Now and Yesterday

by Stephen Greco

  Peter laughed. McCaw had a gift for flattery, even seduction.

  “If you ask me,” said Peter, “the real question is the shirt. Again, people will know the difference between a seventy-nine-dollar one and a four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar one, on some level. Which brings us back to a question we always have with you, doesn’t it: How much do you come across as a rich guy and how do we handle that?”

  McCaw was nodding thoughtfully.

  “And, of course, the underlying question,” continued Peter, “which is, ‘Class warfare for America, pro or con?’ ”

  McCaw chuckled.

  “Right,” he said. “Brilliant, as always, my friend. Well, we’ll figure it out.” He tilted his head slightly. “Peter, I just don’t understand why a guy like you is still single.”

  “What?” A certain modesty, reflexive for Peter, unbalanced his instinct to remain calm in response to a sudden shock. The remark was decidedly off topic.

  “Seriously,” said McCaw. “You’re intelligent, accomplished, good-looking. . . .”

  Good-looking?

  “I don’t know what to tell you,” said Peter.

  “My wife is planning a dinner thing for a few weeks from now,” said McCaw. “I’ll see that she invites you. We must know a couple of people you’d find interesting.”

  Great. He must mean men; he knew Peter was gay, didn’t he? Was he offering to set Peter up—the man who had spoken publically against gay marriage? Yet after the call Peter put the matter out of his mind. There was too much life-and-death shit to worry about.

  The weather was glorious on the Friday morning when Peter and Will set out for Hudson. It was one of those dazzling spring days that make the city look freshly built. They were a little late in collecting the van from a garage in the far west Thirties, but within minutes they had zipped through the side streets over to the edge of Manhattan and were heading north along the Henry Hudson Parkway, on the edge of the river.

  Peter was driving. Having always served as designated driver on car trips with Harold and Nick, he had made it a point to ask Will if he had a preference, but Will seemed indifferent, so Peter hopped behind the wheel. And the van was indeed more comfortable and much quieter than the hollow tin can that he had been dreading. The steering was responsive, and the interior, especially up front, was padded out in a manner commonly known as “luxurious”—which, if not Maybach-level, was at least nicer than not luxurious. Over the insulated din of highway noise, they began chatting randomly about the fine weather, the light traffic, and the final choices each had made after an exchange the night before, about what to pack.

  “I did bring the lighter jacket, after all. But with a sweater, so I can layer.”

  “Jonathan told me it snowed up there last week.”

  “No! I brought shorts, in case it gets really warm.”

  “So did I!”

  The rising sun had yet to make it above Manhattan’s skyline, but morning brightness was streaming in from the right, revealing faint swipe marks on the dashboard’s freshly cleaned, black faux-leather surface—which was at least better than not clean. A stoplight poke into the console compartment between the captain-style front seats turned up no dimes or chewing gum wrappers.

  “Nice,” said Peter, after Will hooked his iPhone up to the van’s sound system and got some music going.

  “I made a playlist,” said Will.

  “Goodie!”

  “Nothing thematic. Just fluff.”

  “I like fluff.”

  “You are fluff.”

  Will had deployed the console’s cup holder for the Starbucks he brought for them, and adjusted the air vents in the middle and on his side. Automatically, he popped open the glove compartment to look inside, then popped it closed.

  “Remember maps?” he said.

  “It’s not the same, is it?” said Peter, meaning Will’s iPhone, on which Will had plotted the course with Google Maps. He reached over and gave Will’s leg a little rub. “My little OnStar,” he said. “I’m so glad we’re doing this.”

  Leaving the city via the route they had planned—the Henry Hudson to the Saw Mill River Parkway, to the Taconic Parkway—involved subliminals, too, Peter mused. One minute, content for a moment after shifting into the correct lane for a gradual veer onto the Saw Mill, he felt a bit of city tension easing away, with a long exhale. The next minute, he was aware of all the tiny bits of information from the surrounding landscape that his brain was processing, that cued the easing: a three- to-five-percent decrease in the number of built right angles in his field of vision; the color green replacing shades of gray and brown at the rate of ten percent per minute (which would level off somewhere in Westchester); the increasing sweetness of the air flowing in through the vents, which contained perhaps a part or two less per million of hydrocarbons than the air behind them, a part or two more per million of pollen. Off to the left, along some rolling hills that had probably been cleared for farmland in the 1700s but were now reforested and had been protected since the planning of this parkway, in the 1920s, a bristle of trunks and branches—maple, beech, and birch, Peter guessed—was just at the point of being enveloped in the leafy foam thickening on top of it.

  I suppose we’ll still see a little more armature as we go north, he thought, as the hills slid by. Though Jonathan said his maples were pretty leafy already.

  “Great highway, isn’t it?” said Peter. They had been silent for a few minutes. Will seemed to be enjoying the scenery, too.

  “Nice,” said Will.

  “Somehow, it’s a lot more art-meets-engineering than the Thruway, ya know?”

  “Mmm.”

  “You get the feeling that someone designed the Taconic with aesthetics in mind—the vistas that come into view as you go around a bend, the landscaping and all that.”

  “I don’t know the Thruway all that well.”

  “It’s all business—all the interstates are. Built in the fifties. You can smell the military thinking behind them. Mobilize the troops! Evacuate the cities! But until the bomb falls, enjoy your scenic motoring!”

  Will giggled.

  “Very postwar. But damn it, the cars didn’t all look alike back then,” said Peter, jutting his chin to indicate the highway ahead, which ribboned into the distance for an armada of largely featureless little crates in silver, gray, and white. Theirs was silver, and parallel with them in the other lane were two or three other featureless crates.

  “You have no idea how it was in the fifties,” said Peter. “Cars were sexy then, not efficient. It was all about aesthetics. People had two-tones! They didn’t worry about resale value, if they wanted a car that was, oh, turquoise and salmon. When they unveiled the new models each fall, Will, it was like a fashion show: convertibles on turntables, curtains going up, girls in evening gowns! And season after season, those cars were always more gorgeous than the previous models. It was, I dunno, some kind of parade that charted the progress of modern living. And people paid attention to the details! They really looked at those cars—you know, all the new-and-improved swoops and bulges and what-have-you. They really cared about their makes and models.”

  “Really.”

  “Oh, yeah! I mean, every fall you saw things like a fender that had morphed into a jet pod, or a tailfin that had turned into a rocket ship wing; and you were happy for that make. Or, please—a bumper that grew a pair of torpedoes!? That enthralled people! It told a story people wanted to hear.”

  Will smiled.

  “I don’t think people even look at sculpture that carefully nowadays,” continued Peter. “It was like these cars were their friends and they were growing up. The makes, like Chevy and Ford, were finding their way in postwar America—getting nice clothes and new hairstyles that suited them for the times.”

  “Do you miss all that?”

  “I . . . didn’t think I did. But now that I think about it . . .”

  They both laughed.

  Exits flew by, for little towns, and r
est areas, and other highways. Peter kept to the right lane, as he usually did when driving, sticking prudently to not more than nine miles per hour over the speed limit, as his father had taught him to do, to avoid tickets; and Will gently kidded him on this “pokey” style of driving. Conversation skittered from snacks, to cooking, to the ideal kitchen, to the idea of Peter moving back upstate someday.

  “Wait till you see this place,” said Peter. “It’s amazing.”

  “Can’t wait,” said Will.

  “I gather he’s done a lot of work on it, since I saw it last.”

  “You guys never . . .”

  “Me and Jonathan? Nope—uh-uh. Woulda, coulda, but we both had boyfriends, and . . . ya know. We’ve always admired each other from afar.”

  “Cool.”

  “He’s the best friend I ever had.”

  Will nodded.

  “Harold and I always thought we would get a country house,” said Peter. “We all did. Up here or in Bucks County. Somehow, I stopped looking after he died. Yet I feel I’ll end up here, someday.”

  “When?”

  “I dunno. When I’m ready. Some charming old place that’s been really well cared for. I keep thinking, ‘Who’s living in my house right now and are they taking care of the pipes?’ ”

  “Funny.”

  “Which, of course, is the thing: I have no talent for owning property, the way Jonathan does. That’s another part of that fifties programming that I sort of rejected. My father came home from the war, built a split-level, and told me that that’s what you do. You get a wife and a mortgage and some kids. And a new car, every two years.”

  “Did he know you were gay?”

  “Oh, yeah. I told him, freshman year.”

  “Did he accept it?”

  “No. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.”

  “Oh.”

  “But within ten years, Will—and I take full credit for this—he was cutting out clippings from the newspaper on gay liberation and sending them to his proud gay son.”

  “He came around.”

  “He did. The same time he switched from Republican to Democrat.”

  Miles racked up and traffic thinned out. Quiet moments began to stretch between their exchanges, which made Peter realize how comfortable he and Will had grown together. Silences, drivel, and non sequiturs were OK. Baby talk would probably be next. The question of where they were headed, relationship-wise, had subsided somewhat, even among their friends. Their odd friendship had become a given—though Peter still harbored a hope, which he sometimes excused as a form of instinct, that Will someday might announce himself attracted in more of a boyfriend way. Maybe, thought Peter, Will was working through an “older man thing,” or an “other man” thing, or maybe even just a “man” thing. Men of his generation were notoriously backward. Lots of young gay men Peter knew weren’t especially comfortable being intimate or defined by the term “gay.” But whatever the issue—iƒ there was an issue—Peter kept this hope silent and feasted quietly in solace on the little things about Will that were part of the relationship as it was: the Starbucks, the travel music, the lilt of his laugh, the endearing way he plucked his shirt away from his chest reflexively, as if to neaten himself.

  Peter glanced over. It was endlessly nice to look at Will. He was in jeans that day, with some Nikes and a pair of gray cropped athletic socks. Those ankles were so sexy! He was also wearing a light blue sweater and a khaki safari jacket. So put-together, yet so modern! The posture was appealingly proper, practically military; the hair looked a bit longer than usual, more luxuriant. Was he letting it grow?

  Then Will gave his sweater one of those little plucks, as he shifted in his seat; he noticed Peter noticing and smiled, and went back to watching the scenery. And Peter thought, What is that about anyway, the plucking? A way to keep the sweater from wrinkling or clinging too closely to the chest—which Peter knew from Facebook pictures, if nothing else, was beautifully formed and smooth? Was it some sort of tell? Were there issues about the body, or sex, or physicality itself that Will was dealing with or needed to deal with? Issues he might not even be aware of, but which, if ever resolved—say, in therapy—would ready him for love?

  “How you doin’, Boo-boo?” said Peter. “Whaddya say to a rest stop? I think I have to pee.”

  “You think?”

  “I have to pee.”

  “OK.”

  Peter had thoughts about the difference between today’s rest stops and those golden oldies of his childhood, but decided to keep them to himself as they bought water and chewing gum, marveled at the tacky souvenirs for sale, and made fun of an obese family stuffing their faces with cheese fries in the food court. Then they clucked, as they jumped back in the van, throwing their jackets into the backseat, because it had gotten warmer, over how quickly a rented vehicle like theirs, unknown to them two hours earlier, becomes one’s private kingdom—a refuge, one’s place to stash things.

  They arrived at Jonathan’s around eleven-thirty, after texting to say they were close and to ask if they could pick up anything for lunch. Just come, Jonathan said. The house was in the hills above the town of Hudson, on fifteen acres with a stream. It was a shingled, Nantucket-style, four-bedroom “farmhouse” built in 1881, with two massive gables and a smaller third one, boasting elaborate diamond- and square-paned windows, and a low, wraparound porch featuring a generously proportioned roof supported by pairs of sturdy square columns.

  “Oh, my,” said Will as they made their way up the winding drive.

  “Yeah,” said Peter. “If you had an issue with my shoes, I can’t imagine what you’ll make of this.”

  “I explained that, Peter . . . ,” said Will, giving Peter’s shoulder a playful push.

  “Hey, I’m driving here . . . ,” Peter laughed.

  The place was conspicuously well cared for—the landscaping artfully rustic, the windowpanes glinting as they caught the sun. A tastefully coordinated “new” wing, added in the 1920s, now housed Jonathan’s film studio. The wing angled off one side of the house to form, around back, a gracious sort of rear courtyard, sen-tried by two ancient oaks, which is where Peter and Will arrived after following the drive around past the front façade—though the rear of a Hudson Valley house as well situated as this one was hardly less important than the front. Beyond the courtyard to the west was an expansive lawn, a flagstone terrace with a swimming pool, and a 180-degree view of the Hudson River and the mountains in the distance.

  Aldebar was stepping down from the stone terrace to welcome them. He indicated that they should park in a little cul-de-sac screened off by some boxwoods, where several other cars were parked, and came over to help with the bags.

  “Good to see you again, my friend,” said Peter, as they shook hands and embraced.

  “Wonderful to see you, too,” said Aldebar. “We’ve been looking forward to having you both.” His tight crewneck sweater showed off his compact, muscular build.

  Peter introduced Will, as they started walking toward the house. It was good to alight at this aerie after two hours of driving, Peter thought. The midday sun felt warm on his skin—for the first time since October!—while across the river, beyond the foothills of Greene County, a herd of Catskill peaks, majestic if modestly scaled, loped off westward with ponderous ease. The air was pure grace. Yet the moment also released a sad thought that had been squirming beneath Peter’s consciousness for days: that some visit with his friend, one day soon, would be the last.

  Jonathan was standing inside the kitchen door as they entered.

  “Darling!” said Peter.

  “Drive OK?” said Jonathan.

  “Perfect!”

  “Really gorgeous,” said Will.

  “Oh, good,” said Jonathan, clearly delighted at their arrival.

  Hugs were gentle, as Jonathan was obviously frail. His neck no longer filled the collar of his shirt. His lips looked drawn, his perfect teeth too prominent. A certain leonine handsomeness that had
always been his now hinted at an inner lizard.

  “You’re out of the chair,” exclaimed Peter.

  “I’m good around the house,” said Jonathan. “And today’s a good day. We use it when we go out.”

  “We have a whole routine,” said Aldebar cheerily. “It’s fun, now that we’ve got it down.”

  “The house looks amazing,” said Peter, putting down his briefcase and taking in the room. It was a sprawling, luxuriously homey eat-in kitchen that Jonathan had created out of the house’s original kitchen and a bedroom suite that had been attached to it for a century. The custom architectural woodwork, though obviously meant to look plain and simple, was a feast of such lavish design and craftsmanship that it seemed to satisfy a greater hunger for domestic contentment than one had ever been aware of having. A mass of hydrangeas sat in an earthenware pot in a stone fireplace that dated back to the house’s construction. A dark Federal hutch that had occupied a wall of the Chelsea apartment sat nearby, between two windows.

  “Oh, that’s right!” said Jonathan. “You haven’t seen the place since we finished it.”

  “Jonathan got this place—what, fifteen years ago?” said Peter.

  “Eighteen. And I only just got around to the kitchen.”

  “I keep thinking Harold and I used to come here, but you didn’t even get the place until after he died.”

  “Nope. Ninety-four.”

  “Wow. And I have really not been here for five years?”

  “You have not. It’s not like I haven’t asked you!”

  An assuringly beefy cooking smell filled the room. Sitting on the counter of the kitchen’s central island, the base of which was articulated with corners in the form of spiraled column legs, were a shallow wooden bowl of field greens and a board with a baguette and a wedge of orange cheese. On the Viking range, set into an arched alcove that was a degree or two too original-looking to look original, was an iron pot of soup or stew that Aldebar uncovered and stirred with a wooden spoon, when he returned to the kitchen after putting the bags in the guest room. The diamond-paned windows of the plush, built-in window seat afforded deafening blue-sky views across the river.