The Wild Swans

by Peg Kerr

  “I do, too,” Elias replied, attempting a leer. “I’d jump his bones in a minute.”

  Sean laughed that rich laugh Elias was always angling to hear. The conversation got off track for a while—most pleasantly—but when they came up for air, Elias reached for another picture and showed it to Sean. “This one’s my favorite.”

  “Wow.”

  The camera had caught Sean, leaning against the counter in the kitchen reading a newspaper, his face a study in intense concentration. At his elbow, a cup of coffee had been caught by the camera in mid-plunge toward the kitchen floor (Sean’s arm had knocked it off the counter a split second before). The coffee cascading out of the cup looked like a strange, molten plastic form.

  “Hey, I remember that. That was when my favorite cup broke.” Sean glanced up at Elias, approval warm in his eyes. “You’re good at this, you know?”

  Elias nodded, pleased. “Yes,” he said simply. “I am.”

  “You should do something with it. Take some courses, maybe?”

  “Well...” Elias thought wistfully of his deferred college plans. Maybe...

  “There are so many galleries around here, too. What if you tried to put together a portfolio? Or maybe we could collaborate on something.”

  “What do you mean, collaborate?” Elias asked, startled.

  “Lots of the articles I do could use pictures. We could find a project we could work on together, sell it as a package deal.” Sean hesitated. “That is, if you’re interested, of course.”

  “I’d love to,” Elias said quickly. “And thank you.” He looked down at his pictures, a smile hovering on his lips, touched and grateful. “It means a lot to me to have you ask.”

  “Okay, then. Let’s keep our eyes out for the right project.”

  Sean wandered back to sit at his typewriter for the rest of the afternoon, leaving Elias to mull over his pictures. His father had written him off as a pervert, he reflected wryly. Weird to think that, comparatively, to his and Sean’s group of friends Elias might really be considered more of a prude. Look at the tough time be had getting over the idea that Sean needed to trick with others, for example. And since everyone considered it so normal, he couldn’t bring himself to ask Sean, Am I part of your life the way you ‘re part of mine? Do I mean something more to you than all these other guys? Or am I just somebody you keep around to warm the bed, listen to your music, and help pay the rent? He sighed and put the pictures away.

  Still, a collaboration—that seemed hopeful. There were other little things, too, signs of... something. He usually bought a book with every paycheck, keeping them piled by his side of the bed. He tripped over the stack one morning and ripped the dust jacket on Mary Renault’s Funeral Games. When he came home that night, the stack was missing.

  “Where’d my books get put?” he asked.

  “Your books?” Sean said. “Oh, they seemed to be getting beat up where you were leaving them, so I shelved them.”

  Elias looked at the bookshelf. “In with yours, you mean?”

  Sean raised an eyebrow. “You don’t mind, do you? I didn’t think you would.”

  “No. No, of course I don’t,” he said, thinking of his parents, who had kept their books separate in all their years of marriage. “They’re a lot better off there. Thanks.”

  Jerry stopped by the apartment one night and gave Sean and Elias his key, inviting them to make free use of the house on the Island during the Fourth of July weekend.

  “But you’ll be there, too, won’t you?” asked Elias.

  Jerry hesitated and then shook his head. “No, too many depositions coming up.”

  Sean frowned. “Fourth of July falls on a Sunday. They don’t hold depositions on Sundays.”

  “Well, no.” Jerry shrugged. “But I’ve been traveling a lot lately. I just don’t want to spend my holiday weekend getting on a train and hauling my ass out and back on the Long Island Rail Road. It seems too much like work.”

  Elias and Sean exchanged a look. “Have you been out to the Island at all this year, Jerry?” Sean asked quietly.

  “Not very much.” Jerry took a deep breath. “It’s still hard. I miss him too much out there.”

  Sean nodded. “Sleeping okay?”

  “Not really,” Jerry mumbled. “But that’s partly because ... well, I went to see a doctor about it today. I just got this attack of shingles.”

  “Shingles? No kidding.”

  “Yeah. They hurt like hell. And they make my back look leprous; I’d hardly look any good in a bathing suit. So I just plan to stay home and take it easy this weekend. Staying up all night partying is about the last thing I want to do.” He looked depressed. More than that, he looked gray-faced with exhaustion. He swayed in the doorway. “Look, I gotta go. Take the key, will ya? The house has basic canned groceries on hand; you’ll have to buy the fresh stuff.” He forced a smile. “Have a randy time out there this weekend. Okay?”

  “Okay. Catch up on your sleep.” Shutting the door after him, Sean looked thoughtful.

  “He’s lost weight,” Elias ventured uneasily.

  “Yeah.” Sean looked down at the key he was holding, bounced it a few times in his palm. “Well, we can go, check on the house for him. At least that’ll be one worry off his mind.”

  Party goers packed the Island that weekend. They strutted along the beach, danced at the Ice Palace, and jammed the water taxis that cruised endlessly like sharks between the Pines and Cherry Grove. Since Jerry wasn’t there to host a party, Sean and Elias didn’t see as many of the usual crowd that they knew. Sean ran into someone on the beach he’d met before playing at an Irish bar, who invited them to a party on Saturday night. Some of the other people there were musicians, too, and Sean borrowed someone else’s guitar to join the music circle for a couple of hours.

  Elias listened for a while, and then wandered out to the deck to talk with other people. An hour later, when he came back in to use the bathroom, Sean was nowhere in sight. That puzzled him. Had Sean gone to fetch a beer from the kitchen cooler? He started toward the other end of the house to look, but stopped when the sound of Sean’s voice made him glance into one of the darkened bedrooms. There, moonlight pouring through the window etched a knife-thin line on Sean’s profile, and the silver glints shot through his hair and beard made Elias wish for his camera-Sean had his head turned away, looking at someone else. In the reflection of a closet-door mirror, Elias could see another man’s hand creeping across Sean’s waist like a spider, trying to insinuate its way into his jeans, as the other hand reached for Sean’s zipper.

  But as Elias stepped back hastily, not particularly wanting to watch Sean with a trick, Sean’s voice said, pleasantly but firmly, “No, I don’t think so.”

  “You thought I was good enough for you last time.” The other man sounded surprised and a little irritated, as if being turned down was an unusual experience. “So why not?”

  Elias paused in mid-turn, suddenly curious. He’d heard that voice on the phone before, calling Sean about some freelance writing assignment or something. Yeah, Sean. Why not?

  “You know I’m keeping company with Elias now.”

  “That kid?” Elias could hear the sneer in the other man’s voice.

  “He’s not a kid,” Sean said mildly.

  “I didn’t think his dick was big enough for you. I’ve seen you at the baths often enough.”

  “The baths are different. But I know you.”

  “Oh. I see.” God’s-gift-to-men sniffed. “You won’t trick with friends. Your relationship has progressed to the point where you only fuck around behind his back with strangers.”

  There was a pause, and then Sean’s voice said with a dangerous purr, “You know, I’ve changed my mind.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yeah. I’m not turning you down because I know you. I’m turning you down ‘cause you’re an asshole.”

  At the rustling sound of movement, Elias turned and fled back up the hallway. His sudden appearance made
several heads turn; he gulped and quickly stole to a corner to sit down. After a minute or two, Sean came back to the living room, too, a small frown between his eyebrows. His eyes fell on Elias and they exchanged a quick smile as Sean took a vacated seat by the door. Elias pretended to turn his attention back to the musicians as he thought over what he had heard. It seemed odd that he found the conversation comforting somehow—Sean was clearly still tricking around, after all. But there was a part of himself he was saving for just Elias. A small part, but it was Elias’s alone. He hugged that thought to himself as the fiddle sang and moaned in counterpoint to the waves out on the beach.

  For now, maybe, it was enough.

  Elias started a night class in photography in the fall. And Sean came up with an idea for a joint project: they would collaborate on an article about Gordy’s annual wine-making party. It was a mild September day and the weather was gorgeous when they arrived to join the crowd of fifteen or twenty people gathering in the courtyard behind Gordy’s brownstone on the Upper East Side. Philip and Ruth set out opened wine bottles and an impressive array of appetizers on the tables as several other people pushed ladders up against the wall.

  “My family’s been doing this for over thirty years,” Gordy said. They all tilted their heads up to admire the vine trained against the wall, with bunches of purple frosted globes nodding between the leaves. Elias plucked a grape and tasted it. The flesh tasted slippery and sweet, and the grape skin slithered between his tongue and teeth with an edge of astringent tartness. He checked his light meter and took the lens cover off his camera.

  “What kind of vine is it, Gordy?” Leo asked. “Is it a Concord?”

  Gordy shook his head. “I doubt it, but nobody knows, it’s so old. All I know is, it makes good wine.”

  He handed out cutting knives and gestured vaguely toward the buckets waiting against the side of the house. “Have at it, everybody.”

  Soon people began handing down buckets piled high with grapes. The starter crew washed them and stripped them off the stems. Then they tossed the grapes into the hopper of the crusher (which looked, as Sean remarked cheerfully, like an old-fashioned washing-machine wringer on steroids, with a really bad attitude). A progression of grinning volunteers turned the wheel—Elias got some great biceps shots—and the juice, pulp, and skins oozed sloppily into the tub below.

  Gordy wandered over, wineglass in hand, to peer at the level in the tub, and then straightened up to watch the pickers. “Eighteen pounds of grapes to a gallon,” he muttered absently to himself and glanced at Elias. “We made a hundred and twenty bottles last year; I was hoping to beat that record.” Abruptly, he went over to the corner of the patio to sit heavily in a wrought iron chair. Elias grabbed a cracker and cheese from the hors d’oeuvres table and went to squat beside Gordy’s chair to take some long shots. They would look good, he thought. The light was striking, and the composition had human interest. Minta stood with her head thrown back, laughing up at the pickers. One guy leaned from the ladder above her, pelting the crusher crew with grapes. Sean was reaching with his knife to one side of his ladder to slice a thick stem; with infinite care, he placed the bunch in his bucket. He wore a sleeveless tank top of electric blue that showed off a great tan. Elias had a sudden fantasy of him working barefoot in an Italian vineyard, stripped to the waist in the sun. If he hoisted a wicker basket full of grapes to his shoulder, the movement would make his pecs swell so delightfully ... He shivered, grinned, and took another shot. He’d have to tell Sean about that one.

  Of course, Sean looked great in Irish sweaters, too. Too bad there weren’t many vineyards in Ireland.

  A trio of barefoot revelers in one corner of the courtyard were stomping more grapes into the bricks in a wild parody of a flamenco dance. Apparently some of the guests had been sampling the pleasures of the fruit of the vine for a while.

  “Keith, I’d appreciate it if you’d cease and desist,” Gordy called. “You’ll raise dust that’ll get into the tub. And save the grapes for the wine.”

  “Awww ...”

  Gordy chuckled and settled back in his chair as Elias took another shot. “Everybody’s sure having fun,” Elias commented, pulling out a fresh roll of film and reloading.

  “Yeah. They always do.” A pause, and then: “I wish Ian could be here,” Gordy said softly. “He really wanted to be.”

  Elias glanced up from his camera and caught the wistful look in Gordy’s eye. After casting about for a moment for something to say, he offered lamely, “At least Jerry’s with him.”

  Gordy brightened. “That’s true. Even if he’s on a different floor. They can compare notes on all the hunky nurses.” He sighed and fidgeted in his chair, wearily, as if he found sitting uncomfortable. “You know, Elias ...” He paused, as if trying to decide what to say.

  “What, Gordy?” Elias prompted after a moment.

  Gordy sighed again. “I’m planning to set about twenty bottles aside. For Ian’s funeral. I don’t think it’ll be long now. And”—he glanced sideways at Elias—“I’m setting aside another twenty bottles for me. I don’t know if I’ll have a chance to do another harvest. I just wanted you to know ... you don’t have to worry about drinking it.”

  “What are you talking about?” Elias forced out, although he was dreadfully afraid he knew exactly what Gordy meant. He could feel his hands growing cold.

  “I had the fermentation barrel sterilized with sulfur.” He shrugged, as if embarrassed. “I always do anyway, of course, but the point is, I didn’t touch it, or any of the other equipment. And I had Minta and Rum do all the food. I mean, since nobody really knows what causes it—”

  “Gordy—” Elias sat back heavily. “Gordy ... are you... ? Have you... ?”

  Gordy held his gaze for a long moment, and then slowly leaned down and rolled up his pant leg. A purple blotch mottled the calf there, like a wine stain.

  Oh, Jesus. The smear wavered, and blurred, and Elias wiped his eyes angrily with the back of his hand. “Who else knows?” he said hoarsely.

  “A few people. Ruth and Minta. They’ve been utterly lovely. I haven’t told Ian, though. Maybe it won’t be necessary.” Maybe there won’t be time before he dies, he clearly meant.

  “How long have you known?”

  Gordy grimaced as he let the pant leg fall. “Officially? About three weeks. But I’ve suspected a lot longer than that, really, because of that cold I couldn’t shake, and those absolutely miserable night sweats.” He snorted. “When I think of all those vitamins I took, all the money I pissed away, literally—I probably had the most expensive urine in Manhattan. As if vitamins had any kind of chance against this.”

  “You’re ... you’re not giving up!”

  “Oh, no.” Deliberately, Gordy took a sip of wine. “I like living. I’ll put up a good fight. But you forget,” he added, lowering his voice. “I’ve seen what Ian’s gone through. I know what I’m up against. I don’t know if anyone has beaten this, or if everyone who gets it is going to die.”

  “Everyone is going to die, someday,” Elias said quickly.

  Gordy considered. “True. But this ...” His face grew grave. “I honestly think it’s a curse. From the devil himself.” He put down his wineglass and got up. “C’mon. It’s time to start the winepress.”

  That night, Elias asked, “Sean, did Gordy tell you—”

  “He told me.”

  A depressed silence hung over them for a moment.

  “Do you think you’ll use it in the article?”

  “What, that he has AIDS?”

  “He talked about how it might be his last harvest. It could, I don’t know, make the article more poignant, don’t you think?”

  “Elias, we can’t say anything in print about him having something like that.”

  “Well, not without getting his permission, of course—”

  “No.” Sean’s tone sounded like the slam of a security gate coming down. “Leave the writing to me.”

  After a paus
e, Elias said, “Yeah. Sure.”

  The article Sean wrote, about a group of friends reconnecting each year at an annual wine-making party, balanced the upbeat human story nicely with interesting bits about home wine-making. The photograph of Gordy did look rather melancholy, perhaps, but maybe his expression was just an effect of the angle of the light. They made a tidy sum when they sold the article and photos to Food and Wine. If a picture was worth a thousand words, Elias wondered, what kind of story might he tell? He started keeping a photo album that autumn. Often, when he came home from work, he would find Sean paging through it meditatively. There were the pictures from the bash they’d thrown for Halloween—Sean and Elias had dressed as the Captain and Tennille. Thanksgiving at Nick and Amy’s—the dogs got into a roaring fight under the kitchen table in the middle of the reel, but even though the audience screamed with laughter, none of the musicians lost a single beat. Jerry had been too sick to come; Ian was already dead. New Year’s Eve at Times Square. They’d gone with Leo and the new guy he was seeing, Kiyoshi. Leo had told them he was still friends with Philip; they ate lunch together once a week in fact. Philip was doing fine, Leo reported—well, except for this staph infection that he was having trouble shaking.... It was all there in the background, Elias realized while looking through the album later, like the distant cacophony of traffic on the other side of a closed window. You think you can ignore it, but it keeps getting a little louder, a little closer, irritating at first, and then more and more ominous. There was a kind of anxiety among their friends, even the ones who seemed entirely healthy. No one liked to talk about it much, although Elias was sure it was on the mind of almost everyone in their circle. There’d be some passing reference—Philip had written an angry rebuttal to that New York Native essay that suggested that the bathhouses be closed, for example. Then everyone would drop it again. A couple of times that winter, he’d see a man massaging his own neck with an abstracted air at a party when he thought no one was particularly looking. Checking the lymph nodes.