Pennsylvania Station

by Patrick E Horrigan

  Table of Contents

  Advance Praise

  PENNSYLVANIA STATION | Patrick E. Horrigan

  Dedication

  1962

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  1963

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  1964

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  1965

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Author's Note

  About The Author

  Copyright

  Advance Praise for

  PENNSYLVANIA STATION

  “Horrigan’s novel is convincingly at home in its time period, full of wonderful details and forthright opinions about architecture and art, family dynamics, and the fight over civil rights.”

  —Kirkus Reviews

  “Horrigan has the sublime ability to wed history to visceral emotional experience, architecture to relationships, and sorrow to sex and love. Whether it is flirting with a sexy stranger who sits next to you in a Broadway theater, public sex in a dressing room in Rome, or seeking emotional solace in Palladio’s La Rotonda, Pennsylvania Station, with its echoes of Henry James and E. M. Forster, amazingly collapses the profound grief of losing the past with the fear of gazing into a new future.”

  —Michael Bronski, author of A Queer History of the United States

  “Pennsylvania Station is poignant and provocative. By exploring the conflicted relationship between a closeted middle-aged architect and an impetuous young activist at a pivotal point in New York City’s geographic and cultural history, Horrigan thoughtfully employs the past to reflect complexities which face the LGBT community today.”

  —David Swatling, author of Calvin’s Head

  “In Pennsylvania Station, Patrick E. Horrigan tells a very moving story about the love of an older and a younger man, a pioneering gay activist in the early 1960s. In doing so, he shows that the fusion of same-sex romance and narrative realism can still work the kind of literary and emotional alchemy first practiced by legendary novelists like James Baldwin and Patricia Highsmith.”

  —Michael Moon, author of Darger’s Resources

  SANDRO: Who needs beautiful things nowadays, Claudia? How long will they last? All of this was built to last for centuries. Today, ten, twenty years at the most, and then? Well… Claudia, shall we get married?

  (from Michelangelo Antonioni’s L’Avventura, 1960)

  CHAPTER ONE

  Frederick Bailey had to be careful not to seem “too musical.” Only certain people knew about his passion for musical theater. He was sometimes ashamed to admit it, even to himself, but Julie Andrews did something to him. He would never forget the first time he saw My Fair Lady in April of 1956. He and Jonathan bounded out of the Mark Hellinger Theater on a wave of something he rarely experienced anymore. It felt like love. The reason was Julie. He knew the moment Freddy Eynsford-Hill bumped into her, and she came tumbling downstage all in a heap, crying like a wounded animal, dressed in rags, her hair a mess, her face smudged with soot, her basket spilling out of her hands, her violets scattered across the pavement—from that moment she belonged to him. And when she opened her mouth to sing—

  A uniformed usher and a matronly woman in blue stopped at his row. The usher checked the ticket and pointed a white-gloved finger in his direction. Frederick, along with the Oriental couple on the end and several others in between, stood up. He hoped the woman wasn’t coming to claim the seat next to him. He braced himself for disappointment. Closer she came, pressed in front of him (he leaned back and even tightened his abdomen to avoid physical contact), then soldiered on a few seats further to his right. What a relief. He sat down again. With any luck (he checked his Timex—ten minutes till curtain) the seat would remain unclaimed.

  He looked around. His eye followed the graceful curve of the proscenium arch up and over, then the billowy waves of the loge seating along the side, the wide sweep of the balcony overhead, coming back around to the proscenium. Curves, bows, arches, arabesques. Modern architecture, by contrast, with its unyielding squareness, its rectilinear severity (he thought of the boxy white-brick apartment building he’d spent most of the day rendering at the office), was impoverished for its refusal of such lovely, organic forms. His country house, he decided, if it ever got built, should have some curved element that referenced nature. Or history. Perhaps a tall window with a Gothic arch overlooking a ravine, somewhere deep in the woods. He thought of the Gothic windows of Grace Church with their flame tracery, visible from his living room.

  The auditorium was steadily filling up. Most people had come with companions of one sort or another. Two men made their way towards the seats directly in front of him. Hard to know if they were… One whispered something in the other’s ear as they removed their suit jackets. They laughed. He and Jon used to love going to the theater together (Listen old man, just because I’m getting married…). It was Jon with whom he’d seen My Fair Lady the first time (he stood with the telephone receiver to his ear, his entire family straining to listen from the parlor, the Christmas-tree lights flashing, the snow falling outside the dining room window). But nowadays he really didn’t mind attending the theater alone, inherently social though it was—that is, until the lights went down. For then, he thought, you are free. Free to be anyone, do anything, go anywhere you please. And whether you’re extroverted or introverted, married or single, normal or queer (it’s just that with Rachel…), for those few blessed hours, you let go.

  He hadn’t, in fact, expected to be seated here on a Wednesday evening about to see My Fair Lady a second time. But he’d had a dream last night. Jon had come back to him. They were making love, and it was so real, so vivid, he awoke with a breathless sense of loss. He couldn’t fall back asleep, so he got out of bed and went ahead with his morning routine. He discovered the Times had already been delivered. There was a notice in the entertainment section—after seven smash years on Broadway the show was closing at the end of September. He thought, why not? Revisiting an “old flame” might be just the thing to start the evening (he had vaguer thoughts of ending it at the Snake Pit, and who knew what might happen there, whom he might meet?). It might also fortify him to put on the family mantle this weekend. He chewed the edge of his nail. Pop’s seventy-fifth birthday. The annual trip to Reading. He’d done it countless times before, and tomorrow, dutifully, he would do it again, though he was getting tired of the drill, tired of forced smiles and superficial conversations, tired of questions about girlfriends and why at his age he was still a bachelor (a handsome young man stood in the aisle scanning the crowd). He ran through the list of things that needed doing tomorrow before his five o’clock train (momentarily their eyes met). He still hadn’t bought a birthday gift for his father—he was thinking a nice tie or a handkerchief (he held the young man’s gaze, but the young man frowned and turned away). Gimbels had a decent selection, and it was right on the way—

  He remembered the protest in front of Penn Station. “Action Group for Better Architecture in New York.” Deborah had called this afternoon to remind him they were protesting the impending demolition of Pennsylvania Station and to encourage him to join the protest. What a nuisance! Young people and Negroes demonstrated in public, not serious, well-dressed, middle-aged professionals like himself. The truth was, he wasn’t a joiner. He didn’t believe in causes. And frankly, he wasn’t certain the loss of Penn Station would be so trag
ic. A sooty, baggy, ill-kept monster of a building, a confusing mixture of styles—faux classicism, Crystal Palace ostentation (again he scanned the ornate proscenium with its heavy red curtain)—McKim, Mead, White at their excessive, pretentious, derivative worst, wasn’t it? He hoped he could avoid the protest on his way into the station. How awkward it would be to run into Deborah. One thing to dodge a mere professional acquaintance, another to disappoint a friend. He really ought to make a date with her, they hadn’t sat down to talk in months. If only she were accompanying him to Reading this weekend! He smiled to think how his family persisted in the fantasy of some dark lady in New York. “When are we gonna meet that Manhattan mistress of yours?” his father would invariably joke, thinking, no doubt, of Deborah, whom he’d met on one or two occasions over the years, and Frederick’s comeback was always, “I’m too busy for romance, I have good friends, and anyway, Pop, you know Architecture is the love of my life.”

  “Come on now, Freddy, nice young fella like you, all alone in that big city…” his mother would begin. But he would change the subject, or counter with, “For heaven’s sake, Ma, forty-eight isn’t young, and—speaking of the city, did I tell you…?” He worried about his mother. Her health was declining, and the forgetfulness was rapidly getting worse. Or so he understood from his sister’s letters. (More intimate laughter from the two men in front of him.) Well, he would see for himself this weekend.

  He opened his Playbill and there on the inside cover was Jon: clean cut, handsomely dressed in white jacket and black tie, smoking a cigarette, sharing a private joke with a woman wearing a floor-length cape. Jon was a “type,” and ever since their breakup (Listen old man, Rachel and I are engaged. But nothing has to change between us. Just because I’m getting married doesn’t mean we can’t see each other. You and I will always… It’s just that with Rachel…), Frederick had the sensation of seeing him on the subway, in the street, on the television, in magazine ads—“Treat your taste kindly with KENT, the cigarette with the new micronite filter. Refines away rough taste.” Nothing would taste so good this moment, he thought, as a cigarette.

  He flipped the pages. An article on theater outside of New York. Cunard Cruise vacations—now that sounded appealing—“…to the Mediterranean…North Cape…the South Pacific and Far East…West Indies and South America.” An ad for the original cast album of My Fair Lady (he knew it by heart). More cruises! “This Spring enjoy 45 delightful days aboard the magnificent S.S. Statendam. Discover a kaleidoscope of Mediterranean life. Madeira. Gibraltar. Villefranche. Piraeus. The Greek Isles of Delos and Mykonos. YOU HAVE A DATE WITH THE GREEK GODS on the Mediterranean ‘Discovery Cruise.’ Sailing from New York March 13, 1963.” He turned the page. “If you’re too young to go gray…then don’t!” The men in front of him both had full heads of dark hair. His own hair had started going gray, he couldn’t remember when. Years ago. But he didn’t mind, because…

  Now the lights dimmed. The conductor stood up in the pit. Frederick applauded along with the rest of the audience. Silence. The baton rose. Zing, Zing, Zing, Zing!—the first four sizzling notes of the overture—and the orchestra was off with “You Did It,” followed by “On the Street Where You Live” and, most gloriously, “I Could Have Danced All Night.” Wave upon wave of pleasure! But as soon as poor Margot Moser made her entrance as Eliza, everything fell apart. She was unobjectionable—pretty to look at, though perhaps a little too square in the face. Her voice was likewise pretty, if completely indistinguishable from a thousand other pretty voices. After countless hours listening to the original cast recording, and now seeing this other actress, he was reminded that Julie Andrews had a strength, a self-possession for all her young years (she was barely out of her teens when she took on the role), that, combined with the rich beauty of her voice, and her undeniable physical beauty, produced for Frederick something magical. Out-of-body. She also had an innate sense of comedy, which this new girl lacked. He missed Julie’s grace and good humor, even when playing a girl of the streets.

  He tried not to let Moser ruin the experience for him. He was happy enough, he told himself, just to be sitting here comfortably in the theater. All the more so because the seat next to him was unoccupied—room enough to cross his legs.

  During intermission he stepped outside for a cigarette. Lured by the sultry air, theater patrons and passersby crowded the sidewalk. Frederick looked at the metal marquee rimmed with naked light bulbs bursting over the entrance (a recent addition to the Renaissance-style façade) screaming names, awards, critics’ accolades—

  A mad scuffling of shoes. A young woman fell to the pavement, several shopping bags tangled around her arm. Frederick caught a glimpse of someone running headlong up Broadway before vanishing into the crowd. He dropped his cigarette, rushed to the curb, and bent to help her up.

  “He stole my purse!”

  “Are you all right?” A small group of bystanders clustered around her, but only Frederick touched and spoke to her. “He got away,” he said, looking up Broadway. “I can’t even see him now.” He lifted her to her feet but held on to keep her steady.

  “He stole my purse.” She began to cry.

  “Are you hurt?” He noted scrape marks on her arm. He pulled the handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it around her elbow.

  “Thank you, I’m all right.”

  “Where are you going? Should I walk you to a pay phone or the subway?”

  “No, I’ll be all right.” She wiped tears with the back of her hand, then held out Frederick’s hanky while arranging the shopping bags on her shoulder.

  “Keep it. Do you need a quarter for the subway?”

  “Really, I’ll be fine. I have some coins in my skirt pocket. Thank you.”

  “Let me walk with you.”

  She protested, but he insisted it was just a few steps.

  “You never know when something like that can happen, do you?” he said as they walked.

  “But it’s such a shock when it happens.”

  They waited a moment until the light turned green, then crossed. When they reached the subway entrance, he asked, “Do you know where you’re going?”

  “Of course…” She looked at him, almost puzzled by his generosity. “You are kind.”

  She straightened herself, fixed a stray lock of hair, and proceeded down the stairs, holding onto the railing. Frederick watched her for a moment, then turned and headed back across the street to the pavement in front of the theater. His act of gallantry had left him feeling self-conscious. He lit another cigarette, opened his Playbill as if to browse through it, and remembered walking on Penn Street in downtown Reading forty years ago with his father and coming upon a man lying face-up on the sidewalk, blood trickling from his nose. He’d wanted to flee, but his father said, “No, we must stop and help him.” It was nearly an hour before the ambulance carried him away, and whatever they’d planned that day (climbing the lookout atop the Pagoda or riding the dodgem cars in Carsonia Park) had to be postponed, “because,” his father explained, “everyone you see—now Freddy, I want you to look around—” (Frederick raised his eyes from his Playbill and looked at the strangers congregating in front of the theater—a bearded man with horn-rimmed glasses, an attractive woman in pearls, two uniformed soldiers, the elderly Oriental couple from his row, a young man in white pants leaning by the entrance to the Sit ’n’ Snack next door to the theater) “—every person you see is a son of God, whether he’s a Catholic or not, and sometimes a man needs your help, and you’ve gotta be there to help him.” You’ve got to be there, he repeated silently to himself, thinking it was really a good thing he’d be going to Reading this weekend, he might actually enjoy seeing his parents. And he was, after all, worried about his mother.

  It was then he noticed the young man leaning by the entrance to the Sit ’n’ Snack, adjacent to the theater, staring at him. He was small and dark. Compact. His gaze seemed mildly threatening. Frederick turned away, facing up Broadway to see waves of traffic
and pedestrians coming towards him. He turned back to find the young man still leaning by the door, still staring. Now he was approaching, an indefinable smile on his lips. Frederick’s heart began to pound as if this were yet another hoodlum, hot for some action (had he somehow mishandled himself with that poor woman a moment ago?), or an undercover policeman coming to inform him—

  “Mind if I have a cigarette?”

  It felt like a trap. Must be my sexual proclivity, he thought, written all over my face. He obliged without saying a word, afraid his voice might give him away (mustn’t come across as “too musical”). The young man’s smile disappeared as he accepted the cigarette and then—Frederick provided it without being asked—the light.

  “Thanks. I’m Curt.”

  A stiff “hello” was all he dared offer. But the young man didn’t ask for more, just stood his ground. He couldn’t have been much taller than five feet, yet the space he occupied seemed entirely his own. Frederick turned again to look in the opposite direction. He felt uncomfortable, standing next to this attractive young man, both of them smoking in silence. After another minute he thought he might explain he had to go inside, the second act would be starting soon—but he didn’t owe any kind of excuse, and why, of a sudden, did he feel as though to leave would be letting the boy down, abandoning him in some way? He decided he would extinguish his cigarette and say goodbye—no, better just to nod.

  “How do you like the show?” the young man asked, picking a piece of tobacco from his tongue and flicking it away. He looked all of sixteen, but his voice was deep. He held himself with complete possession.

  “Fine. I like it fine.” Frederick meant to leave it at that but then added, “I’ve seen it before.”

  “You must really like it, then.”

  The sidewalk was emptying, it really was time to get back to his seat, and rather than engage further in a conversation he felt was pointless and probably dangerous, he muttered, “It’s time,” took a final drag on his cigarette, tossed it into the street, and turned on his heel to enter the theater, not waiting for a reply but feeling nonetheless the young man’s presence behind him, worrying his abrupt departure might have been rude, wondering if he’d been unnecessarily cautious, fearing he’d let slip a golden opportunity (was it his imagination, or was this a pickup?), and as the lights went down there was a commotion in his aisle as people stood up—all other seats around him were occupied except for the one immediately to his right—a pair of tight white chinos brushed before him. It was the young man. He sat down and smiled again the same indefinable smile.