Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  Thomas stood. “Please leave me.”

  “Of course,” Flo said. He nodded as if he had performed a great service for a kindred soul. He said no more, but headed through the door.

  Thomas, stunned but not surprised, drifted on a sorry wave to the balcony. The sun wasn’t warm now. It was just hot — too damn hot for its own good or anyone else’s. He looked to sea, the waves angry upon the jetties. Suddenly, the page in his hand was slick. He gazed at it, trying to suppress a tear. He crumpled it in his fist, and then tossed it over the side, hoping that the wind would take it past the jetty.

  Philip. Philip.

  Thomas Dye wept.

  Chapter Five

  Off-Stage Drama

  1

  Philip returned to The Pink Swallow alone — a little tipsy, but nothing that he couldn’t handle. He had mastered his hormones, departing from Dennis on tenuous terms. Perhaps later, he thought. Dennis had been drinking more than Philip had and was less inclined to wait. Still, the world turned on such moments — soft promises and hard intensions. As for Sprakie, Philip couldn’t find him and assumed that Robert had corralled a passel of bulls to keep him busy — the credit card machine churning for the balance of the day.

  Philip looked toward the declining sun. He was probably late for the theatre — late being his modus operandi. However, it was just a play after all, even if it did star the incomparable Lars Hamilton. Philip slogged up the porch stairs and, upon reaching the top, sat beside Old Charlotte, who had returned for a late afternoon nap. Philip kissed and then hugged him. He thought of his Ahab teddy bear, left behind at The Papillon Arms. Old Charlotte’s coat was as soft as Ahab’s fur. Philip smiled.

  “Hey, girl. You old beast.” Old Charlotte licked Philip’s face from chin to eye. “That tickles. You smell the beer, don’t you? I bet those queens tank you up in the evening so you can sleep. I mean, you sleep all day, so nights must be tough.”

  Philip thought of nighttime. His nights were a time for renewal. He had never known such security before, deep in Tee’s arms. He couldn’t remember the last time he slept in his own room. He would go there to strip and grab Ahab, and then toddle down the hall to the master bedroom. Tee would be waiting; and after the lovemaking, they would cuddle, Thomas quoting Melville or Dickens or King. It was remarkable what a photographic memory could muster. It was so very . . . settling. They were like two seasoned fairies in the hammocks, or couples sitting around a table balancing pink checkbooks, deciding on the best marinade for the Sunday Pot Roast. Settling.

  Philip hugged Old Charlotte again, and then thought of Dennis. He knew nothing about this young engineering major, who seemed as randy as a buck on the lea, and who danced with vigor, like Pan in the undergrowth awaiting an opportunity to pull out his pipes and have his way. Unsettling. What had Philip known about the others — before Tee? Not much, if anything. True, Sprakie would encourage him to solicit some level of investment opportunity. Good job? Big spender? Marketable securities? Still, the hormones drew Philip wherever they guided him. He was no different from any other twenty-year-old on the make — but now; he had softened and liked it. Although, on the dance floor, with Dennis pinioned on his crotch — green shorts on beige cut-offs, the desire to bandana Ahab’s eyes and drag Dennis off into the high grasses was a powerful urge to suppress. Philip sighed, and then squeezed Old Charlotte’s head. Thoughts of Ahab returned.

  “I’m late,” he whispered in the dog’s ear. “I might catch some hell.” Although he had never known Tee to pitchfork any hell. Still, there was a disapproving stare occasionally tossed. Philip knew it and had learned how to disarm it. Well, he had better be about it now. He stretched, and then crossed The Pink Swallow’s threshold.

  While the hotel rooms were utilitarian, encouraging visitors to flee to the beach, The Pink Swallow’s parlor was a warm, velvety Victorian sitting room, much too hotly decorated for the weather. Still, it invited guests in the morning cool to lounge with a cup of Joe or a Sally Lunn from the Brit Pastry Shop next door. It was not a noonday escape, however, and since the heat lingered well into the evening hours, it was not the best place to relax after dinner. Philip reached for the banister when he came through the door, but only double-stepped up half the way when he smelled a tangerine aroma that he knew well. He halted and retraced his way into the parlor, where Thomas sat in a high backed chair, his feet square on the T’ien-tsin rug.

  “Tee. Is there anything wrong?”

  “Nope.”

  “I know I’m late. Sorry. Are we too late for the play?”

  “Nope. Change and we shall go.”

  Thomas was already attired in a white shirt and dress slacks. Philip was surprised at the absence of a tie, but he suspected that was a concession to the heat. Philip crossed the room, leaned over the chair and planted a kiss on Tee’s nose. He then sat on his lap.

  “Did you have a good time at the Tea Dance?”

  Philip bounced on Tee’s knees. “You’ve been to one Tea Dance, you’ve been to them all.”

  “How many have you ever been to?”

  “Well, not here.”

  “Did you lose Sprakie?”

  Philip kissed Tee again, and then plopped on the couch. “You don’t lose Sprakie. Did you lose Flo?”

  A hand raised from another high backed chair, a chair that face away from the couch thereby hiding its occupant. “Present,” Flo said.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Go change,” Thomas said.

  Philip sniffed his armpits. “I’ll be fine. I don’t stink any worse than that fruit shit you took a bath in.”

  Thomas frowned. “I think you should wear your new satin blouse and those green flared slacks.”

  Philip clicked his tongue. “Too hot. I’d ruin them. I’m sure there will be plenty of hoohoo’s in beachwear. I’m sure of it.”

  Thomas raised his brow. “You are an expert, I can see.”

  Philip stood. “Well, I’m not sitting in a cramped theatre, sweating my balls off. If you want me to dress up, I’ll pass.”

  “No. You can go as you are.”

  “Well, thank you.”

  Thomas frowned — the frown. Philip softened and kissed him.

  “You were drinking.”

  Philip stiffened again. “Here comes the underage drinking lecture.”

  “No,” Thomas said. “It is just that . . . you usually do not drink alone.”

  “Well, if you wanna know, I picked up ten guys today and fucked them all under the boardwalk. Take a number.”

  “Liar,” Thomas said.

  “Liar,” came the voice of Mr. Townsend.

  Philip twitched. He could understand a jealous outburst from Thomas, although this was the first, but he couldn’t tolerate one-liners from Florian Townsend. He started toward the back turned chair, but Thomas stood, blocking the way.

  “Forgive me,” Thomas said. “I was out of line.”

  “I think you were,” Philip said. “Nothing happened at the Tea Dance. I hung around with Sprakie, and then spied an old acquaintance from New York.”

  “An old acquaintance?”

  “A trick of the past,” Flo said.

  “Shut-up, Flo,” Philip said. “It was just someone I had met once before. We had a few drinks and a couple of dances.”

  “Dances?” Tee asked.

  “It was a fucking Tea Dance.”

  Suddenly, over the threshold came Sprakie — alone and sour-pussed. He blinked at the company, obviously not expecting them.

  “Jesus Marie.”

  “Jesus Marie,” Flo mocked.

  “Is there a fucking echo in here?”

  Philip moved Thomas toward the door. “We’re just on our way to the play,” he said. “Did you wanna come?”

  Sprakie rolled his eyes. “If I’m not the star, I’m not likely to attend. You should know that by now. Where did you ditch Green Shorts Guy?”

  “Green Shorts Guy?” Thomas asked.

  “The old acquaint
ance,” Philip said.

  “He didn’t look so old to me,” Sprakie countered. “You didn’t even introduce me.”

  “You were busy.”

  “Manners, manners. Did you get that old acquaintance’s name at least?”

  “It’s Dennis.”

  “Dennis what?”

  Philip was suddenly tense. “What’s with the twenty questions?” He turned to Thomas. “I’ll meet you outside.”

  “We shall leave together.”

  Sprakie waved his hands in their direction. “Mismatched as always. What a collection of rags.”

  Thomas grinned. “Well, Robert.” Sprakie smirked. “You can stay here and keep Florian company. I think you have met your match there.”

  Sprakie’s jaw dropped. “I’d rather hump Old Charlotte. Jesus Marie.” He turned — an angry pirouette and cascaded over the threshold. Philip gave Thomas a feeble stare and proceeded out, Thomas following — diminished resolve.

  “Jesus Marie,” came the voice of Florian Townsend from his clandestine seat. His voice was high pitched — bird like. He also waved a backhand goodbye. If either Philip or Thomas had lingered to see that hand, they would have witness it transform into a one-fingered salute.

  2

  Sprakie stood beneath the potted fuchsia that draped near the hammock. Dusk tinged the leaves gray, the red and white flowers closing their eyes in slumber. He gazed after Philip. Old Charlotte had left the premises, perhaps for the beach or to his backyard kennel. A sense of abandonment reigned.

  “Fool,” Sprakie muttered. “I told him not to get so comfortable, because when the bough breaks . . .”

  “Down will fall baby,” came Florian’s voice.

  Sprakie jumped. “Jesus Marie. Do you always creep up on people and scare the shit out of them?”

  Florian shrugged. “Sorry if I spoiled your reverie.”

  “Well, don’t let me spoil yours.”

  “I think we have the same thought on this issue.”

  “Issue? What issue?”

  Flo leaned on the pillar, and then cracked his knuckles. “As obnoxious as you are, I believe you are watching out for your friend’s best interest.”

  “Sweet talk from a grave digger. I’ve noticed your interest also. What was Tdye to you, anyway?”

  Florian heaved a sigh, his shoulders arching high — higher than the shrug. “Thomas Dye has one of the finest minds to my knowledge. Noble. Quick. Precise. We were a couple, you know?”

  “Could have fooled me, Jesus Marie.”

  “What’s with that Jesus Marie? If you knew how annoying that was, you’d keep it under wraps.”

  Sprakie flung his hands over his head and stomped his foot. “Jesus Marie. Jesus Marie. Jesus Marie.”

  Flo grabbed his shoulders, forcing his arms down, entrapping him. “I ought to pitch you off this porch.”

  “Go ahead. See if I care.”

  Flo pushed Sprakie away. “Damn you. I could put up with your little friend if you weren’t always in the shadows.”

  “Shadows? I’m a sunshine boy. You’re the dark spirit here — lurking and lusting for something that has been over for years . . . Jesus Marie.” He snapped his fingers just as Flo approached for another shake. “Away with you,” Sprakie said. “Your powers are no good here. Be careful that no one drops a house on you.”

  Flo’s fist clenched. He turned aside. “This is getting us nowhere.”

  “Where did you think you were going? Between my legs, Creepy man? Not for all the yen in China.”

  “Japan.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Yen comes from Japan, not China.”

  Sprakie pouted. “You’re pathetic.”

  Flo raised the back of his hand. “I’m not pathetic. I’m threadbare. Philip is pathetic.”

  “Can’t argue with you there. I mean, I’ve preached up and down and back and forth about the day when the aged Mr. Dye decides his cash flow needs adjusting.”

  Florian turned, his grin wide, tinged with evil. “Tee doesn’t support your friend. Philip has come into possession of a rare book.”

  “A book? How?”

  “My uncle, who is as big a jack ass as you are, gave it to him as payment for sexual favors.”

  “And this book, you say, is valuable?”

  “Enough to bankroll a credit line at Chase.”

  Sprakie stumbled to the hammock and managed to teeter at the edge. His mind spun. The one argument that could have blasted Philip back to him was shattered. Although Philip had hinted at his economic independence, Sprakie never real believed it. However, now the ground swelled and a gulf opened.

  “Sorry to burst your bubble,” Flo said.

  “Well, good for him,” Sprakie said. “He can pay for his own destruction, when it comes. He won’t need to crawl back to me and beg for a space in my cubby.”

  Florian studied Sprakie’s angst. Mr. Townsend seemed to soften, not in physical features, but in his voice. “I fear that your intention to dissolve this match is waning.”

  “What can I do?”

  “Tell him.”

  “I’ve used every argument in the queen’s book of romantic disasters to discourage him. Philip has romantic notions. He gives Tdye every benefit of the doubt. There’s nothing more for me to say. The time for chatter is over.”

  “Tell him the truth.”

  “Now there’s a laugh.” Sprakie was nervous. He gave Flo a stubborn glance. He suddenly mistrusted this sinister man who hovered over the hammock. “When you’re young, truth is whatever the traffic bears and the moment holds. Can’t you remember that far back?”

  Flo stretched his hand out offering Sprakie a boost out of the hammock. “Perhaps you should come with me.”

  “You don’t give up, do you, Jesus Mar . . .”

  “No, I don’t. Moreover, I don’t want your body. I want your voice.”

  “What would you have me say?”

  “Come with me. I will show you the truth. I will tell you what to say.”

  Sprakie grasped Mr. Townsend’s hand allowing himself to be pulled to his feet. “This had better be good.”

  “It’s Bright Darkness.”

  “Bright what?”

  Florian ushered Sprakie across the threshold. “You shall see. You shall hear, and then you can tell him.”

  Sprakie had only one thought in mind: Jesus Marie, but he dared not voice it.

  Chapter Six

  On-Stage Drama

  1

  The Provincetown Theatre was comparatively small. No Belasco this. Not even a Shubert. Still, it accommodated four-hundred comfortably and four-hundred and twenty-five in a crunch; and it was crunch time, because this was the height of the season and O’Neill played well in this town, even in these days of Spam-a-lot and Mama Mia! The stage was broad and remarkably deep. It had been used perhaps for many years to mount Desire Under the Elms — Provincetown being a favorite haunt of more than sandpipers and gulls. The set was shabby, but since it was meant to depict an nineteenth century New England farmhouse — two stories, it could have been swiped from the Vermont woods intact. It even had a second floor stage, which Philip assumed would be used to some effect — he didn’t know, having a paucity of O’Neill in his experience. He did wonder why there was no curtain. Shouldn’t there be a curtain? He almost asked Thomas, but Tee had been fretting and such questions would stoke up some antique explanation better flaunted on Wikipedia. So Philip fidgeted with his Playbill, sifting through the five-person cast and extras.

  They sat in the third row, center. Both stage wings were visible. A makeshift forest stood on both sides. A threadbare fence, dilapidated, hinged a gate at the top of a faux path. A porch was prominent, stage left, while the house was cut-away, stage right to reveal a hearth room, or something like it. Philip couldn’t see the details, as the place was dark while the house lights were up.

  “Shouldn’t they be starting?” Philip noted as if he was a paragon of punctuality.

&nbs
p; Thomas didn’t answer. He just glanced at his watch and sniffed. Then, the lights dimmed and the stage glowed a phantom blue. The audience’s murmuring, which had been hive-like, settled into an occasional Playbill shuffle and a cough. Philip expected that someone, perhaps Lars Hamilton himself, would march center stage, announce the play, and plead with the audience to silence their cell phones, but no such preamble occurred. Instead, a young golden haired actor sauntered through the side woods and pushed open the rickety gate. He stood before the house and looked out to the audience.

  “God,” he said, his voice sailing to the back rows. “Purty.”

  Philip choked. Suddenly, he was overcome with memory. He thought he saw Max Gold there looking to the sky and praising the Maker for His handiwork. And where was Max Gold now but sewn into to that handiwork. Philip swallowed deeply, his breath hitching. He looked to Thomas, who was enrapt upon the stage. How can he not see it? Philip thought. Philip wanted to leave. Then, he refocused his eyes on Eben Cabot, as that character was named in the Playbill, and decided that the actor didn’t resemble Max Gold in the least. It was that fucking purty line that did this. So Philip settled back, clutched the program and tried to follow the drama.

  It was a loveless play, to Philip’s mind. This O’Neill feller had a dour quill, scrawling out scum buckets of hate and venom. The language didn’t lilt like Melville’s did. The Cabot brothers, when they assembled under the same sky and under the same roof were a hateful crew. They disliked each other and each in turn despised their father, Ephraim Cabot, who was played by the incomparable Lars Hamilton, who trundled about the farm hacking and spewing New England mutterings by the churn full. He had brought a woman home — his new wife, a thousand years younger than himself, to Philip’s reckoning. As the old man with the young maiden theme spun across the proscenium, Philip became uncomfortable. Then, the young Eben and the maiden, whose name was Abbie, fell in love — as young people should do.

  Philip had just come away from a Tea Dance — a thumpa-thumpa fine time that had set him in a good mood. Now, with a testy Thomas, he sat watching a drama about mismatched love, angry old men, flea bitten brothers and a whole cast that periodically lifted their eyes to the sky and said Purty. They also had this annoying way of pronouncing California as Californayeah.