as the land broke the line of sea and sky. The spout shot skyward — marker to mastery, barely missing the gulls that circled above the krill, singing a chorus in the spume as these two rang forth in a duet under heaven’s radiant light.
2
In flight, the spray clipped her wings. She had the best view of sea and land, but the krill was difficult today, beneath the great jaws; muted in the currents. Therefore, she soared away from her sisters as they yapped above the approaching prow. The dunes held more promise. She smelled the distant clam beds at the land’s crest. Better promise today.
She hovered above the wave, as still as a moth, the sea breeze wafting her to and fro in stolid motion. Her children were near, still craving krill, but she knew better. She was seasoned on these shores. She cawed and her striplings peeled away from the white fluttering squall joining her in obedience. Then, up and back to shore — back to the docklands and the bricklands, where the pigeons reigned.
She scoured the grounds from the heights above the tower. The sleek brick candle was home to nests, but not hers. Still the currents favored her, bent in the gale and funneled to the East End, where the dunes harbored crabs and lizards, and the clam beds held great promise. So around the tower she flew, her brood in tow, catching the land gale that spun them over the marvels of the town. Over the roofs and slopes of taverns and alehouses. Below were the human trade — good stews, these, for their waste management, but until the day stalked higher in the sky, she would need to invade the froglands and the turtlelands.
There, where the houses dropped away and the humans competed with faux birds with rag tails and long strings — there, where the sand beveled to the grasslands and the sea kissed sharply along the narrow strand — there, the clams winked down under. She cawed and hovered before the dive. Then, as swift as a stone from the heights, she dove and caught the seductive meal in her beak. The weight of it felt good and promised much. She heard her children splash behind her in the waves. She soared toward the jetty, and then dropped her cargo, racing it to the rocks, where it shattered, the morsel within snapped up into her jaws, peppery with a touch of brine. Another dive was in order.
She looped to the heavens gathering momentum over the cattails and the shore grass, where she spied a waiting paw in the vines. That was to be avoided, and she did, signaling her children to pass high over the dunes, because the witches and warlocks were loose within the shrubbery.
3
His furry paw tried to catch the gull, but these noisy creatures were smarter than they appeared. Just short of capture, the bird changed its course and flew toward the sea. What was an old Maine Coon to do among the reeds and grasses? There was a mouse earlier that day — a pretty thing, too fragile to eat. It made for good sport, but hardly tasty. Not like the tins placed in the overgrown gardens by those nice ladies. There were always nice ladies in this town — ladies who lived with ladies, and they all loved the furry tribe that marauded through the high grasses and the tumbledown gardens. There was nothing to fear from these ladies. The men were not as friendly, but the ladies — oh, those ladies. They put the tins out with fine, moist fish and chicken.
The only fear that lingered was who was king of the hill. There was once a fierce tabby, who reigned over all the tins. He would hiss at anything that came close to the pavement or the garden margins — at least, until he had his fill. But he was gone now. Died of old age, his teeth falling out one by one. Now the Maine Coon ruled. They all knew it. They all prowled through the town, down the alleys, under the shadow of the great tower. Still, it was acknowledged that the ladies who lived with ladies loved the Maine Coon best. The tins glittered in the morning sun, the aromas enticing all, but no one ate until the Maine Coon did.
So the mouse was just a plaything, as was the bird. He wouldn’t have eaten the bird if he had brought it down. He would have just pounced on it and left it half-alive, prey to lizards and snakes. Still, it would have been nice to have such a toy on such a fine day. He sounded off, at an annoyed pitch that let the undergrowth know that he was tired of prowling — that he was about to emerge onto the street and trot up the hill to his favorite lady who lived with a lady. She would have a nice, late treat for him, and then brush his fur through her spindly fingers.
He thought long about coming out into the daylight, but when he finally made up his mind, he leaped onto the street and past the great gray porch that was always there. At the top was a mass of red fur and teeth that raised its head and growled. It was more a greeting than aggression. The Maine Coon arched his back and returned the compliment, and then scurried across the street toward his heavenly treat.
4
The furry head returned to its rest. It was an old head — nay, an ancient head, with sad, blind eyes and fading scent. He waited for the sun to arch across th
e gables and warm him as it had for these score and a quarter years. He had lumbered to the narrow strand, barked at the birds and looked out to sea. Now he was tired, such exercise overcoming his arthritic legs. He could scarcely climb the stairs to the porch; his spine degenerated by degrees. Once there, he would wait for the sun, interrupted only by a passing cat. Even the flies left Old Charlotte unmolested.
His owner, a gentleman who lived with a gentleman, called him Old Charlotte. Despite the fact that, unlike his owner, he had fathered five litters, the good couple that oversaw his care and feeding insisted that he was their girl, and lavished ever so many hugs and kisses on him. He took it in stride for the nice bowl of senior dog chow they provided. Besides, they supplied a variety of friendly pats and prods. The porch was evidently a place where the gentlemen owners entertained many guests who came to this town to enjoy that sun that peeped beyond the gable. They trod over the wooden porch and frolicked on the swing. They were a silly lot to Old Charlotte, but he ignored them for the chance of getting a caress, which always came. Everyone loved Old Charlotte. In fact, Old Charlotte came to regard the porch as his own private place in the shade and sun, the many visitors coming to pay him homage. So be it.
Now there came another soft hand running fingers through the fine red coat and croaking Old Charlotte. Good Old Charlotte. This one sat on the top stair and hugged him. The hand was most talkative, but the hum of his voice was interesting, lulling Old Charlotte to sleep. It was a fine day in this town, with the whales to sea, the birds to air, the cat in the fiddle and, on the porch of The Pink Swallow Inn, Old Charlotte lulled by a visitor’s voice and hand. Such was the rhythm of life in the hammocks in Provincetown.
5
“Jesus Marie,” Sprakie murmured as he combed his hand through Old Charlotte’s coat. He watched the old queens emerge onto the porch of The White Swan, the elite hotel across Commercial Street. “The oasis is open. It’s time to water to old crows.”
Sprakie had managed to hitch onto Philip’s star and come to Provincetown. He wasn’t working at manluv, because its license was still suspended, and although he had some pokers in the fire, Max Gold’s death had shaken him to the core. Philip had found Sprakie deeply ensconced in his apartment on Avenue A, under the covers of his grand boudoir. He refused to emerge for anyone, but Philip managed to coax him to dinner with Thomas — The Gujerati Rose. However, Robert was changed. He was quiet and withdrawn, so much so that Thomas took pity on him. You might be a pain in the ass, Sprakie, Thomas reckoned, but without your snide repartee, I doubt the world could still orbit the sun. So Thomas invited Sprakie on the Annual Pilgrimage.
Sprakie came back to life — went on interviews, did a few quick tricks and even managed a photo op on boyfun.com. However, it was the promise of a wild time at P’Town that kept him in ever-higher spirits. He had always wanted to be in P’Town with . . . with Philip. He had this notion of dancing every night in every club with his protégé. So when they arrived in the great Cape Cod resort (Florian Townsend in tow), Sprakie had an agenda set — an agenda that frittered to the dunes within a day.
Philip liked to party — to dance, to watch the men and even to touch, but he was on Thomas’ schedule, which called for long morning walks on the beach, kite flying in the dunes, luxuriant hours in bed, small talk from the hammocks, evenings at the theater and the incessant parade through the town’s main street — shopping, shopping, shopping. There was the town hall museum and the heritage cemetery. There were strolls to the coast guard station and scaling the Pilgrim’s tower looking out to sea. Comparison shopping for the best lobster deal for the evening meal was routine. Voyeurism at the naked volleyball court on the far beach was a must. Where this left Sprakie, he couldn’t tell and the others didn’t seem to care. He was always invited along, but he wanted to boogie at The Atlantic House and frolic at the daily Tea Dance at The Boatslip. Now Sprakie was reduced to waiting and watching the old queens on the porch of The White Swan, while Thomas and Philip were off watching whales.
Sprakie hugged Old Charlotte, kissing the dog’s silky head.
“Watch this, pooch.” He stood and waved at the gathering across the street. Since he was wearing something short of a thong, the tools of the trade in evidence, the old poufs at their oasis waved back, careening over the railing to get a better look.
“Kiss this,” Sprakie mumbled as he wiggled his ass, and then did a hootchy-kootchy dance. He laughed, because he knew that he had pacemakers racing and sugar levels soaring. He caught the attention of a parade of strollers, who strutted down Commercial Street, their abs glistening in the sun. They whistled.
“Yes, sir,” Sprakie called, blowing them a kiss. He spied the hairdresser from the salon across the street emerge, shading his eyes.
“If you can’t show it off, it ain’t worth showing,” Sprakie shouted. The hairdresser applauded and began his own dance. The old queens were falling over themselves, the drinks spilling on designer shorts. Three Coast Guardsmen passed by. Sprakie stopped his dance, smacking his lips.
“I always love a man in uniform, you hunks.”
They ignored him. Sprakie hunkered down beside Old Charlotte, who stretched at his touch. “Jesus Marie. Don’t you believe for a minute that they’re all straight down at the East End. Why else do you think they got stationed in P’Town? I mean, how many straight bars are in this village.” He kissed the dog’s head. “There isn’t even a bar for the heterosexual fag-gawkers that come every Saturday to report home about those queers holding hands in public, would you believe it. Jesus Marie.”
As if on cue, a family of four strolled by. They stole glances at Sprakie, the dizzy old queens and the dancing barber. They were clearly sightseeing. Sprakie bounced to his feet, placing both hands on his hips.
“It fries my ass to be a museum piece for a batch of tourists who come for nothing except to see how the other ten-percent live.” The family accelerated. Sprakie shouted. “And you really don’t see what you could be seeing. I mean, when you go to the zoo, you see the mating habits of the lions. You should go on the Trollop tour though this town. You should see what goes on under the boardwalk. Jesus Marie.”
Sprakie grinned — the old Sprakie, the one that always lurked in the dunes waiting for the occasional mouse.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” he announced, adopting a British accent, “on your right is the famous Boatslip Lounge, where the fags come and dance each afternoon and arrange for afterhour fooking. Then, I direct your attention to the left, where we have a prime example of the sexual proclivity of the modern hamosexual — in this case an average orghee of five men. I refer you to your tour book. Match the pictures to the appropriate sexual act and you will soon see the importance of this life-style in keeping the population explosion in check. Videos are available at the trollop stop.”
The family was gone. The queens at The White Swan could have been displayed at Madame Tusaud’s. The barber returned to his tonsorial duties. Sprakie had shocked the world, except Old Charlotte, who stretched again just as the sun peered past the gable.
“Quite a display,” came a sour voice from the hotel’s threshold.
Sprakie turned. “It’s you — creepyman.”
“Yes.” Flo fiddled with his fingers like a crab. “I thought you’d be out at the Tea Dance, or somewhere with your legs in the air and your soles parallel to the ceiling.”
“Been there. Done that. Besides, I’m waiting for Philip to go to the Tea Dance.”
“Fat chance of that,” Flo scowled. “Whale watching today and O’Neill tonight. Your chances are slim.”
Sprakie stepped into Flo’s space with an I’m not afraid of you move. “So’s yours, creepyman. Your author squeeze is squeezing somebody else now.”
Flo’s nostrils flared, but Sprakie didn’t wait for the explosion. He would meet the whale watchers on the dock, and then work his persuasion from there. He trotted down The Pink Swallow’s stairs, stopping only to kiss Old Charlotte’s muzzle. H
e pointed back at Florian.
“Bite him. He’s a bad, bad man.”
Old Charlotte arose, his claws scratching the porch’s gray paint. He looked toward Mr. Townsend, who he could only see as a monochrome figure. Yawning, the oldest citizen of Provincetown retreated into the hotel parlor, relinquishing his beloved sun for a stretch of peace and quiet.
Chapter Two
Quartets
1
“Wow,” Philip cried as the spume sprayed across his face. His eyes lilted over the waves as the duet of flukes lifted above the snowy crest of sea and tails — a regal duet between the master and mistress of the sea. “Thank you, Tee. I would have never thought I’d see such a sight. Never.”
“Oh, you’ve seen it before,” Thomas said. “In your mind’s eye:
“Crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed for an instant like heaps of fountains, then brokenly sank in a shower of flakes, leaving the circling surface creamed like new milk round the marble trunk of the whale.”
Philip turned, and then planted a kiss on Thomas’ lips. “Yes, I have, but here it’s more real.”
Thomas smiled. “Look ahead.”
The leviathan rolled onto its back, its flipper shaking in the sun. His mate raced beside him spouting in harmony as if upon a liquid stage, the curtain of the tide had fully drawn for popular appreciation. Then, together they dove, their flukes again entangling the breeze.
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