“And it was like that trip was like the labors of Hercules or something. Like my whole stored-up karma sort of balled itself up and let me work through it all, all at once. It was only a few months after that that I went to the Smith Club book sale, and, ba-boom. Like after years of having misplaced my glasses, I finally found them.”
He looks over at the television screen one last time. “Movie’s starting.” He watches the credits. “I never remember that Maureen O’Hara’s in this…”
*
Day shifts into night. The room is dark now, except for the light emanating from the screen. Garth reaches behind him to switch on the table lamp. The Parent Trap ends. The men look away from the screen, their eyes tired from staring at the flickering light. Neither stirs.
The remains of the pizzas are in their boxes on the coffee table in front of them, Jonathan conjures the scheduling grid on the television screen. Blind Kevin snores softly.
Garth lifts a partially eaten slice, takes the last bites of the sauced edge, and drops the naked crust onto his plate. He picks up a mushroom from his plate and eats it.
Jonathan says, “Dark Passage comes on at eight.”
“Humphrey Bogart and Lauren Bacall, 1947.” Garth taps the top of Jonathan’s head as he announces the year the film was made. “It’s one of the essentials. Robert Osborne says so.”
“Of course it is.”
“I love it when Agnes Moorehead jumps out the window, don’t you? She sort of swirls up in the drapes and then crashes through.”
“Why, yes, yes I do,” says Jonathan.
They are quiet a moment. Jonathan removes the grid with the click of a button. He switches over to HGTV, in search of something to watch until the movie begins. Garth leans over with a kiss. And Jonathan turns his face upward to accommodate.
“Happy anniversary,” Garth says.
The Seven Forty-Five
Richard Natale
At first, Donald saw the man intermittently, glimpsing him through droopy morning eyes like a flicker in the margins of a dream. He was a smart dresser, the same gabardine suit in two shades of taupe during the warmer months, one lighter, one darker. Fall and winter, he switched to twill, navy and midnight blue. The ensembles were more tailored, less baggy than the current fashion, and with a lower waist. European, Donald surmised. They tended to be dandies.
Or “show-offy,” as his wife, Helga, might say. “Isn’t he full of himself?” she would snort at some indeterminate foreigner combing back the sides of his brilliantined hair in public or chewing on a toothpick from the side of his mouth and grinning as if he had figured out the secret of existence.
Except for his clothes, though, Donald was too distracted to get a good fix on the man. He usually had to run from the bus to make the seven forty-five ferry, heart pounding and sweaty, or he’d be late for work at the bank. He was a problem sleeper, his insomnia exacerbated by Helga’s “little talks.”
“We need to have a little talk,” his wife would say. Nothing little followed, and she did all the talking. Donald would nod dumbly throughout the harangue after which he promised to “think about it.” To which she would rejoin, “Don’t just think about it. Do it.”
From their very first date, when she disparaged the service at Nino’s restaurant in Port Richmond, Helga seemed to have a permanent burr under her skin. A shame, since she was otherwise sweet and certainly pretty. Donald fell for her cherry lips, which were so naturally plumped and ripe, they required no more than a splash of lipstick. She was lithe, with a wonderful bosom, ample without being ostentatious, highlighted by ice-cream-colored angora sweaters. And she had flowing Anita Eckberg dirty-blonde hair. No beehive or Jackie Kennedy flip for Helga. He admired the way she tossed it when she spoke. To his mind, it epitomized femininity.
Putting up with her petty dissatisfactions was the price he paid for having a wife other men admired. “You dog, Donald,” several of his coworkers said when he announced his engagement. “How the hell did you land a doll like Helga Guilfoyle?”
“I have my charms,” he replied with a wink. Not much truth to his boast, however. During their courtship, the farthest he got was some under-the-sweater action. And once, she magnanimously gave him a peek. Donald, she remarked, was different from the other men at the Miami Club where they first met. “They always get a little too close when they talk. You keep a respectful distance, even when we’re dancing. I like that.”
Gliding across the floor with Helga was exciting. All eyes in the club were focused on them. But he never lost control, and she rewarded him for his gentlemanly demeanor with the occasional hand job, either in the front seat of his DeSoto or under a newspaper while they were watching a movie at the Victory Theater. She complained about that too. “You take too long.”
When they’d been dating for six months, Helga’s mother, Gert, gave him an ultimatum. Either he proposed or he moved on. Their neighbor, John Capodano, who owned a chain of dry cleaners, was waiting in the wings to give her “plenty of grandchildren.”
His grandmother loaned him the money for the ring, and he worked at his uncle Pete’s tire store on weekends to pay her back and save up for the honeymoon. Niagara Falls. Someone’s idea of romantic. Helga found it damp and hair-frizzing.
At weekly Sunday dinners, Gert reminded him that he needed to “get busy.” Two years and Helga was not yet inseminated. “I’m trying,” he explained. And indeed, he stepped up on the appropriate days when he wasn’t too tired, provided Helga was “in the mood.”
“Leave it be, Ma,” Helga said through a haze of cigarette smoke. “If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. I’m in no rush to lose my figure. Hell, I’m only twenty-two.”
Donald was a year older, but if he didn’t get a good night’s sleep soon, he’d look fifty before long.
*
Then the man appeared more regularly. The same boat in the morning and, sometimes, even the four forty-five coming home. Once or twice, Donald could have sworn he was loitering in the ferry terminal anticipating his arrival. He always brushed past with his attaché, the Times under one arm, and raced to the front of the boat with never so much as a sidelong glance. Slowly, Donald filled in the details. He wasn’t a foreigner at all, more than likely of Scots-Irish stock. Probably played football in college. Had the shoulders for it. And the heft. Fordham was his guess. Strong jaw too and a manly stance from behind. Feet planted wide apart. He didn’t need to brace himself when the ferry bumped against the pylons as it docked.
At night, in mid-toss and turn, he found himself wondering where the man got his suits made. Bespoke or off-the-rack and specially tailored? Went to an awful lot of trouble, that’s for sure. Donald scoped out the left hand for a wedding band. Sure enough. Wide, gold, etched. Probably had a wife out of a TV ad—perfectly coiffed, wearing pearls and an apron, with two kids and another on the way. Definitely a man with purpose. Donald fervently hoped that in a few years, when he was more seasoned, someone would make a similar observation about him. The thought pleased him.
Perhaps his first step should be to emulate the man by riding up front. This way he’d get a jump on the crowd. When he did so, Donald discovered that the extra five minutes he gained from being closer to the double exit doors made a difference. No more over-the-glasses glares from his supervisor.
Also, the man was now in his line of sight for the entire twenty-minute ride, usually positioned diagonally across, features obscured by the Times, folded neatly, one column wide. How did he get it to do that without making a mess? He read with full concentration, only looking up if someone knocked over the attaché by accident. Then, without remark, he righted it and went back to the newspaper.
*
For their anniversary, Donald took Helga to the Copa. Xavier Cugat. They danced and drank. One too many, and he was unable to perform later. “That’s okay,” Helga sighed. “Take two aspirins and drink plenty of water, or you’re going to have a bitch of a headache in the morning.”
He did as he was told and was up half the night peeing. Add to the mix the two cups of coffee he drank in the morning to get his motor running, and Donald had to make a beeline for the downstairs men’s room on the seven forty-five. Got there just in the nick of time, too.
A sigh of relief as the trail began, matched almost exactly by that of the man less than two feet away, the one with the Times under his arm. Donald looked away and then back and down. The man took no notice of his inquisitiveness as he tapped off several times.
As the man reached for a paper towel after rinsing his hands, the Times cascaded from under his armpit and splayed on the ground. Donald picked it up. The man nodded a curt thanks and with one or two flips, the paper fell back into place. “Impressive,” Donald observed.
“All in the wrist.” The man chuckled and made a quick exit.
Donald stood there half-open-mouthed, the way he did when his favorite team scored.
*
“You look as beat as I feel,” the man said, depositing himself heavily next to Donald on the four forty-five back to Staten Island.
“Tough day,” Donald said as the fine gabardine fabric briefly grazed his thigh.
“George, by the way,” he said, extending a hand. His palm was clammy, belying the declarative exterior.
“Donald. Pleased to meet you,” he replied, rubbing the sweat off on his trousers.
“So what do you do, Donald?” George asked. Hardly a leading question, so why did it sound insinuating?
“Branch management, lower Broadway,” Donald replied, trying to pump up his starter job. “You?”
“Architect, commercial mostly, though I have a little side business remodeling Victorians in St. George,” he said, raising his chin as if they were standing at the bottom of the hill looking up.
“George of St. George,” Donald said, a lame attempt at a joke that seemed to bolster Helga’s claim that he lacked a sense of humor.
“I’m no saint, believe me,” George said, rolling his eyes. Then he opened his briefcase and took out a sheaf of papers and was silent for the rest of the trip.
When George got up, Donald followed him outside. “They should have a bar on these boats, especially for the ride home,” George said as they stood shoulder to shoulder. “I could go for a stiff one right about now. You?”
“It would certainly take the edge off,” Donald said. “But I shouldn’t. Have to drive out to Grasmere. Wife’s waiting on dinner.”
“C’mon. Just one,” George suggested, though he did not implore. “There’s a bar not far from the bus stop, the one right across from the library. You know it?”
*
George had the salesman gene, a rah-rah attitude softened by an easy tongue. Donald had attended New Dorp High with any number of these “there’s no problem I can’t solve” jock types. Like them, George appeared unflappable, except for the noticeable jitter in his hands, which made the ice cubes in his whiskey clink against the side of the glass.
“I tell you, I fix up these Victorians,” he said, “but I’d never live in one. They’re dark, and the rooms are small. Not for me. Got myself a nice modern ranch on Todt Hill, double lot. How about yourself?”
“New development out by Willowbrook, with a mother-in-law apartment downstairs. Nothing special, except the mortgage,” he said, glancing at his watch. “I should be on my way in a few—” He stopped short, recalling that Helga and her mother had bingo tonight at St. John’s Lutheran. She’d left “something on the stove” for him. When he relayed this to George, he said, “Excellent. How about you and me grab a bite, then? Let me call the missus and tell her I’ll be late.”
“She’s probably cooked for you,” Donald said.
“Karen? Cook? That’ll be the day.” George laughed. “Kidding, of course. She makes a mean mac-cheese. Just follows the instructions on the box. Foolproof. Be right back.”
Donald had few friends and was flattered that such a self-possessed man wanted to have dinner with him. The guy’s energy was a kick. Made his pulse race.
When he returned, George tossed some bills onto the bar. Donald offered to contribute, but he said “next time,” which pleased him. He was already looking forward to a next time and made a note to ask for George’s work number before the end of the meal.
“Hey, want to take a scoot up around the corner and have a look at my handiwork, see what you think?” George asked. The request sounded clumsy, a well-thought-out invitation that had become muddled on its way from brain to tongue.
“Okay,” he said, a shade tentatively.
*
“Careful now,” George said as he tripped gingerly over the debris in the front hallway of the empty Victorian house and started climbing the stairs. He looked briefly over his shoulder, indicating for Donald to follow.
He flicked on the light in one of the bedrooms, which was papered in an olive drab damask. “See what I mean? Dark, even with the lights on,” he asserted.
“Sure is,” Donald said, standing just inside the door.
As he reached over Donald’s shoulder to flick the off switch, George thrust his body forward and groped him in the darkness. Donald’s physical response contradicted the helpless terror he felt. Then he allowed George to gyrate his body and offered himself up without the slightest struggle, almost as if it had been agreed upon beforehand.
Hitching up his trousers afterward, Donald heard George’s footsteps descending to the first floor and out the door, which slammed shut. Alone and shaken, he relived the intrusion as well as the discomfort and elation that had ensued. As he lumbered down the hill, a frightening thought crossed his mind and he was unable to dislodge it.
On the bus ride home, trembling and afraid, he fell into a dark torpor that, to the casual observer, resembled sleep, and missed his stop. He had to walk a mile back to the house, the same preoccupation dogging him the entire way, and again, he passed out the moment his head hit the pillow.
This swoon-like sleep became his refuge, kept him from dwelling on the disturbing ruminations. He would awaken no more rested than after an insomnia-plagued night, but at least his senses were dulled and too thick for reflection. He no longer searched for George on the morning ride, during which he dozed until the boat slammed against the pylons. Then he would start as if George was looming over his shoulder, forcing him to confront his acquiescence.
At home, he was absent, filtering out Helga’s nattering and begging off his husbandly duties. When word got back to Gert, his mother-in-law upbraided him for his lassitude. Donald offered no defense. He patiently counted the minutes until he could go back upstairs and get into bed.
He was awoken abruptly from his trance-like state by the appearance of a two-toned Buick Skylark across the street from his home. A man was sitting behind the wheel looking down into himself.
Donald threw on a jacket, went into the garage, and backed the DeSoto down the driveway. The Skylark followed him up to a dirt road in a local nature reserve. He got out of the car and walked a half mile into the woods. He could hear the leaves crackling behind him, crushed by the weight of heavy footsteps.
He stopped suddenly and waited, but not for long. George shoved him to the ground, fell on top of him, and Donald was consumed. When he awoke on the damp earth the following morning, his clothes in disarray, he brushed himself off and trekked back to his car. He waited around the corner until Helga and her mother left for their weekly hairdresser appointment. Entering the house, he climbed the stairs and emptied out his closet and dresser drawers, tossing as much as he could carry into two cardboard suitcases. He got back into the car and drove off.
*
Growing up in rural West Virginia, Donald had enjoyed few social interactions with anyone outside his immediate family. When his parents divorced, he was sent to live with his maternal grandmother on Staten Island. And while the neighbors kept pretty much to themselves, life in the outer borough was nonetheless a major adjustment for a solitary fifteen-year-old. Now
he was living in the heart of Manhattan and inexplicably found himself in the thrall of its chaos. A favorite pastime was sitting in the second-story window of his apartment on Perry Street and being entertained by the cacophony of street noises and passersby, day and night almost without cease.
The first time he glanced out the window and saw George standing on the sidewalk, he retreated back into the apartment filled with dread and excitement. George was bound to find him eventually, he reasoned, if he looked hard enough. When he peered out again, George was still there, staring blankly into the near distance. His exhaustion at trying to keep away from Donald—and failing—was tangible. When he called out to him, George turned and looked up, a scowl of defeat creasing his face. He pulled himself up to the second floor and sloped into the apartment. Donald helped undress him and hung his suit in the closet.
He offered George a key, which he refused. Rather than argue, Donald dropped it into his jacket pocket. Whenever he came home and found him sitting in a straight back kitchen chair looking completely undone, Donald would retreat to the bedroom and wait quietly. Then he’d hear a dish break or the chair being overturned, and George’s shadow would descend on him.
Donald couldn’t determine exactly when he started believing that George was in love with him, but his conclusion was based on more than conjecture. George had almost let the words slip a few times when they were in the throes, and he’d demonstrated it in the moments of heartfelt affection that began to infiltrate the necessary roughness Donald demanded. Any attempt on his part to address those feelings, however, might cause a seismic rupture, and not only in George. It would force Donald to confront his own complex yearnings. Instead he chose to classify their desires as some twisted need. Otherwise he might break apart when, after falling asleep on his chest, George slipped out from under him and headed out the door back to his real life.
Men in Love: M/M Romance Page 15