Turning Idolater

by Edward C. Patterson

  “Dennis.”

  “Philip. I’m surprised that you’re doing the parade thing. Where’s your partner?”

  “Little tiff,” Sprakie said. “It’s under control. Come, Philip.”

  “It’s good to see you,” Philip said. It was. In this morass of faceless flesh and with Sprakie tugging like a puppet master, Philip gazed into Dennis’ pristine face. “Why are you here?”

  “I’m at The Crown and Anchor. Remember?”

  Philip gazed at the hotel marquee, and then smiled. “Sweet,” he said.

  “Did you want to . . . to take the tour of the place?”

  “Kinda late for that, isn’t it?” Sprakie spat.

  “Yes,” Philip said. “I need to be someplace other than here.” He turned to Sprakie. “Or there.”

  Sprakie trembled, turned on his heels, and then disappeared into the sidelines.

  “What’s his problem?”

  “Can’t put my finger on it,” Philip said. “I need a place to think, Dennis.”

  “You did have a tiff.”

  “Not yet. I’d like to avoid it, but I think it’s coming up fast.” He turned toward The Spiritus. Suddenly, he didn’t know why he was here. He wanted to be with Tee, but he couldn’t be. He had to digest it all. The pieces fit and yet they still tumbled. “Fast and soon, Dennis.”

  Philip left the gauntlet, led by his young engineering major into The Crown and Anchor.

  Chapter Eight

  Bright Darkness

  1

  “Oh, my Captain! my Captain! noble soul! grand old heart, after all! why should any one give chase to that hated fish! Away with me! let us fly these deadly waters! let us home! Wife and child, too, are Starbuck’s — wife and child of his brotherly, sisterly, play-fellow youth; even as thine, sir, are the wife and child of thy loving, longing, paternal old age! Away! let us away! — this instant let me alter the course! How cheerily, how hilariously, O my Captain, would we bowl on our way to see old Nantucket again! I think, sir, they have some such mild blue days, even as this, in Nantucket.”

  Whispers. The hallway caroled ill in the dark as Philip crept toward the door. The Pink Swallow creaked at this hour — ghost of the seasons past, many hours laved by the sea. He had seen some brightness in Dennis’ eyes and warmth within his arms, but the passion was spent. His mind kept fast to this task — this oh so onerous task. As he reached the door, he felt the eyes on his back. He was sure there were souls watching him, coaxing him to delay, to turn about and run full spin down the stairs into the night. He sensed Sprakie watching from some tower above and Florian assessing like a spider in the corner. Before Philip turned the knob, he scanned the moonlit corridor. It held no secrets for him. He had seen the bright darkness before on that night, sprawled beneath the El in the teaming rain. Such was the sadness that crept upon him now. However, he was resolved to bring himself to full term. Away! let us away! — this instant let me alter the course! Philip turned the knob.

  The room was pitched in the shadows, the breeze coursing the drapes through the open doors. The moon winked on the balcony, yet seemed distant — as distant as the moon. Mid-bed was a naked lump that stirred not. No snore. No breath assumed. Philip gazed at Thomas and wondered whether he should be the stronger man and let these things pass unnoticed — unsaid. It would spoil Sprakie’s joy, it would. There was some merit in that. However, Philip decided that when Tee awoke tomorrow, before his first sip of coffee and plate of bacon, Philip would ask the hard question.

  Philip maneuvered in the dark. He hadn’t decided whether he would sleep in that bed tonight. He feared waking Tee. He feared Tee’s passion as a belay to his resolve. Quietly, he stripped, the clothing falling to the floor in disarray, and then he sat across from the bed — a naked child sated, yet unsated, so fierce was his disquietude. He scanned the outline of his lover and wondered what bedevilment made this so. Philip had been a good boy — well, not in the sense of some Presbyterian God, but indeed in the eyes of the species, in the eyes of the taboo totem. Hadn’t he cast off from the rock of the righteous and followed this shadowy form? Hadn’t he turned idolater and worshipped at the altar of a new life? Away! let us away! — this instant let me alter course!

  2

  Thomas stirred. The form arose and sat opposite the child. The pause stilled the breeze, almost turning the moon glow off.

  “Did you enjoy it?” Thomas asked.

  Philip shifted about the chair, but did not answer.

  “I mean, I do not mind what you do. Who am I to mind?”

  No reply. Still and stark silence.

  “Was it the Green Shorts Guy? I mean, he was a handsome devil. I would not fault you in the least. It would be a fine break from the old man of the sea.”

  Philip raised a hand, barely perceptible, but halting nonetheless. “Why did you lie to me?”

  “Lie? Philip, what are you asking?”

  “I’m used to tricks lying to me, Mr. Dye. I have had them say some charming things to me. They’ve represented themselves as princes and kings, but I have always known better. I always humored them for the price, but I never took these as lies. They never meant to hurt. It was part of the evening’s entertainment.”

  “What are saying, Philip? What lie have I told you?”

  Philip sniffed. He wiped the invisible tears that had begun to flow. “You told me that no one ever saw your new works in progress.”

  Thomas stood. “That is correct.”

  “Liar.”

  “Why? Who has told you otherwise?”

  “Flo sees your work.”

  “He is my agent, Philip. Of course he needs to see my progress. How else could he market the work? Be reasonable.”

  “Reasonable?”

  “Why, what has Flo told you?” Thomas’ breath hitched as if the dawn came early and fear in its wake.

  “Nothing,” Philip said. “Mr. Townsend is too chicken shit to say anything to me. He spoke with Sprakie and that one’s not shy. He was downright eager to tell me that you’ve been working on a novel about Internet webcam sites and have spun a shining tale about a string of murders.”

  “Flo should not have told anyone about my work.”

  “Wait,” Philip said. He was choking now. “There’s more. Sprakie said that you needed to do some on-line research — you know, to get all the details correct — chat rooms, one-on-ones and the routines of the boys. Research, Mr. Dye.” Philip trembled. He felt his nose clogged with emotion. He spluttered. “I’m nothing more than research for this fucking book you’re writing. Nothing more.”

  Thomas reached out into the dark, but Philip was on his feet, moving away to the corner. He shook and wept; such was the hurt, from toe to breast. Thomas touched him, but Philip flung his hand aside.

  “Philip, you must believe me. You are not research. You are . . .”

  “Are what? I saw the file on your desk. I’m nothing more than a chain of twinks you’ve snared to study so the great Thomas Dye can make it to the Best Sellers list. I’ve been a fucking fool. Sprakie is right in one thing. Never fall in love with them. Never, never fall in love with them.”

  Philip buckled. He plowed into the chair, his weeping relentless. Thomas hovered. He trembled and tried to calm Philip, but touching was off limits now. Tee hunkered down appearing poised for an explanation, but Philip had imploded. He might hear him, but he probably wouldn’t listen.

  “My dearest lamb,” Thomas said. “It is true I am writing a novel on the Internet murders.”

  “Why?”

  “It is rife.”

  “Rife? What the fuck does that mean? Speak English for once in your life.”

  “Rife. Current — a current event. Such things interest readers, but I was encouraged by others to do it. I was compelled. It is true that I needed to research the Internet processes. That led me to manluv. I did nothing wrong there. Uncle Dean gave me a reference and I ran with it. It is true that our one-on-one was meant to be research, but . . .”
>
  “But what?”

  Thomas reached for Philip’s wrist, and although it was pulled away, it finally came within his tenuous grasp. “You lingered with me.”

  “Lingered?”

  “You stayed on my mind. I saw you in my waking dreams. I saw you in every page I wrote.”

  “And you were writing about dying kids. You were writing about Jemmy and Gordon Waters, whoever the fuck he was. You were perusing police records and sleuthing manluv for juicy tidbits to make your computer sing.”

  “Yes.” Thomas shouted. “Yes, I was, but not you, Philip. Not you. You made me feel . . .”

  “Young. I know, young and fulfilled.”

  “No. You made me feel . . . alive.”

  Thomas tugged at Philip’s shoulders.

  “Bastard,” Philip murmured. He clenched Tee’s neck, burying his face in his breast.

  “I was dead for so long,” Thomas said. “You resurrected whatever life still lurked in this heap of old platitudes. Don’t you understand? I love you.”

  Philip grasped this, but did not understand it. How could love be based on a lie? He had been taken into Thomas’ charge on a false premise — a lab rat for study. How many scientists grew fond of their subjects as time went on, but in the end, the cage must be opened and the rat goes free.

  “Love,” Philip murmured. “I think you’re confused there. People like us can never love. You’re an artist and live for inspiration. I’m a whore and live for the next meal ticket. I’m a little richer now and can graduate to an easier way of living, perhaps. I owe you much.”

  “Don’t say that, Philip. It sounds so final. A cashing in of your chips after a successful run.”

  Philip pushed Tee away gently. “If you had told me what you were about, I could have accepted it for what it was. I could have followed the usual precautions and would not be hurt by it. But you chose to lie.”

  “Florian should not have said anything to Sprakie.”

  Sprakie. Philip was no fool. He knew that Sprakie was digging for something. He knew that Florian still held Thomas as his own. Philip was done with Sprakie. Anything owed to that cat, Philip considered paid-in-full.

  “Flo’s your agent, as you say, but he certainly has played loose with your trust.”

  “He is not my agent.”

  Philip slipped Thomas’ embrace. “What do you mean?”

  “As of this minute, Florian Townsend is not my agent. He shall learn in the morning that he cannot play loose with my trust. Mrs. Hogarth will serve me just as well here as she does in London.”

  “Drastic, Tee, but it’s no compensation to me.”

  Philip stood trying to decide his course. He saw it before him — the moon on the balcony, beckoning him out so the breeze might dry his tears.

  3

  Philip wasn’t angry. He actually understood Thomas’ reasoning. Authors research, and if you’re writing a novel based on an on-going police investigation, you dig and clip and Google. If you need to set a scene, you must experience it. Philip admired Tee for his thoroughness. What he couldn’t forgive was the deception. He didn’t doubt Tee’s feelings, but Philip cleaved to a notion that Thomas was confusing security and a last-ditch romance with love. There could be no real commitment. Yet Philip had never been a man to commit. That was the rub. He was ready for it now. He was prepared to give his heart and soul in trust to this man — to turn idolater and worship at a new altar. Anger? No. Disappointment? Indeed. Utter and wretched sadness? Never doubt it. Oh, my Captain! my Captain! noble soul! grand old heart, after all! why should any one give chase to that hated fish! Away with me! let us fly these deadly waters! let us home!

  Philip knew Thomas stood behind him on the balcony — two naked souls under the gull’s sleeping eyes.

  “So what now?” Thomas asked.

  “I’m not sure, but I think I should . . .”

  “Move on?”

  “I don’t want to, but the longer I . . . I linger, the worse it will be.”

  Thomas gasped. Philip saw a man distraught — desperate, and yet ready to salvage his dignity. Thomas wouldn’t fight it. Philip knew this. Perhaps they could remain friends. But they needed to part. Philip was surer now. He would keep his job at Cardoza’s and pay off his loan to Tee. He might even put the first edition up on eBay after all. He could find a place to stay. Not Sprakie’s. Never Sprakie’s again.

  “You will always linger,” Thomas said. He clasped his heart. “Here. Here, you shall always be. Here, I swear, is where you belong and here I will never give you up.”

  “I would expect no less,” Philip said. Thomas’ head bowed. Philip ran his hands through Tee’s hair. “I shall live in your book. What’s it called? Sprakie told me, but I can’t remember.”

  “You remembered everything else,” Tee sniffed, and then hiccuped a compensatory laugh. “Bright Darkness.”

  “It’s a good title,” Philip said. “I hope it is more bright than dark . . . for our sakes.”

  Thomas heaved a sigh. “Will you come to bed?”

  “I’ve already been to bed tonight, remember?”

  Thomas choked. Philip thought he’d fall. “It’s hard, dear lamb,” Tee said. “It’s so very hard.”

  “Well, O’Neill is O’Neill, and I’ll not fight it.”

  Thomas rallied, dimly. “No rush.”

  “No rush,” Philip said. “A few weeks.”

  Thomas sighed, perhaps thinking this a concession that could lead to permanence, but Philip knew better. Thomas retreated through the doors. Philip would join him. They would ease their sorrows together, as they had no other course but in each other’s arms.

  Philip gazed at the moon. It was full, but tinged red. It would rain tomorrow, a curtain down for this great escape. Away! let us away! He spied the gull cropped on the jetties, asleep, yet awake to the clam beds. He heard Old Charlotte snort from his kennel, dreaming of sunshine and head rubs. He sensed the eyes of the Maine Coon stalking mice in the bright darkness. Suddenly, the waves were alive to the sirens of the sea. Whale song. Philip heard them singing, piercing the night air with their love calls. Love calls in this town abounded, but none were as precious as these. They tickled his ears and his heart. He was sad it was over, but the world was still alive for him. Away! let us away!

  Philip looked to sea.

  Part III: In Pursuit of the Red Tide

  Chapter One

  Autumnal Thoughts

  1

  Philip looked to sea, but over the rooftops of New York it was nothing more than a morning hint. He liked to come up to the roof and gaze at the sky and Brooklyn beyond. He had his cup of coffee. Never touch the stuff. He thought of that first encounter with Tee every time he sipped his morning brew, but now, with summer gone and autumn closing fast, the sadness had become a bittersweet memory. Philip stretched. He was dressed for work, unlike two nights ago on this rooftop, when Dennis and he were naked and fooled around — nothing but God and pigeons as witnesses. It was a cool place to romp, because Dennis’ apartment was cramped and, even in this season, hot. Philip rarely got a good night’s sleep here. Now, he watched the sunrise and felt the coffee heat in his hand. He would be late for work — he knew it, but it was to be expected. Still, he didn’t hasten.

  Peace. He felt more at peace now. Not because Dennis was a better fit than Thomas. Dennis was a physical match — hot passion that began and ended with climax — one slide down the hill, and then silence and snores. No companionable conversation through the night to the wee morning hours. No fine language or recitations on the sea. Dennis didn’t even speak in equations. Perhaps he felt that Philip would be lost in anything academic. Little did he know. It was all sex, but it was good sex, so Philip stayed, paid his way and existed with this phallic roommate. Friends? Yes, in a way. Lovers? In a sexual sense, perhaps. Companions? As close as Pluto is to Mars. Still, there was peace and it was what it was. O’Neill is O’Neill, and all that.

  Philip had lingered with Thomas for s
ix weeks. They were cordial and still slept together for the first two weeks. Then, Philip took up residence in his own bed, with no one but Ahab as company. When he arose each day, Tee was already secluded in his office, probably extracting whatever remorse he had on this broken relationship in the pages of Bright Darkness, or so Philip thought. After four weeks, Philip began nightly visits across town to Dennis Hatcher’s. At first, these were early trysts, Philip returning to The Papillon Arms by midnight. A part of him wanted, or needed, to see Thomas daily, but when the flat became an empty warren, Philip returned less, and finally, he moved his kit out. They didn’t even say goodbye. He regretted that.

  Thomas had retreated from the world. There was no more Florian Townsend either, because Thomas kept his word and fired the agent before they had left Provincetown. Flo, furious and crazed, frightened Philip with his reaction. Philip thought Mr. Townsend would jump off the jetties into the crashing rocks. When they returned to the flat, Flo stayed away, but Philip knew that he stalked them, or at least he stalked Thomas. Now that Thomas was locked away and Philip gone, Flo had little recourse but to fade. The only fear Philip had was a possible appearance Florian could make at his Uncle’s bookstore, where Philip still worked.

  Peace. The air was clean and fresh — no city odors to trump the Java aromas. Philip watched the sky bleed purple and cream as her majesty, the sun, gained the welkin. He sighed. He felt adrift now, but at peace. He liked his work, having become adept at gutting the innards of old books. Soon, he would undertake the business of rebinding, but first things first. He spent his evenings quiet and alone — Dennis having night classes four days a week. Philip read, although he was loathe to open his Penguin edition of the book. Whenever his eyes cast past the docks of Nantucket, across the silvery tide to the killing fields, where the boilers turned grist into liquid gold, his mind went to fond memories of Tee. He knew it was a false time, predicated on a lie, but fantasy comforts the desperate, and he guessed that he had been desperate.