How Long Has This Been Going On (55 page)

"You'll have to come out to the Guthrie, I guess. It's this big theatre we have. Famous, Chris."

"Famous, right."

"Golly, Christmas, do you realize it? Old folks at home and all. We should hold a school reunion."

"What are you like, Tom? Would I recognize you?"

"Well, I'm the same. What about you?"

"I'm a little grander. My hair's different. My clothes. My work."

"Oh, Chris. All those years."

His tone sounded yielding, elegiacal, so Chris brought up Luke.

"No, Chris," Tom began—but Chris said, "Listen, boy, we three guys have some things to settle. You two do, anyway."

"It's bad old stuff, Chris. Leave it lay."

"I can't. Weeks'll go by, and it's all work. But then I have a thought, Tom, and it's us three. Right back there in the middle of the country."

"Oh, Chris. Yes. That was a beautiful time, I know. But something happened between Luke and me. Something I don't think about now. And you don't want to know."

"Luke told me."

Tom was quiet and Chris waited.

"I hurt him, Chris."

"Yes." "Well, I wanted to and I did it. I hurt him bad. So bad I don't ever... I won't..."

"Tell me, Tom."

"Did he actually... Did he tell you what happened?"

"Tom..."

"Christ. To think about that now."

"Yes, but, Tom, everything we are came out of those years. Didn't it? We're all so full of choices, I guess, but our characters are formed then. So we play them out again and again, and we ruin our choices—"

"Chris, I beat him up!
Isn't that bad enough? Shouldn't we leave it there?"

"Tom, do you want to talk to him?"

"God,
no!" Then: "How is he?"

"Fine. He stayed in San Francisco. He's a... Don't laugh."

"Okay."

"A caterer. Parties and cakes and waiters with dip."

"What the hell kind of work is that?"

"He's happy, Tom."

"That's what he went to Berkeley for? To be a caterer? So everyone let me go walk, poor dumb Tom—and now I've got money in the bank and a growth operation."

"That's all it is to you? We lived on life, the three of us, for seventeen years! We rewrote the rules! We lived in each other's heads! We shared each other's pain so deeply that I get the chills recalling it. Everyone we knew had a pleasant childhood—we had a profound one. Every time I direct a love scene, I think of us. It was chivalrous, Tom!
Devotion!
Don't you ever think of that?"

"Of course I do," said Tom quietly.

"And miss it?"

"No!
Jesus,
never! I've got this straightened out here, and I'm not going back!"

Walt walked into the kitchen, his face pale, Tom's diary in his hands.

"Tom?" said Chris.

"I'm in this, Cousin Tom," said Walt. "You wrote about me."

"Oh,
Christ in hell!"

"Tom, what's wrong?"

"Chris, something... something just happened." Tom's eyes on Walt. "Things are out of control here, they really are." Walt standing there with the proof. "Chris, I have to go. I'm sorry."

"Of course, Tom." "Chris," he said, starting to weep. "I couldn't be what anyone wanted. Don't you see that? That's what made me all mean and hard to people. I'm
nice
now."

"Don't cry, Cousin Tom."

"I'd better go, Tom."

"No, Chris, listen. I never knew what it was, but I knew somehow I couldn't handle it. I saw it coming, and it was Luke, and I... I..."

Walt was in his arms.

"Merry Christmas, Tom," said Chris, ringing off.

"You're my friend," Tom told Walt, sobbing as he held the boy. "You won't let me down, will you?"

Walt was weeping, too.

"Will you, pal?"

"Cousin Tom, please let me tell you why they sent me here. I have to for a reason."

"Yes. Yes."

Walt didn't say anything at first, as if he was assembling the parts of the story in their proper order. At last he began, "You know who this whole thing is really about?"

Wiping his eyes, Tom asked, "Who?," thinking,
Luke.

"Dexter."

Jolted, Tom started to laugh.

"Well, it's true!"

"Come on, pal." Tom rose, guiding Walt to the living room. "After seeing your big-man cousin crying, you need a stiff drink and so do I."

"I want a Manhattan."

"Why?"

"Some ritzy people were drinking it in a movie on TV last week, and I want to try it."

"I don't know what's in that. How about a Bloody Mary, New York-style?"

"
Yes!
What's in it?"

"Besides the tomato juice and vodka, you put in horseradish sauce."

"It's a tangy treat," said Walt, "for us two weary adventurers."

Mixing the drinks, Tom told Walt how, years ago, he and Luke used to sample mixed drinks when their parents weren't around. "You know every grown-up in Gotburg had those really elaborate bars for parties, with carved figures on corks to stick in the opened bottles, and swizzle sticks, and cocktail onions, and so on? They always had a ton of drink recipe books, too. I guess the liquor stores gave them out. Well, Luke and

I spent one summer chugging through one of those books, anyway, sampling the different drinks. Golly, what a lot of shit! One part vermouth, one part gin, one part Angostura, one part marmalade, stir but do not shake... Cheers, pal!"

They drank.

"What happened to Luke now?" asked Walt. "You never mention him."

"Well, we got into some trouble. You don't want to hear about it."

They sat on the couch.

"Boy, that was some crying job, huh?" said Tom, his arm around Walt's shoulder. "But it's over now, and we don't have to speak about it ever—"

"Was the trouble with Luke just at the end of high school?" Walt asked. "When you were never around any more?"

"Yeah."

"Because I always meant to tell you that Luke came to me in a dream."

"Huh?"

"It is a very famous dream of mine, and I always recall it. He said to give you a message, and it was very important."

"What was the message?"

"That's the mystery section of the dream, because I don't remember."

"So why is the whole thing about Dexter?"

"Oh, my poor old dog. He was so vivacious and then he was ailing, and it got worse and worse. The vet said, He has lived a full and noble life, and now he can retire. But he was in misery all day long. He would lie around just groaning. The only time he came alive was when I gave him a bone from dinner, and he would chaw on it with gusto, just like the dog he used to be, and he would even growl if you came near him then."

"So you had him put to sleep?"

Walt shook his head. "They wouldn't let me."

"Aunt Frelinda and Uncle Harald?"

Walt nodded. "My sinister parents said Dexter was like one of us and you wouldn't kill one of
us
off if we were dying of cancer, would you?"

Tom grinned. "I bet you would."

"I'd kill
them
off anyway because of what they did. For poor Dexter got worse and worse, till he couldn't move without hurting, and I even went to the vet to ask for something to soothe Dexter forever, if you get my meaning. But that vet said, Only with my parents' consent."

Walt looked at Tom. "He was my dog, wasn't he? I always took care of him, so it should have been
my
consent."

Walt's voice shook a little. Regaining control, he went on: "So I didthis awful thing. I took Dexter out in my old red wagon from the garage, and I went all the way out to the little woods.... Didn't Luke get beat up there once?"

"Yes."

"Who did it?"

"You tell your story, then I'll tell mine."

"So I wagoned Dexter deep in there where no one could see. This was just after Halloween, so the ground wasn't frozen hard yet, and I brought my snow shovel along."

Walt had turned away from Tom and his voice had lowered almost to a whisper.

"Dexter was whimpering all the way, because it's so rough in that forest, all up and down. Of course, he had no idea what this was about, I'm very sure of that. I got him out of the wagon very gently, and I petted him, and talked to him, and said how much I liked him and how he had always been my best friend despite a certain tendency to chase rabbits all the time. I was thinking of all the cute things he did, like when he would leap up at the table and snatch some spaghetti, and his mouth was all smeared up with noodles, and then he'd walk around with this puzzled look, as if he's thinking, I ate this but it's still there. I was behind him, just petting him and so on.
'Good
dog,' I said.
'Good
dog.'"

"You can look at me, Walt. It's not your fault, and you did the right thing."

"No, I didn't. I
didn't,
Cousin Tom. Because when I picked up the shovel to whack his head, he suddenly turned and saw me. What did he think of me, then?"

Walt began to cry again, tears pausing shyly at the crest of the cheek, then coursing down as Tom comforted him.

"Golly," said Tom. "This must be National Crying Week."

"At least I killed him with one blow. I made sure of that."

"You're a courageous boy."

"I didn't think so then. I felt so wicked. And I bet you think I cried, too, but I was too mad to. Because my parents made me do that. So I buried Dexter and put the shovel in the wagon and pulled it home, and I went right to my parents. They were watching the news on TV. Well, sir, I straight out told them that Dexter was dead and that I was a homosexual, and they were so shocked they forgot all about Dexter and made all these arguments about how I'm confused or it's just a phase and so on. Can you imagine not knowing what you are?"

"That's
why they sent you here? Just because you... came out?"

"That is why, Cousin Tom."

"But... why here?"

"You're supposed to cure me. Let's have your story now."

All crying was behind them; they were curious, relaxed, ready to hear what this was. Tom told Walt about what had passed between himself and Luke, heartily revising certain discouraging details but presenting the saga honestly in the overall outline of its feelings.

"Golly!" said Walt, at last.

Tom nodded. "Golly," he agreed.

"But what happened to Luke in the little woods? Who did that to him?"

"Someone who was insecure and frightened and gay himself, and furious that Luke was... bringing the question up."

"Was it someone I know?"

"No. It's someone... long gone from the world."

"Cousin Tom, I have a confession to make. I have never had sex."

"Never, huh?"

"Well... I made out with Mary Sue McRoberts at her party after the Junior Prom. It was pretty famous in the class, too. Everybody teased me about it for weeks. Could I fix some Pop-Tarts in the toaster?"

"Sure, pal. I'll have one, too."

Readying the food in the kitchen, Walt said, "Nevertheless, I expect that everybody in the class knew I was a fairy."

Tom winced at the word.

"Did anyone know about you, Cousin Tom?"

"Just Luke, I guess. Maybe Chris... I don't know. But all my sex is with women, so how much of a fairy could I be, anyhow?"

"But which tells us more about you—what you do, or what you wish you were doing instead?"

"Are those Pop-Tarts ready yet?"

"See, we're always putting labels on people. You know—grind, jock, dookie..."

"What's a dookie?"

"A jerk."

"Dookie?"

"That's what everybody at Sawtooth High School calls it."

"Boy, they sure change the slang fast nowadays."

"How did your generation say it?" "Dufo, I guess. Or klinker."

"Like, he's a real klinker?" Walt made a face. "That's
so
hip," he said, sarcastically.

"Well, what do you say? He's a real
dookie?"

"We say, Cousin Tom is such a dookie, he chases girls."

Mock-threatening, Tom advanced on Walt, who got on the other side of the kitchen table, Tom growling and Walt giggling. Then Tom feinted left and lunged right, catching Walt and throwing him around a bit, till he realized that he had a hard-on and released the boy and retreated to the other side of the table.

"What's wrong, Cousin Tom?"

"How about just Tom from now on, huh?"

"Or just Dookie.
Oh,
the Pop-Tarts!" Walt ran to the toaster. "Yes, they're perfect! The ideal snack for young and old alike." Fetching plates and napkins, Walt added, "Remember our motto: 'When you're tired of Pop-Tarts, you're tired of life.'"

"We're going to have to find you a boy friend, aren't we?" said Tom quietly.

"We what?"

"Well, you're a grown man, Walt. What are you going to do about this aspect of your... this..."

Walt looked at Tom. "Do I have to do anything?"

"Well, which way are you going to go? Sexually, I mean."

"There's a choice?"

"Sure. You can try to find someone like yourself and... and so on, or you can do what I do."

"And lie?"

That stopped Tom, but momentarily. "It's not lying, Walt. It's the way I want to live."

"Okay."

"I have a right to."

"Let's eat our Pop-Tarts. You want butter on yours?"

"Look, Walt. You've met Judith. You see what fun she and I have. We just... fit together. Is that a lie to you?"

"Delicious," Walt enthused, holding his Pop-Tart on high and addressing an imaginary audience. "Yet so tasty, too."

"Walt—"

"Here's a quiz. Who would you rather do it with, Judith or Luke?"

Jolted again, Tom sputtered for a moment, then said, "Walt, that's
dumb.
Judith is beautiful in bed and Luke is someone I haven't seen in—" "But if you saw him."

"It's crazy, Walt!"

"Okay."

"I mean, what a question."

"Can I have the rest of your Pop-Tart?"

"You're not off the hook yet, pal," said Tom, passing his plate. "I'm asking you, what are you going to do for... for dating?"

"Who says I have to do anything?"