“Oh, yes?” I sipped the wine, incomprehensibly upset. All right, so maybe I just wanted to spend one evening without James.
“You OK?”
“Yes, fine.” Ashamed of my petulance, I knew I should feel grateful for Lou’s joy.
“Oh, yes, he’s a big movie buff. It’s one of the great things we have in common.”
What else could they have in common besides their penises? Actually, Lou was studying soccer, attending local matches, reading sports magazines.
“Things are going well?” I would skip dessert and order a glass of port.
“Actually, I have a secret.”
“A secret?” I had come to dread Lou’s mysteries.
“I found his phone number. Why I never thought of this, I don’t know. He’s listed in the Miami phone book!”
“You’re going to surprise him with a telephone call?”
He threw his head back. “We’ve been making love forever and I’ve never even heard his voice. I simply can’t stand it any longer.”
“When are you going to phone?”
“Friday night, before our log-in time.”
The message on my machine was forlorn. “It was the wrong number. I’m désolé.”
Somehow I couldn’t help feeling this wrong number was a sign. A blessing.
Spring bloomed early. The white and purple lilacs in front of Lou’s house were intoxicating. Gardening urges prevailed. With Lou’s permission, I constructed double-dug beds on my side of the duplex. One for flowers; another for lettuces and herbs. Growing up in San Diego, I was used to gorgeous wild flowers. The arugula shot up in a week. How had I spent all those years surrounded by New York concrete?
In a strange way, the garden fostered our friendship. Lou would wander out on weekend mornings, still drinking his mocha Java, while I picked greens and mucked in the soil.
One morning he paced back and forth by the flowers, wordlessly.
“What’s going on?” I frowned, dreading another secret.
“I’m lonely,” he squatted down beside me.
I liked his new emerald earring. One more step away from the cowboy heritage. I took a deep breath. “What about James?”
“Precisely the prob. It’s heartbreaking having a fabulous lover whose voice you can’t hear. Is it deep and gravelly? Medium pitched and mellow? A lover whose eyes you can’t see. Brown. But what colour brown? Chocolate? The whole thing is worse than being alone.”
“Worse?” I mused.
“Sorry, I know you miss Amy,” he said.
I wanted to hit him. What did he actually know about me?
“But with James I have the promise of intimacy, without the, I don’t know, the reality of it.”
Finally, I thought. “Yes, it must be hard.”
Abruptly he stood and bent his head back to the heavens. “I just have to do something.”
“Like what?” I waved my trowel.
“An ultimatum,” he decreed. “It’s James’s birthday next month. And I plan to deliver his present in person. I’m going to end it if James doesn’t let me visit.”
“Whoa,” I stood up, almost mashing a bibb lettuce.
He held his ground outside the double-dug bed.
“You’re taking a serious risk.”
“It’s not worth living without risk.”
I considered my own move to Clapton and starting my new, not perfect, but still very good life.
“Yes,” I nodded. “I hope it works.”
The next few months were tough.
James said he liked the suspense afforded by distance.
OK, Lou responded, he was signing off until he got an affirmative answer.
Every night he received a sweet or erotic or demanding note from James.
Every night he replied once. “When can I visit?”
Sometimes James would answer that it wasn’t time yet and beg Lou to understand. Sometimes he didn’t write back.
Sometimes Lou would invite me for an evening walk.
More and more often he would open a new sherry bottle and stare at the computer screen as if he could extract James straight through it.
Honestly, I don’t know how he made it to work after several of those Dry Sack nights.
Kate wanted to do an A.A. intervention as she had done for her dad. Dennis said Lou wasn’t alcoholic, just a forlorn lover. We tried to lure him up to Maine for a week. He refused, complaining of overload at the office.
The fourth night in Bar Harbor, Dennis called me to the phone. “A friend of yours.”
Lou’s voice was high, with more drawl than I’d heard in a long time. “He said ‘yes’! We decided on early July. Now I’m paralysed. Will you go with me? I’ll pay your fare.”
“Well, Amy has a conference in Miami coming up. Maybe I could hang out with her while you and James are carousing.” I made this up. If he thought I was going to baby sit Petie while the two of them transformed virtual into actual, he was nuts.
“Amy,” he sniffed. Then, not wanting to offend, “Of course it would be nice for you two to see each other after all this time.”
I sat down. “Lou, why do you want me to come?”
“Well, of course, I’m terrified and I need a hand to hold. But truly, more than that, since I’m meeting his son, I wanted James to meet my family.”
“Oh,” my eyes filled.
“I told him I was bringing my sister.”
“You already told him I was coming?!” I was amused and annoyed.
I could see him shrug.
Of course I agreed. This is what friends did.
During Clapton’s warm June, I imagined Miami’s heat. Every night the crickets sang me to sleep. When I could sleep. Often I’d doze for several hours and awake bathed in sweat. Was this early menopause? No, I was worried about Lou. Worried that he’d be swept off his feet and move to Florida. Worried he’d invite James and Petie to take over my side of the duplex. Or that he’d have his heart broken.
As departure date approached, Lou fussed and flurried about his hair cut, his tropical wardrobe, Petie’s present. He’d made reservations for us at the Sheraton, insisting on paying for everything. His little sister’s orchestra salary clearly couldn’t cover costs. Although I doubted the wisdom/sanity of this journey, I was relieved Lou didn’t expect us to stay with James and Petie.
He scheduled the fashion show for Sunday night, after dinner. Summer heat swelled and I’d opened all the windows, set the fans on high. Lou’s shirts billowed as he stood in front of the floor fan. The striped seersucker: too preppy, we decided. The floral Hawaiian: too gaudy. He finally settled on three light weight cotton pastels—and, against my advice—a red one with Japanese dragons.
“What about gaudy?” I asked.
He smiled to himself, “Oh, James will love this shirt.”
Who knew? Maybe they’d spiced up their sex with a dragon theme? I’d never seen Lou so elated—or so anxious.
“And for Petie,” Lou shook his head. By this time, he was leaning across my grandmother’s embroidered tablecloth. “I just don’t know. You have to bring a kid presents.” He took a long drink of decaf. He’d gone off the sherry. Altogether Lou was looking healthier.
“Well, let’s see,” I shifted my rattan chair closer to a fan. “He’s turning six, right?”
“And to think he was just a five year old when James and I met!”
Smiling at his nostalgia, I suggested, “How about a computer game? Clearly his father/uncle knows computers. Kids love computer games.”
“That’s brill. Absolutely brill. I’ll go shopping tomorrow.”
I poured another round of coffee.
“And now for James!” his voice rose with excitement. “I have this idea for a ukulele.”
Doubt must have shadowed my face.
“Oh, it’s a little joke between us. I won’t buy anything expensive. As a musician, I thought you might know where to send me.”
“Well, it’s not a standard orchestra instrument,�
� I laughed. “But I do have a friend who’s an aficionado of American roots music and I’ll phone him.”
“You’re a doll!” he grinned.
Temperatures climbed higher and higher that last week. Flowers wilted and lettuce bolted or shrivelled. I thought our performances sagged, too. The whole town was exhausted.
A two hour flight delay: Lou spent the entire time pacing Logan Airport so his shirt wouldn’t wrinkle. Just as well, I couldn’t read with him fidgeting next to me. Although they’d exchanged photos, Lou and James wanted instant recognition and had agreed to wear lime green shirts. (James promised to make a key lime pie for us.)
As we landed and walked past the security gate, Lou was shaking.
“Breathe,” I advised.
“Good idea,” he managed a smile.
We scanned the waiting crowds. Two by two, three by three, passengers peeled away with relatives and friends and limo drivers. I hoped Lou would find them first, but neither of us was having any luck.
“Maybe they gave up and went home,” Lou’s face fell. “I did leave a message with Petie about the delay. Sometimes kids, you know, aren’t so …”
At that moment I spotted the reliable Petie holding his parent’s hand. No, I shivered, I was imagining things. He was just one six year old. There must be others.
More people disappeared from the waiting area.
Petie was trying to run toward us, restrained by a firm, gentle arm.
I took Lou’s hand and nodded to the pair.
“Big joke,” he grumbled.
“No, really,” I said, feeling his skin grow cold.
We approached tentatively and I asked, “Petie?”
The kid broke into a bright smile.
“I’m Andrea.”
Lou stared, dumbfounded.
“James?” I turned to the gorgeous, busty blond woman in the lime green blouse.
“I’ve heard so much about you, Andrea,” James smiled.
Lou stared silently as our host handed him a rose.
We followed them in our rental car. James stopped at a weathered house in a dicey neighbourhood near the freeway. No ocean in sight. I held Lou’s hand as we walked into the spotless living room.
James didn’t stop staring at Lou.
Lou couldn’t return the glance.
Six year old energy sizzled around us.
“Petie,” I said. “Uncle Lou brought you a present.”
“Oh, yes,” Lou pulled out the gift.
“A computer game, wow!” Petie grinned and headed off to another room.
“Did you forget to say something to Uncle Lou?” James asked quietly.
“Thank you, thank you, Uncle Lou!” The boy knew, by instinct, that a hug was not in order.
Lou nodded stiffly, paler than I had seen him all summer.
James invited us to the table and served a rich macaroni and cheese. “I have iced tea. Or beer if you prefer.”
“Beer,” Lou said, “that would help, I mean, that would be great.”
I was going to suggest that he present the ukulele, but Lou, who was still gripping the rose, suddenly jabbed himself on a thorn. Blood spurted over the white placemats.
He asked for a band aid. And some disinfectant.
Being the parent of a six year old, first aid was one of Lou’s needs that James could satisfy.
After Lou was bandaged, we returned to a now cold and rubbery macaroni.
“How was the flight?” James asked cordially.
Lou stared out a window at passing cars.
“Fine, fine, once we got on the plane,” I said.
We fell into silence. I couldn’t stand it any more: Lou’s moroseness and James’ forced cheer.
Suddenly, abruptly, rudely, I asked. “James, we’re confused here. Tell us, are you a man or a woman?”
James started to weep.
That broke the spell.
Lou went over and put his arms around James. “Tell us, dear, we’ll understand.”
That’s my friend, Lou, I thought, kindness itself.
“OK,” James breathed deeply.
Lou sat down.
James poured out the whole story about growing up happily as a female, but realising after Petie was born that she was really a guy. She? He? At this point, I didn’t know how to identify this person. James told us about consulting a sex change counsellor, but with a waitressing income, s/he knew it was going to take years to save enough money for hormone treatments and surgery.
Lou’s eyes got wider and wider.
Suddenly James stood and wrapped alabaster arms around Lou declaring, “I’ve never met another gay man who’s so sensitive and smart, who arouses me the way you do. Oh, I just hope, somehow you can forgive me. Somehow that you’ll understand. Somehow that you’ll wait for me. It could take time.”
Lou disentangled himself and kissed James on the forehead.
“Time. Yes, I think I need a little time to process things,” Lou said gently.
“Of course,” James returned a sad smile.
Lou and I said good-bye to Petie, who was engrossed at the computer screen. On a nearby wall was a gallery of his favourite soccer stars, including a familiar photo of James April.
Back in the living room, we thanked James for lunch.
As we drove off in the rental car, I noticed that Lou had left the rose and the ukulele behind. The key lime pie was probably still cooling in James’ kitchen.
It was the following August and I was in a tizzy practicing for our new performance season. So I felt grateful dinner would be at Lou’s tonight. Summer light was closing out. Hot weather persisted, but a recent thunderstorm had revived my hopes of autumn. I’d lived in Clapton almost three years and this thought filled me with contentment.
He’d set the table on the screened porch and we ate by candlelight to watch for shooting stars. As he served the shitake and artichoke fusilli, I watched the silver crescent moon.
He raised a glass of Sancerre. “To enduring friendship.”
We clinked glasses.
He stared at the sky. “I’ve always loved August. The shooting stars, sometimes you get to see them this late in the month.”
We hadn’t discussed James in a couple of weeks. They’d broken off the nightly marathons, but stayed in touch. Several months after our visit, James confessed that, after all, maybe Lou wasn’t quite the man of his dreams, but their bond would last forever. He thought of moving to San Francisco, where he might find a flexible gay man who could love a woman’s body. What did Lou think? Lou didn’t respond to that, but he did send money to help them buy a new fridge.
“Delicious pasta,” I said.
He grinned, “I like an appreciative audience.”
I pictured him draped over Martin’s piano several summers before, with the matrons gathered around. Lou had many appreciative audiences.
“Have you heard from James this week?” I ventured.
“Yes,” A rueful smile. “The sex is over obviously.”
“Why obviously?”
“Well,” he served the arugula and fig salad, my favourite. “Of course I knew it was all virtual.”
I nodded, savouring the sweet/savory infusion of vinaigrette and fig juice.
“But once the spell is broken, you can’t go back.”
“Yes,” I glanced at the sky. Then I shouted, “Yes, yes, there’s a shooter.”
Lou stared upward. “Damn. I missed it.”
We ate in silence.
Lou murmured, “I’ll always love James. Just not in that particular way.”
“Oh.”
He laughed. “Impossible love. Didn’t think it was on my dance card. Loneliness, yes. Solitude, yes. But impossible love? Do you know what I mean?”
“Yes,” I nodded, “I think I do.”
Broken Membranes
Marian’s thighs stick to the car seat; sweat drools between her breasts. She thought she was prepared, dressing in a t-shirt and shorts this morning despite th
e San Francisco fog, despite the pinky-purple veins slithering up her shapely legs. But here in sweltering Petaluma, her air conditioning sputters out. She pictures herself as one of those legendary local chickens boiling in a big family soup pot.
The sign to Rocky Beach relaxes her. Even in the worst heat, she can wiggle her toes in the Russian River, splash water on her arms and face.
Imagine—the Russian explorers travelled all this way. Now they would have been staggered by such heat after sailing from freezing Siberia to the Aleutians, Alaska, British Columbia. Did they go back for ice and forget to return?
Marian has no intention of surrendering. She plans to enjoy this holiday away from her stimulating, but demanding job at the arboretum, away from her volunteer tutoring, and hopefully away from recent marital obsessions.
Marian and Sam and the girls have rented the same cabin every August for over twenty years. It’s far enough from the city to forget work, close enough for good friends to visit. This year the girls are bringing their new beaux, arriving about dinnertime. And Sam, well, he has taken his new girlfriend to another river—the Amazon—and in Marian’s worst moments, she hopes their boat sinks. She also fantasises about extremely painful snakebite. Not a deadly venom because the girls do need a father.
Imagine—the twins will be seniors at Berkeley next year. They’ve been passionately in love with different this-is-the-ones, four times now. These new guys are nice boys, but boys. Pam and Sue have so much time to settle down. Didn’t her own mother say something similar when she and Sam got married? Imagine—Sam leaving her twenty-five years later for a junior architect. Imagine—after a quarter century on the Russian River, she will be splashing alone.
The friendly sound of crunching gravel cheers her as she pulls up to Cochran’s General Store. She’ll pick up some lettuces here, and fresh bread. The rest of dinner is carefully packed in their cooler and will arrive in fine shape, even if she doesn’t. Marian mops sweat from her neck and face.
Oh shit, she notices the time: 5.30 already. She has to pick up their key, air out the cabin, check for mice, ignite the barbecue coals. Always Marian drives too slowly when obsessing about Sam. She should have listened to NPR. Wars and earthquakes and Supreme Court decisions make her drive faster, as if to escape their consequences. Well, this isn’t the Safeway, just a simple country store. How long can it take?
The Night Singers Page 14