How Long Has This Been Going On (67 page)

Walt nodded solemnly.

"Well," said the Kid. "Well, well, well, well, well."

"You're morose and uncomplimentary just because I got the part," Alice told Evan over dinner, a Niçoise salad that the two had playfully—lovingly, really—collaborated on. They'd had the world on a yo-yo string till Alice broke her news.

"You're so smug about it," said Evan.

"I'm happy about it, and stop flicking anchovies into my plate."

"Not flicking, tossing. Like this, see?"

"I hate the way you argue. It's just word games. It settles nothing. Ha,
you're
the smug one."

"And suddenly
you're
Sarah Bernhardt? You think you're an actress? One role in some slimy—don't you get up from the table when I'm fighting with you!"

"I'm not fighting. You won, hooray for Evan."

"Damn you for a leech and a pansy! This is what I deserve for going with the silky-slim type!"

"What would suit you better?" asked Alice, washing her plate at the sink.

"A stone bitch, like me. And don't
dare,
don't you
dare
try to make peace by humoring me, Miss Muffett. I found you in the gutter and I can throw you back any day I choose."

"You found me," said Alice, going on to do the rest of the dishes and thus further infuriating Evan, "in the gourmet cheese boutique on Polk. I have never been in the gutter. My father is a Ph.D. in—"

"Fuck your Chink father and
stop doing the housework!"
A plate flew past Alice's head and smashed against the kitchen wall.
"There!"
cried Evan. "Wash that! And how about the salad bowl, you want to clean that, too?"

The salad bowl thudded against the sink, spilling food all over.

"I think I'll skip Monday-Night Wrestling," said Alice, going for her bag. When she turned, Evan was barring the door, a smile of victory over crossed arms. "You," she said, "are skipping nothing."

"Please let me pass."

Evan shook her head. "And don't tell me, for the hundredth time, that I'm fighting over nothing."

"On the contrary, you are very seriously threatened by my new job. You're afraid I'll break free of your stranglehold on me. There's another lesbian in the cast, a statuesque black woman. Perhaps I'll fall for her in a big way."

Roaring with fury, Evan grabbed for Alice, caught her hand on the strap of Alice's bag, lunged as Alice pulled the door open, and dove for Alice before she could reach the stairs.

"Let
go
of me!" Alice cried, knocking into Evan, breaking free, and dashing downstairs. Evan followed, shouting for joy, and she caught Alice again on the second-floor landing. This time they toppled, right onto Frank, who had been sitting by the banister, head down, in deep trouble.

"Evan,
stop,"
Alice cried. "He's hurt!"

Evan had already stopped. "Frank?" she said.

All three of them were panting, Alice reaching for Frank but afraid to touch him in his distress. "What's wrong, Frank? Can you talk?"

Frank raised his head and pointed at his throat.

"What?" asked Alice. "Frank,
what?"

The two women shared a look: What else could this be but... It?

Neville Ironword joined them, attracted by the noise. "All right," she began patiently, "the landlord's here."

"Frank's in trouble," said Evan.

"Frank?" said Neville, leaning down to him and taking his hand.

"I..." Frank began, gasping for breath. "I... can't... breathe."

"Evan, call an ambulance," Neville ordered. "Use our phone, it's quicker. Alice, what do we... Put him on his back or something?"

Alice said, "I'm worried and I
don't
know."

"Don't I have some authority," said Tom, "as your not only cousin but surrogate parent for the last ten years or so?"

"No one has authority over me," answered Walt, getting up from the table, "for I am a free-living gay man who will make his choices."

"Walt," Luke began.

"No."

"Can't you at least talk to us about it?"

"I'm not talking to anyone about who I get for a boy friend."

"Luke," said Tom. "Reason with him!"

Walt turned to Luke as Scarlett turned to Mammy. "You love me and my silly antics, so I always got away with everything. Why don't you look on this as another antic?"

"Walt," said Luke, "this guy is... just... not... good enough for you."

"You mean he isn't good enough for
you.
He's fine for me. Now, I've had a very tiring day of writing songs with Mr. Troy and having my ass reamed out by Blue, and I'm going to bed."

"You got a letter from Danny today," Luke went on, holding it aloft. Walt, who had left the kitchen, came charging back to claim it, but Luke backed up, holding it out of reach.

"Give it to me!"

"Not till we talk," said Luke, dodging around the table and handing the letter off to Tom.

"That is my sacred mail, and you have no right to play games with it!" Walt had ceased chasing the letter; he was still, he was mad, he was shouting. "You give me that
nowl"

Tom handed it over, shrugging at Luke. As Walt left, he muttered, "Don't you use Danny against me." Then he stopped at the doorway, turned, said, "The more you push, the less you get," and left.

"Well, he's tough, anyway," said Tom.

"It's that piece of trash," Luke offered, "hopping him up with sex. I always thought he was immune to it."

"He was," said Tom, "in Minnesota."

The odd side of it, however, was that Walt and Blue maintained a very touchy relationship. It looked solid to outsiders, as so many love affairs do in their first weeks, the gay honeymoon. Yet when the two were alone they fought when they weren't fucking, and sometimes when they were. For Walt was very into the Issues, and Blue couldn't have cared less. Then there was Blue's conventional good-ol'-boy racism, violently offensive to Walt's delicately awakening sense of tolerance. Worst of all was "Blue's Republican," as Walt thought of him—one of those blue-blooded mandarins whose partnership in the Corporation is not imperiled by his sexuality as long as he keeps it invisible. Every American city counts a subculture of these men with two lives, one that of the respectable courtier, and the other moated, not to be entered or even glimpsed except by the others of his kind. The more confident (or powerful) of these men are bachelors; many others balance their Secret with a wife and children. But all must find some outlet for their sexuality, their true taste, the fools in rash visits to some park or men's room, the smart (and, if possible, wealthy) ones by hiring a companion.

This was the choice of Blue's Republican, Mason Crocker. Where they met, I do not know. They did not attend the same parties, and Mason Crocker was never to be seen in a gay bar. True, Blue ran an ad in the classified pages of
The Advocate,
under "Models and Masseurs.'' But Mason Crocker read the
Atlantic Monthly,
not
The Advocate.
I suspect that one of the more adventurous of Mason's inner circle had encountered Blue on a jaunt to the Castro, fell into conversation with him, and offered him money for sex. Feeling well served, the friend recommended Blue to Mason, and a meeting was arranged; or so I guess.

Certainly, Mason and Blue combined well. In due course, Mason's entire sex life comprised masturbation and visits from Blue; and Blue's entire livelihood was based upon Mason's velvet premiums—cash in an envelope lying on a table in the hall, to the right as you left the house.

Walt had no opinion about Blue's career in the sex industry, but Danny and, now, Walt's local friends were quick to point out the decadence in having any traffic with the Enemy, or with those who trafficked with them. Danny's letters were filled with outraged reports on the sayings and doings of Win, who had voted for Ronald Reagan even though Reagan had still not so much as mentioned the epidemic. "It isn't just that he pretends to be oblivious," Danny wrote once. "You can see that he's contributing to a climate of homophobia that encourages crimes against us. Every gay man struck down by a vicious straight with a baseball bat is Reagan's victim. And Win's, too."

Walt's political friends loved prodding Walt about this; they seemed to enjoy making him uneasy. Shreve said, "Everyone who isn't out is straight." Carson said, "Secret sex is counterrevolutionary." Spider said, "You can serve one master or ten masters, but not two."

Upstairs in his room, Walt put Danny's letter on his desk and tried to compose himself. He thought, I am shouting all over the place, so I must be unhappy. But love should make you carefree. Maybe I am not in love.

Creeping out to the stairwell, he caught a floating murmur of the voices of Tom and Luke going on about Blue. He
isn't
trash, Walt thought. Homophobes were the true trash of the world.

Back in his room, Walt opened Danny's letter. Guilty and angry is all I am now, he was thinking. I'm in the wrong mood to read this letter, he was thinking. Maybe I should wait till tomorrow. But you can't soothe bad news by stalling it: Claude had written to say that Danny had been diagnosed with AIDS, and Claude was really worried, because there hadn't been many cases around the town as yet, and the doctors were probably too inexperienced to treat it properly. Danny's doctor had said as much to him, in fact, as Claude quoted:

We're still learning about this thing on a day-to-day basis, unfortunately. Sometimes the patients know more than we do.

Walt stopped reading. He lay back on his bed, holding the letter. He thought, Was there something I could have done to make this different? He went over his relationship with Danny, trying to find some moment when Walt could have interceded in Danny's life and saved him from this. He picked up the letter again and finished it:

I'm doing all I can to cheer Danny up, but it is hard because he doesn't want to tell anyone yet, except he told his parents, and they are so worried they make Danny worried. He is crying all the time now, so maybe you should give him a cheer-up call.

Love, Claude

Walt tore downstairs to the kitchen, waving the letter, showing Tom and Luke. "First Dexter and now Danny!" he cried. "This is what comes of being invisible and not having power as a voting bloc!"

Tom tried to put his arms around Walt, but Walt refused to be comforted. "What help are you?" he said.

"First," said Luke, "don't shout at us, and, second—" "I
will
shout," Walt shouted. "People are dying, and I'm not to shout?" "Well, you're shouting at the wrong people, young man," said Tom. "'Young man'?" Walt echoed. "Who are you today, Uncle Gustav?" Well, they calmed Walt down and got him to call Danny. Walt was as light and helpful as he could be, but as soon as he hung up he ran up to his room, closed the door, and walked aimlessly around, weeping and wringing his hands. When Luke knocked on the door a bit later, Walt called out, "I'm a bad boy, so don't come in!" Luke came in, all the same.

The next day, Walt fussed and scowled all over the house, and he was very hard on Blue that night. The two had had many a spat before now but never a Major Fight, and for once Blue dished out more than he took,shoving Walt against the wall and telling him off just as straight as she goes. Hurt and furious, Walt tried to leave, but Blue held him down on the bed till he promised to behave. Then Blue apologized to Walt so lovingly that Walt wondered if he might be getting into some S & M thing because he so enjoyed the petting after the violence.

"I even bought you a present," said Blue, pulling out a gaily wrapped box.

"I hate it already," Walt groused. "I don't want presents when Danny is in trouble."

"But Danny's far away, and it's just us, now. Go on and open yer box."

"Okay, out of sheer scientific curiosity."

It was a sweater, vastly polytoned and overdesigned, with a tiny shawl around the back collar and fringelike threading overlaid upon the sleeves. It was so hopelessly ugly and Blue seemed so proud to be giving it that Walt was touched to the quick: Here, after all, was Blue's one vulnerability, his lack of class.

"Picked it out maself," said Blue, with a grin.

"But why? We never give each other presents."

"It's because I'm fond of you, and because I don't want us fightin'. And how about because... well, maybe because yer the only smart guy I ever been with who didn't talk to me like I'm too dumb to understand anythin'."

"I feel awful," Walt wailed. "Guilt is my passport!"

Blue chuckled. "Come on, youngster." He took Walt in his arms. "What
you
got to be guilty of?"

"Danny's sick, too, now," Walt explained, pulling back slightly. Why was everyone always grabbing him, as if a hug were a cure for major pain? "Everywhere you turn, your friends come down ill."

"So what makes you guilty?"

"Well, how come I don't?"

"You want to go visit Danny? I'll take you. Never seen the Midwest, anyways."

"I don't need to be taken. I'm not a helpless little kid, I just act like one.
Sometimes.
Besides, I can't leave, because of the show."

"After the show, then?"

"I don't know when that will be. I'm not just the composer, I'm the orchestra. Maybe Chris will let me take a few days off during the run. Or maybe it won't run."

"That'd be bad news, wouldn't it?"

"Well, sir, I guess it would."

Blue smiled. "Want to try on yer sweater and be a little nice to me?"

It was Walt, now, who hugged Blue, thinking that never in their thus far brief but intense relationship did the older man seem so goofy, unknowing, and secretly wonderful.

"I love you, Walt," said Blue. "I hope you know that."

"Well, he's smart enough not to bring that trash around here, anyway," said Tom, carrying mugs of coffee to the table.

"Tom," Chris said, "you sound a bit like a snob."