The Lost Child of Philomena Lee (Original Edition)

by Sixsmith, Martin

  In the Lost & Found on L Street SE, Mike learned to dance the Hustle on a vast dance floor with light shows and a rain curtain; he got to know the cute DJ Jon Carter Davis, and laughed at the excesses of the flamboyant dressers and drag queens. The Appaloosa band played live for discos and for afternoon tea dances, and the Lost & Found love lies, Roxanne and Rose, Dixie and Mame, dished out awards for style (best drag, best lookalike, most spectacular), for acting, for talent and for personality. The L&F’s brand of twinkie disco bar amused Mike: it drew large numbers of effeminate white men to a tough, largely black neighbourhood and provoked outrage when it tried to bar African-Americans. But it continued to thrive and opened its own cabaret theatre, the Waay Off Broadway, where Wayland Flowers and gay boy bands alternated with female impersonators and fan dancers.

  By the end of his first year in DC, Mike had done the rounds of the Plus One, Bachelor’s Mill, Remington’s, the Brass Rail and the original Mr Henry’s, where Roberta Flack performed her ‘Ballad of the Sad Young Men’. The biggest of the clubs and Mike’s favourite was the Pier Nine, where tables were equipped with telephones to call other diners just like in the musical Cabaret. Few ever used them, but the idea – and the club as a whole – was considered a riot.

  The health warnings that appeared on walls and flyers seem in retrospect charmingly naive. ‘VD and thee’, they headlined. ‘Heard the joke about this guy who gets VD? If you haven’t, it’s because VD is no joke. Last year more than 13,000 guys got treated for VD in DC; a whole lot more never got treated and are still spreading it. Do your man a favour – get a blood test!’

  The District’s first gay bathhouse had opened on L street NW, an area that became home to gay bookshops and community centres in the blocks around Dupont Circle. Mike found the Regency Baths intimidating, with its brick-warehouse chic and steamy cubicles offering privacy for the fleeting, impersonal sexual encounters its patrons repeatedly and tirelessly sought. He got a thrill from visiting the baths but the place had the reputation of being raided by the police and it made him nervous. Most of all, he was intrigued by the leather thongs and harnesses, the bridles and rubber fetish wear on sale in the Leather Rack on Connecticut Avenue, with all their sadomasochistic promise, but he couldn’t pluck up the courage to go inside, and he read the small ads in the Gay Blade with secret longing.

  In his most reckless moments, usually when he had drunk a lot and feared nothing in the world, he rode the Blue Line from Foggy Bottom to Arlington Cemetery and walked the shadows around the Iwo Jima Memorial. It catered to his sense of the wild side, but it was lonely and dangerous: recent reports in the Post had coined the phrase ‘queer-bashing’ to describe the activities of gangs of homophobes who roamed the alleyways round the memorial beating up gay men.

  The part of Mike’s RA duties that he took most seriously was the requirement to provide informal counselling to students. Surprisingly few came to see to him, and those who did were usually worried about academic troubles, clashes with some prof or worries about a girlfriend who might or might not be pregnant. But at the end of the spring semester, just as GWU was about to pack up and go home for the summer, a young freshman appeared at Mike’s door and asked if he could talk with him.

  ‘Uh, listen, I’m sorry to bother you,’ he said, obviously nervous and unsure how to begin. ‘It’s just, I don’t have too many people I can talk to . . .’ His hands were clasped, fingers twisting, and his eyes were darting about the room.

  Mike put a comforting arm on the boy’s shoulder and led him to the couch.

  ‘OK,’ he said, offering a handshake. ‘First off, I’m Mike.’

  The boy grasped his hand.

  ‘David Carlin. I’m a freshman – English and drama.’

  ‘Good to meet you, David. Want some coffee?’

  David nodded and Mike went to the kitchen. He had noticed David before, had passed him in the corridor a few times and been struck by his brooding good looks and slender hips. There was something troubled and intense about the guy that made him alarmingly desirable.

  When Mike came through with the coffee, David was opening a pack of cigarettes.

  ‘Do you mind?’ he asked, putting a cigarette in his mouth.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Mike. He watched David strike the match a couple of times and fumble as it failed to ignite; he felt like reaching out and steadying his hand, but he held back. ‘Want me to—’ he began, just as David managed it. They looked at each other and laughed.

  ‘So where are you from?’ asked Mike. He was sitting at an angle to the couch and the boy appeared to him in an elegant half-profile.

  ‘Pennsylvania,’ David replied. ‘My dad had this big auto business that he sold a coupla years back, so we’re pretty well off, I guess. Oh God. I don’t know why I just told you that.’

  He looked uncomfortable and self-conscious.

  ‘So anyway, my father wanted me to come here to GW, you know, and I just said OK. Sometimes I regret it – being so accommodating. Maybe I should have done what I wanted instead of what my old man told me.’

  ‘It’s OK, David,’ Mike said. ‘Don’t think you’re the only one who has problems with his parents – it’s been going on since Adam and Eve.’

  It was a thin joke but both of them laughed.

  ‘The thing is,’ David went on, ‘I think maybe I’m on the wrong course, or even at the wrong university.’

  Without knowing why, Mike felt disappointed; it seemed such a humdrum thing to be worried about. But what was it that had made him expect something more, he wondered. Sure, the guy seemed overwrought, but then lots of eighteen-year-olds are that way.

  Mike said, ‘I guess you should talk to your course tutors and see if you can’t get a transfer,’ and was surprised how pleased he felt when the guy continued to look agitated. It was as if part of him were hoping the boy had a real problem, a proper problem, something he could help him with. He came to sit on the sofa.

  ‘Are you OK, David?’

  He saw the little shake of the head and then the sobs began.

  ‘You know what? I guess I’m not OK, actually. I guess I’m pretty screwed up.’

  Mike moved closer and took David’s hand. ‘It’s all right,’ he said. ‘You can tell me. That’s what I’m here for. And whatever it is, it won’t go further than this room.’

  He was struck by how like a priest he sounded, by the way his own years of Confession had imbued him with the solemnity and the magic formulae of the ritual. But now he also felt the prurient interest he suspected priests must enjoy as they probe the innermost secrets of a sinner’s heart.

  David looked up and blew his nose.

  ‘Sorry, man,’ he said with a thin smile. ‘Have you ever been to see a shrink? If you have, you’ll know what this is all about.’

  Mike thought back to his sessions with Doctor Heinlein and hesitated before shaking his head.

  ‘No, I haven’t,’ he said – his denial was something to do with power and self-protection, he thought vaguely; the guy was needy and vulnerable and Mike was finding him strangely, deliciously attractive – ‘but don’t worry, I understand lots of things . . .’

  David looked at him and took the cue. The words came tumbling out. It was his father who had insisted on the psychiatrist, and that was OK, he said. He didn’t mind that; he understood what his old man must have been thinking. That was the kind of family he came from: they didn’t know anything different from what they were used to in their little world. His father was probably doing what he thought was best. ‘But’ – David hesitated – ‘but how could he have sent me for that goddam therapy? How could he do that to his own son? How could he, man?’

  Mike squeezed his hand and told him to slow down. ‘It’s OK, David. Just tell me what it is that’s making you so sad and we’ll work it out. We’ll talk about it and work it out . . .’

  David pulled himself together. He told him about the aversion therapy: how they’d tried to cure his sinful desires by strapping
electrodes to his genitals, by giving him apomorphine to make him vomit at the sight of pictures of naked men; how he was locked in a windowless room in a psychiatric ward; how it went on and on and on . . .

  ‘It was terrible, man. And all the time I was in there I was thinking of my father and how he was the one who made me do it. And I don’t know how I stayed sane or how I went back to that house and carried on living there after what they did to me.’

  Mike had his arm round David’s shoulder now. His thoughts were churning. He felt for the guy, but his sympathy was mingled with memories of his own father and how he had always suspected Doc knew about his sexuality and how he feared the retribution that might be visited on him. He was drawn to David and the guy’s vulnerability increased the attraction – physical proximity and the hothouse atmosphere of shared emotions were stirring Mike’s body into a state of desire. But he held back. He didn’t know why. Thoughts of the responsibility of his position seemed neither here nor there; taking advantage of a vulnerable adolescent seemed not wrong but, on the contrary, natural and desirable. And it wasn’t out of respect for the boy’s pain; the sense that he was damaged goods served to strengthen the desire he aroused. So what was it?

  Mike squeezed the boy’s shoulder and stood up.

  ‘Hey, David,’ he said. ‘That’s some tough story. Let me go fix another coffee and then we’ll take stock.’

  But David was already on his feet, looking disappointed and puzzled. There was anger in his voice. ‘Hey, man. I thought you understood. I thought you said we were going to work this out. What’s with the coldness all of a sudden?’

  ‘I’m not being cold,’ Mike muttered. ‘I’m . . . There are a lot of . . . issues to deal with here and I’m not sure I’m—’

  ‘You wanted to kiss me, didn’t you? Is that it? Don’t deny you wanted to.’

  ‘Whoa,’ said Mike, backing away. ‘Let’s not—’

  ‘No, it’s OK, it’s OK,’ David insisted, walking towards him. ‘Don’t you see? Isn’t it obvious? I came because I love you. I saw you the first day I came here and I’ve thought of you every minute since. I listen to you on WRGW the whole time. Your voice is never out of my head; I follow you in the halls; I dream of you when I’m in bed. And don’t say you don’t love me, Mike, because I know you do. I sensed it when we were sitting there and I sense it right now.’

  Mike looked at him pensively . The guy must be crazy – he kept repeating the thought to himself, trying to convince himself to walk away. But he couldn’t dampen the physical desire or the strange attraction that drew him to this soulful, tortured, beautiful man. After an eternity he cleared his throat.

  ‘Look, David. I don’t know what I feel, and that’s the truth. It’s getting late. And tomorrow you guys all go off for the vacation. I don’t want to spoil things between us, OK? So go home to Pennsylvania and look after yourself. Don’t get too down, think good things and come back next September. Then we’ll see if we still feel the same way.’

  David had been listening with gloom on his face but at Mike’s last remark he seemed to light up with hope.

  ‘See if we feel the same way? Hey, man, that’s the coolest— If we feel the same . . .’

  Before Mike knew what was happening David had given him an excited kiss on the lips and bounded out the door shouting, ‘See you next semester, then! And thanks for the coffee!’

  God, thought Mike, sitting down in a daze, he’s an emotional rollercoaster. What the hell have I let myself in for?

  SEVEN

  1975

  Mike spent the summer of 1975 appearing at the Kennedy Center for the Performing Arts in downtown Washington DC. He said it that way because it sounded impressive, but then he would laugh and add, ‘Yeah, I appear nightly . . . in the south foyer during the intermission. I do a nice line in marshmallows, jellybeans and candy bars!’

  The candy concession at the Kennedy Center had been run since the place opened in 1971 by an old couple who recruited vacation cover from students at the neighbouring GW University by offering a modest salary and the considerable attraction of free admission to performances in the concert hall and opera house. By the end of the summer Mike had seen Pearl Bailey sing live, the Berlin Philharmonic under Karajan, the Bolshoi Ballet dancing Spartacus, performances of Cat on a Hot Tin Roof and a dramatization of Steinbeck’s Of Mice and Men.

  Then there was the scope the job offered for meeting interesting strangers. Significant glances were exchanged over the Hershey Bars and Twizzlers with young men from out of town looking for a little contact and comfort in an unfamiliar city. He took them back to his rooms in Thurston Hall, where he offered them hospitality and tender care, but throughout the distractions of the summer thoughts of sad, crazy David Carlin stayed in his mind. He thought of him back home in Pennsylvania with the family that seemed to hate the very essence of his identity and had tortured him to change it.

  When school resumed in September, the excitement he felt at the prospect of seeing David took him by surprise. He looked in the GW register and saw the university had listed David’s address for the new school year as 2025 I Street N W. In the evening he pulled on his jacket and walked north from Thurston up 20th till he reached the triangular patch of greenery known as Monroe Park, where the hobos drank whisky and sprawled on the shabby wooden benches. Over the street he picked out the tall red-brick and saw a bunch of students with their moms and dads unloading suitcases and oversized radio-cassette players from cars with out-of-town plates. He sat down on a bench and he was still there when David emerged from the lobby with a cigarette in his fingers, exhaling smoke from rounded lips and watching it drift up into the neon-lit evening. Under the green canopy of the awning he cut a dark figure with the frowning brows and preoccupied air Mike found so enthralling. He was wearing a tweed jacket and brown cord pants and holding himself, Mike thought, very erect. For all the world he looked straight as a die, an eligible bachelor with long years of married life ahead of him. As he turned the image over in his mind, Mike found himself warming to it. If he had a type it was guys who dressed the same way he did – understated, low-key clothes, a little preppy maybe, with none of the excesses and fey mannerisms of overt gayness. His fantasy when he trawled the cruise bars was that he would pick up a straight, married man and open his eyes to the love he secretly desired but would never know until he met Mike. His thoughts were languorously slotting David Carlin into the role of his married conquest when a tall blonde girl with long stockinged legs and a short skirt came running from the building and threw her arms round David in a lingering, unmistakably amorous embrace. For Mike, not yet emerged from his fantasy world, it somehow fitted perfectly, the natural adjunct of the exhilarating narrative he was creating in his head. Then it hit him the girl was no fantasy and David was returning her kisses. For a moment he watched, taken aback, then rose stiffly from the park bench and disappeared into the shadows of Pennsylvania Avenue.

  The evening shift at WRGW were starting to panic. It was after 9.45 and Mike at Nite was on air in less than a quarter-hour. The producer, Rick Moock, had tried calling Thurston, but the janitor said he hadn’t seen Mike Hess since before dinner. Rick was discussing with the studio manager whether to run a tape of an old show or whether he himself should step into the breach when Mike walked into the production suite and flung his jacket over the chair.

  ‘OK, guys,’ he said. ‘I know I’m late. Don’t bug me. Just give me the first three plays and I’ll pick it up from there, all right? Give me the new Art Garfunkel, will you?’

  But Rick was pissed at Mike and wanted him to know it.

  ‘No way, Mike. That’s so unprofessional, coming in here with the show almost on air and thinking you can improv your way out of it. While you were out doing whatever you were doing Paul and I decided the playlist, and we’re opening with Bowie, then Janis Ian and Glen Campbell – it’s number one in case you didn’t notice . . .’

  Mike was in a state and didn’t want to argue, but
his rapidly churning mind had thrown up a plan.

  ‘I know, guys. Look, I’m sorry, OK? We’ll do the Bowie and all the others, but just let me open with Garfunkel, will you? It’s no big deal.’

  Rick glanced at the clock and saw there was no time to bitch. He handed Mike the record.

  ‘OK, Mike. You win. But just as soon as we get the show done, you owe me an explanation.’

  Mike smiled gratefully, took the disc and walked upstairs to deck five, where the DJ booth was waiting and the feed of the NBC newscast was just wrapping up.

  ‘And a very good evening to you from Mike, Mike at Nite, that is.’

  As the turntable whirred and Art Garfunkel crooned his resurrected love ballad, Rick Moock wondered at Mike’s ability to jump from stressed-out life to the on-air epitome of calm.

  ‘And that was Art Garfunkel, boys and girls,’ his rich voice intoned as the track finished. ‘“I Only Have Eyes for You”. Number eighteen on the Billboard Hot One Hundred, and tonight it goes out to a very special guy with a message from his old RA . . .’

  Rick gestured through the studio glass and turned up his palms to ask what he thought he was doing, but Mike was already reading out the song lyrics with such intensity and feeling that the most hackneyed of them seemed suddenly vibrant with meaning.

  ‘“My love must be a kind of blind love,”’ he murmured, his voice soft and low . . .

  ‘I can’t see anyone but you.

  Are the stars out tonight?

  I don’t know if it’s cloudy or bright,

  Because I only have eyes for you.

  You are here; so am I.

  Maybe millions of people go by.

  But they all disappear from view,

  And I only have eyes for you . . .’