Men on Men 2

by George Stambolian (ed)

  “Per ou nir.” For the black man, she said. He longed to see her face.

  “Veni ca” he said, urging her into the light, but she refused to let him see her.

  “Vattene.” Get out of here. She pushed his hand and the full glass softly. “Per ou nir” she said, turning, going deeper into the darkness. He turned toward the light of the cellar door, went to it and climbed out, balancing the glass of wine. Saint Francis was gone.

  He placed the overflowing glass on the wet table, sat on the wet chair and looked up. The clothes were gone. He sniffed the air. It was a warmer, cloudier day. The flowers weren’t zinnias and dahlias; they were exhausted cosmos and petunias gone to seed. It was September but of another year, a different September.

  IN THIS CORNER …

  James Purdy

  WHEN HE WAS 42, HAYES’S SECOND WIFE, like his first, died unexpectedly. She had left instructions that there were to be no special services for her, that she should be cremated and her ashes scattered over the water. The farewell note did not say what water, and her husband one late evening threw the ashes into the river near the docks in Brooklyn. Once they had been disposed of he felt a loosening of tension such as he had not experienced since boyhood. This was followed by a kind of exaltation so pronounced he was nonplused. He breathed deeply and looked out over the dark river on which a small tugboat with green and orange lights was gliding in perfect silence.

  A few moments later he found himself whistling.

  When he got to his flat near Middagh Street, he opened the seldom-used store room which contained his archery set and his punching bag. He got his boxing gloves out, and punched the bag until he was tired. That night he slept with the deep unconsciousness he had experienced as a soldier on furlough.

  It was beginning to get nippy, for they were in late September, and yet he went to his Wall Street job without bothering to put on his jacket or tie.

  For some time now, whenever he got off at the Bowling Green subway stop, he had been noticing a young man, almost a boy, holding up a stack of missionary tracts. Today, on a sudden impulse, Hayes bought up all the tracts the boy had for sale. The vendor did not seem too pleased at this unusual generosity, but managed a husky thanks.

  The next time he got off at his subway stop, he looked immediately for the young man with the tracts, but when he went up to him, the boy turned away abruptly and began talking with a vendor of Italian ices. Hayes did not feel nervy enough to buy any more tracts.

  There was an unexpected killing frost, which was supposed to have set some kind of record, and the next day, shivering from the change in weather, Hayes, as he came from underground, caught sight of the boy with the tracts sitting on a little folding chair. He had no tracts in his hands, and was wearing only a thin summer shirt, very light trousers, and worn canvas shoes without socks.

  As he was late for work, he hurried on, but that evening as he left work he observed the young man still sitting on the folding chair.

  “Hello,” Hayes called out. “Where’s your tracts?”

  The boy’s lips moved fitfully, and then after considerable effort, he got out the words: “I’m not with the missionary society any more,” and his eyes moved down to the pavement.

  Hayes walked on toward the subway entrance without having been able to make any rejoinder to the boy’s explanation. Then all at once before descending he stopped and looked back. The boy had followed Hayes with his eyes. The expression on his face was of such sad eloquence Hayes retraced his steps, but could think of nothing to say. Studying the boy’s features he could not miss the evidence that the boy had been crying.

  “Supposin’ we go over there and get something to eat,” Hayes suggested, pointing to a well-known chop house.

  “Suits me, but I don’t have a dime to my name.”

  They sat in the back part of the restaurant, which was nearly deserted at this hour owing to the fact that most of their clientele were luncheon patrons.

  “What looks good to you?” Hayes went on, shifting his weight in the roomy booth, and watching the boy study the elaborate pages of the menu.

  “Oh, why don’t you choose for me?” the boy finally said, and handed over the bill of fare to his host.

  “We’ll have the deluxe steak platter,” Hayes told the waiter.

  “So that’s that.” Hayes smiled awkwardly as they waited for their order. The boy flushed under his deep tan, and brushed a lock of his straw-colored hair from his eyes.

  When the deluxe steak platters were set before them, the young man kept his knife and fork raised over the still sizzling Porterhouse, as if unsure how to begin. Then after the first hesitant motions, he was eating almost ferociously, his tongue and jaw moving spasmodically.

  When the boy had finished, Hayes inquired: “Wouldn’t you like my portion?”

  “You don’t want it?” the boy wondered blankly, looking down at the untasted steak.

  “I had a very hearty lunch today,” Hayes explained. He pushed his platter toward the boy. “Please don’t let it go to waste.”

  “You’re sure?”

  Hayes nodded weakly.

  “Well, then, if you say so.” The boy grinned and began on the second platter. He ate it with even more relish.

  “I love to see a young guy with a good appetite,” Hayes congratulated him when he had finished.

  “How about some dessert? Their pies are all baked here on the premises, you know.”

  The boy shook his head and put his right hand over his stomach.

  “By the way, what is your name?” Hayes wondered bashfully.

  “Clark,” the boy raised his voice. “Clark Vail.”

  “And mine is Hayes.” The older man stood up and extended his hand, and Clark followed suit. Their handclasp resembled somehow that of two contending athletes before the fray.

  “Where do you live now that you’re not with the missionary society?” Hayes wondered after they had finished their coffee.

  Clark gave a start. “To tell the truth, nowhere.” At a long look from Hayes, Clark lowered his eyes and said, “I’ve been sleeping … out.”

  “Out?” Hayes spoke with something like affront.

  A kind of warmth was coming over Hayes. He felt little pearls of perspiration on his upper lip. He wanted to take out his handkerchief and dry himself but somehow he felt any movement at that moment would spoil what he wanted to say. Finally, he forced out:

  “Clark, you are more than welcome to stay the night at my place. It’s not too far.”

  Clark made no answer, and his mouth came open, then closed tightly.

  “If you are sleeping out, I mean,” Hayes went on. “I insist you come where you’ll have a roof over your head.”

  They both rose at the same moment, as in a business meeting where a project had been approved.

  Owing to the clatter and noise on the subway they did not speak again until they had got out at their stop.

  “I live near the river,” Hayes told the younger man.

  “You have boxing gloves,” Clark cried, picking the gloves up admiringly when they were inside his apartment. “Were you a boxer?”

  “Amateur.” Hayes colored. “Golden Gloves,” he added almost inaudibly.

  “I was in the CYO bouts a few times,” Clark volunteered.

  They both laughed embarrassedly.

  “This is a big place you have here,” Clark said wonderingly. “And you look out over the water and all the skyscrapers!”

  “Excuse me if I take off my shoes,” Hayes said. “They pinch.”

  “You have big feet like me.” the boy looked at his friend’s feet. He relaxed a bit.

  “Want to try my shoes on for a fit?” Hayes joked.

  Clark went over to the chair near where Hayes was seated, and picked up one of the shoes.

  “Go on, try it on.”

  Finding the shoe more comfortable, Clark smiled broadly for the first time.

  “Try the other while you’re at it, Clark.�
�

  Clark obeyed.

  “Walk around now to see if they feel all right.”

  Clark walked around the room in Hayes’s shoes. He looked as carefree and joyful as a boy who is walking on stilts.

  “They’re yours, Clark,” Hayes told him. When the young man acted perturbed, Hayes walked over to a partly closed door, and opened it fully to reveal inside a whole closetful of shoes.

  “Look at my collection,” Hayes quipped. “Two dozen pairs of shoes, and every one pinches!”

  Clark laughed. “These do fit,” he said, looking down at his feet. “But I don’t think I should have such expensive shoes.”

  “Well if you don’t, I do.” Hayes’s voice had a kind of edge in it. At that moment, their eyes met. Hayes’s right hand raised, and then fell heavily against his thigh.

  “I’m glad you chose to come here tonight,” he managed to say. He had meant to say come home, but instead changed it to here.

  Hayes rose very slowly then like a man coming out of a deep slumber and walked in his stocking feet over to where Clark, seated in a big armchair, was looking at his new shoes.

  Hayes put his hand briefly on the boy’s yellow hair. “I know I need a haircut.” Clark looked up trustfully at his friend.

  “I like your hair just this length,” Hayes told him.

  Clark’s lips trembled, and his eyes closed briefly.

  “You should never have to sleep … out,” Hayes managed to say. His hand moved from the boy’s hair to his cheek. To his relief, the boy took his hand and pressed it.

  “I have only the one bed, Clark. Come on and look.”

  They walked over to the next room where a four-poster faced them.

  “Big enough for four people,” Clark’s voice came out rather loud.

  “Could you stand to share it? Be frank now. If not, I can always sleep on the davenport.”

  “Sure, share,” Clark agreed.

  Hayes strode over to a big chiffonier and pulled out from one of the drawers a pair of pajamas.

  “Here, Clark, you can put these on. Whenever you want to turn in, that is.”

  “To tell the truth, that bed looks good to me.” Clark sat down on a small stool and took off his new shoes. He yawned widely.

  There was a long silence.

  “Do you want to change in the bathroom?” Hayes wondered when the boy sat motionless holding his pajamas.

  “No, no.” Clark rose from where he was sitting, and then as if at a command seated himself again.

  “It’s just that …”

  “What?” Hayes prompted him, a kind of urgency in his tone.

  “It’s the change in everything, all around me. From being out there!” Hayes saw with acute uneasiness that there were tears in his friend’s eyes.

  “Talk about change” Hayes began huskily. “Your coming here has changed a lot.”

  As if this speech of Hayes were a signal, very’ quickly Clark undressed, and even more quickly stepped into the fresh pajamas which gave off a faint smell of dried lavender.

  “Remember, though, if you would be more comfortable alone.” Hayes reminded him of his offer to go sleep on the davenport.

  Hayes’s eyes rested on the boy’s pajamas, which had several buttons missing, revealing the white skin of his belly.

  “Don’t you worry, Hayes,” the boy told him. “I’m so dead tired I could lie down in a bed with a whole platoon.”

  Hayes began taking off his own clothes. He deposited his shirt, undershirt, and trousers on a little chest.

  “I can see you was a boxer, all right,” Clark noted. “You’re pretty husky still.”

  Hayes smiled, and went to the bed and pulled back the comforter and the sheets under it. Then he helped himself in on the right side of the bed.

  “Would you mind if I prayed before I get in?” Clark wondered.

  Hayes was so taken by surprise he did not reply for a moment. Then he nodded emphatically.

  Clark knelt down on the left side of the bed, and raised his two hands clasped together. Hayes could only hear a few words, like I thank thee 0 Father for thy kindness and thy care.

  When they were both under the covers, Hayes extinguished the little lamp on the stand beside the bed.

  They could hear the boat whistles as clearly as if they were standing on the docks, and they could see out the windows the thousands of lights from the skyscrapers from across the water.

  To his sharp disbelief, Hayes felt the younger man take his left hand in his right, and the boy brought it then against his heart and held it there.

  “Clark,” Hayes heard his own voice coming from it seemed over water.

  The boy in answer pressed his friend’s hand tighter.

  Hardly knowing what he was doing, as when in the morning he would sometimes rise still numbed with slumber, Hayes turned his head toward the boy and kissed him lightly on the lips. Clark held his hand even tighter, painfully tighter. He felt the young man’s soft sweet spittle as he kissed him all over his face, and then lowered his lips and kissed his throat, and pressed against his Adam’s apple.

  Hayes had the feeling the last twenty-five years of his life had been erased, that he had been returned to the Vermont countryside where he had grown up, that he had never been married, had never worked in a broker’s office, and ridden dirty ear-piercing subways or had rented a flat in a huge impersonal building designed for multi-millionaires.

  He helped Clark off with his pajamas and turned a kind of famished countenance against the boy’s bare chest, and to his lower body.

  “Yes, oh yes,” the boy cried under the avalanche of caresses.

  In the morning, Hayes realized he had overslept. It was nearly nine o’clock by his wristwatch, and he would never be able to get to the office in time. The place where Clark had slept beside him was vacant, so that he assumed the young man was in the bathroom. He waited, then, hearing nothing, he walked down the hall. The door to the bath was open, the room vacant. The apartment, he knew, was also vacant, vacant of the one he had loved so deliriously.

  “Clark?”

  Hayes felt a kind of stab in his abdomen, as if a practiced fist had hit him with full force.

  After such a night when he had felt such unexpected complete happiness, and when he had felt sure the young man, despite the great difference in their ages, had returned his love—how could Clark then have left him? A rush of even greater anguish hit him when he saw that the shoes he had given Clark were resting under the chair near the closet.

  He knew then Clark had left him for good, left him, that is, for dead.

  He did not bother to shave or wash before going to work. Several of the secretaries looked at him wonderingly. They probably thought he had been out on a tear. His boss, an elderly man who favored Hayes, was, as usual, out of the office on a trip somewhere.

  He finally made no attempt to keep his mind on his work, but stared out at the vast gray canyons of buildings facing him from the windows. Each time he signed some letter or memorandum for a secretary, he would mutter to himself that at five o’clock he would begin his search for Clark.

  “And if I don’t find him,” he said aloud to himself, “what will I do then?”

  One thing he saw was certain: if he did not find him, he could not live.

  The sudden unforeseen upheaval in his life was just as difficult to understand as if he had fallen under a subway train and lost his arms and legs. He went over the implausibility, the impossibility even of it all, a 42-year-old man, married twice, had taken a young man home, and never having loved any man before, had fallen somehow ecstatically in love, had confessed his love, as had the young man, and then after this happiness, it had all been taken from him. He had been ushered to the gates of some unreachable paradise, and waking had found himself in an empty hell.

  HIS SEARCH WENT ON day and night. Often he did not go to work at all, and he did not even bother to call his employer. He quit shaving and soon sported a rather attractive beard.
<
br />   He looked crazily and brazenly into the face of every young man who crossed his path, hoping it would be Clark. He wore out one pair of shoes after another. He no longer was aware that his shoes pinched, and taking off a pair at night he saw with indifference that his feet were not only afflicted with new calluses and corns, but that his toes were bleeding from so much walking. Had he seen his toes had been severed, it could not have meant less to him.

  “Clark, Clark,” he would cry at night. He could still smell the boy’s hair against the adjoining pillow.

  One night while walking late on the promenade, two men approached him and asked him something. Hayes was so lost in his own misery he paid no attention to them. The next moment he was aware they were ripping off his jacket, and robbing him. After taking all he had they beat him with what seemed to be brass knuckles and then knocked him to the pavement.

  He lay there for a long time. He felt his jaw aching horribly, and he noticed that he had lost a tooth. The physical pain he found more bearable than his loss of Clark.

  He knew then that he would kill himself, but he did not know what means to choose: the wheels of the subway, jumping from his building, or swallowing countless pain-killing pills.

  The elderly widows of his building were very much alarmed by the change in “young Mr. Hayes,” as they called him. They blamed it on the death of his wife.

  The mugging he had received left several deep gashes on his forehead and cheek which did not heal. He did not want to go to a doctor, but whenever he touched the wounded places, they would open and a thin trickle of blood would run down his face. He spitefully welcomed this purely physical anguish. It made his losing Clark at least momentarily less excruciating.

  The loss of Clark was equaled only by his failure to understand why the boy had deserted him. What had he done wrong to drive him away when they had felt such great happiness in one another’s arms?

  In late November a heavy wet snow began falling. Hayes went out only in a light windbreaker, and no hat. He walked to the end of the promenade and then as he was about to turn and go further north down the steep hill on Columbia Heights, he slipped and fell. The sudden sharp blow to his head and face opened his still unhealed cuts and abrasions.