Now and Yesterday (32 page)

“How you doin', Boo-boo?” said Peter. “Whaddya say to a rest stop? I think I have to pee.”

“You
think?
”

“I have to pee.”

“OK.”

Peter had thoughts about the difference between today's rest stops and those golden oldies of his childhood, but decided to keep them to himself as they bought water and chewing gum, marveled at the tacky souvenirs for sale, and made fun of an obese family stuffing their faces with cheese fries in the food court. Then they clucked, as they jumped back in the van, throwing their jackets into the backseat, because it had gotten warmer, over how quickly a rented vehicle like theirs, unknown to them two hours earlier, becomes one's private kingdom—a refuge, one's place to stash things.

They arrived at Jonathan's around eleven-thirty, after texting to say they were close and to ask if they could pick up anything for lunch. Just come, Jonathan said. The house was in the hills above the town of Hudson, on fifteen acres with a stream. It was a shingled, Nantucket-style, four-bedroom “farmhouse” built in 1881, with two massive gables and a smaller third one, boasting elaborate diamond- and square-paned windows, and a low, wraparound porch featuring a generously proportioned roof supported by pairs of sturdy square columns.

“Oh, my,” said Will as they made their way up the winding drive.

“Yeah,” said Peter. “If you had an issue with my shoes, I can't imagine what you'll make of this.”

“I
explained
that, Peter . . . ,” said Will, giving Peter's shoulder a playful push.

“Hey, I'm driving here . . . ,” Peter laughed.

The place was conspicuously well cared for—the landscaping artfully rustic, the windowpanes glinting as they caught the sun. A tastefully coordinated “new” wing, added in the 1920s, now housed Jonathan's film studio. The wing angled off one side of the house to form, around back, a gracious sort of rear courtyard, sen-tried by two ancient oaks, which is where Peter and Will arrived after following the drive around past the front façade—though the rear of a Hudson Valley house as well situated as this one was hardly less important than the front. Beyond the courtyard to the west was an expansive lawn, a flagstone terrace with a swimming pool, and a 180-degree view of the Hudson River and the mountains in the distance.

Aldebar was stepping down from the stone terrace to welcome them. He indicated that they should park in a little cul-de-sac screened off by some boxwoods, where several other cars were parked, and came over to help with the bags.

“Good to see you again, my friend,” said Peter, as they shook hands and embraced.

“Wonderful to see you, too,” said Aldebar. “We've been looking forward to having you both.” His tight crewneck sweater showed off his compact, muscular build.

Peter introduced Will, as they started walking toward the house. It was good to alight at this aerie after two hours of driving, Peter thought. The midday sun felt warm on his skin—for the first time since October!—while across the river, beyond the foothills of Greene County, a herd of Catskill peaks, majestic if modestly scaled, loped off westward with ponderous ease. The air was pure grace. Yet the moment also released a sad thought that had been squirming beneath Peter's consciousness for days: that some visit with his friend, one day soon, would be the last.

Jonathan was standing inside the kitchen door as they entered.

“Darling!” said Peter.

“Drive OK?” said Jonathan.

“Perfect!”

“Really gorgeous,” said Will.

“Oh, good,” said Jonathan, clearly delighted at their arrival.

Hugs were gentle, as Jonathan was obviously frail. His neck no longer filled the collar of his shirt. His lips looked drawn, his perfect teeth too prominent. A certain leonine handsomeness that had always been his now hinted at an inner lizard.

“You're out of the chair,” exclaimed Peter.

“I'm good around the house,” said Jonathan. “And today's a good day. We use it when we go out.”

“We have a whole routine,” said Aldebar cheerily. “It's fun, now that we've got it down.”

“The house looks amazing,” said Peter, putting down his briefcase and taking in the room. It was a sprawling, luxuriously homey eat-in kitchen that Jonathan had created out of the house's original kitchen and a bedroom suite that had been attached to it for a century. The custom architectural woodwork, though obviously meant to look plain and simple, was a feast of such lavish design and craftsmanship that it seemed to satisfy a greater hunger for domestic contentment than one had ever been aware of having. A mass of hydrangeas sat in an earthenware pot in a stone fireplace that dated back to the house's construction. A dark Federal hutch that had occupied a wall of the Chelsea apartment sat nearby, between two windows.

“Oh, that's right!” said Jonathan. “You haven't seen the place since we finished it.”

“Jonathan got this place—what, fifteen years ago?” said Peter.

“Eighteen. And I only just got around to the kitchen.”

“I keep thinking Harold and I used to come here, but you didn't even get the place until after he died.”

“Nope. Ninety-four.”

“Wow. And I have really not been here for five years?”

“You have not. It's not like I haven't asked you!”

An assuringly beefy cooking smell filled the room. Sitting on the counter of the kitchen's central island, the base of which was articulated with corners in the form of spiraled column legs, were a shallow wooden bowl of field greens and a board with a baguette and a wedge of orange cheese. On the Viking range, set into an arched alcove that was a degree or two too original-looking to look original, was an iron pot of soup or stew that Aldebar uncovered and stirred with a wooden spoon, when he returned to the kitchen after putting the bags in the guest room. The diamond-paned windows of the plush, built-in window seat afforded deafening blue-sky views across the river.

“Nice!” said Peter. “The nook of life.” Resting on the window seat was a pile of magazines, a pair of glasses, and a laptop. Off to one side was the wheelchair.

“It is kinda nice,” said Jonathan. “There's always something to see—even more in the winter, when the leaves are down. This window is like the best cable channel on earth. Not that I have that much time to watch.”

“The film?”

“We're working, like, ten hours a day.”

“You film here?”

“We did—Connor and me, the crew. A lot of it is done now, though Connor and I continue to talk on camera. We're mostly editing, going really fast. My editor and the sound guy even bunk here, upstairs over the studio. Connor and I look at footage every few days. He only lives a few miles away, in Claverack.”

“Sounds grueling.”

“Eh. Keeps me off the street.”

They laughed.

“Lunch in thirty, gentlemen,” said Aldebar, who began setting the round pedestal table that commanded the area in front of the fireplace.

“Well, then I'll just check e-mail for two minutes, if I may,” said Will. “This is still kind of a work day for me—sorry!”

“No problem. He put your things in the room,” said Jonathan. “Aldebar, do you want to show him? We'll have a proper tour after lunch; I'll show you the studio.”

Jonathan took Peter into the library, where several boxes of art, fashion, and architecture books that had been sent up from Chelsea sat open but still packed—though where the books would go wasn't clear, since the room's shelves were already filled with what Jonathan called the “upstate” collections: film, intellectual history, and literature. The two settled in a seating area near the windows.

“You boys seem to be getting on,” said Jonathan.

“Will and me? We're best buddies,” said Peter.

“That's all—still?”

“He's complicated, Jon.
I'm
complicated. The whole situation . . .”

“. . . Is complicated.”

They laughed.

“You know, I'd like to leave this earth with you sorted, darling,” said Jonathan.

“Do you know any priestesses in a cave nearby where we can go and sacrifice a goat?”

“I might,” chuckled Jonathan. “Well, at least you're companioning. That's nice. You know I think the world of Will.”

“Good word for it—companioning. Yeah, and that's not a terrible thing.”

“And I suppose . . . you're getting to know all about each other?”

“Sure.”

“Each other's past lives and all that?”

Peter grunted.

“Sometimes I think mine is too much for him,” he said. “Revolution, the plague, the agency, my two last duchesses. It's a lot for him to swallow.
His
life—well, college, a few odd jobs, and now the magazine . . . I mean, he's terribly good at it and really loves it. But I think sometimes he thinks his story can't compare to mine, or something—because there's also much less of it.”

“You think
he
thinks that.”

“Which is ridiculous, because every life is as full as it is, right? It's not about duration.”

“Tell me about it.”

Peter frowned.

“Oh, Jon—here I am, prattling on about boys when . . . I want to know how you are. Tell me everything.”

“No, I like to prattle on about boys. It makes me feel good. That's where I'm at these days—trying to feel as good as I can, as much as I can: doing my work, taking care of my friends. Hey, I'm smoking again.”

“You are? You haven't smoked in thirty years.”

“I know, but I get to do it now. Why not? Aldebar gets me the Sobranies I like. Oh, they're sublime! Also, helps me keep the weight down.”

His face, deadpan—his comic delivery was sharper than ever. Peter shook his head.

“You're amazing,” said Peter. “Good thing you have that classic bone structure. Looks good at any weight.”

“Like I said, today is a good day. It's funny: I was never particularly naïve about mortality. I'm a Jewish boy, so in some ways the Cossacks are always at the door. And we went through AIDS, right? Which was as good a course in mortality as anyone is likely to get, short of war.”

“Sure was.”

“But these days, Peter, I have to say that I'm more aware than ever of . . . the need to die. Not my death so much as death-death. Do you know what I mean? Death happens. I get it. The thing is, it's not this unalloyed disaster. Somehow, the awareness
of
the fears,
of
the regrets and frustrations,
of
the joys we still have—all that!—feels more like being alive than anything I've felt before. It's so interesting. I just . . . you can't
be
this alive when you're walking around, taking everything for granted.”

As Peter listened he was aware of how quiet the house was, except for occasional cooking sounds coming from the kitchen.

“Of course, it's not exactly a pleasant feeling,” continued Jonathan. “But on some level it's almost a kind of compensation—a reward that comes with this state, or
can
come, if you're available for it.”

“I see,” said Peter.

“And I find myself
desperate
to share this feeling—especially since I'm not going to be able to hold on to it for very long. You know? I mean, the film is partly about this, sure, but I want everyone to feel this way—totally aware! Especially the people I care about, like you and Will and Aldebar—and not waste time being half alive.”

“Oooph,”
said Peter. The sentiment struck him as parental in the most loving way.

“Which is one reason why I keep coming back to Eliot,” added Jonathan.

“I see you've kept the manuscript,” said Peter. The notebook, in its Plexiglas case, sat on a nearby table.

“I've been rereading the
Quartets
. They make more sense than ever. It's really been helping my work.”

“Wow. I guess I should reread them this weekend.”

“ ‘The still point of the turning world.' That's his big idea, Petey.”

“I know. You made me read it.”

“The days fly by and yet time stands still. And I must say I've been savoring that sense of stillness, while the world races on.”

Tenderly, Peter leaned forward, took Jonathan's hand, and kissed it. Jonathan patted Peter's cheek affectionately. Then, grasping the armrests, Jonathan began to push himself up from the chair.

“Something smells good,” he said, rising and accepting some help from Peter. “Lunch must be about ready.”

“You talk about taking care of other people,” said Peter, as they made their way toward the kitchen. “I was just saying to Will, in the car, how much I envy your ability to take care of yourself. Sometimes I make fun of guys our age, when all they want to talk about is their houses and the fancy hotels they stay at. It's stupid of me, I know. But you know how to put a roof over your head. That's a very adult talent.”

“Oh, I don't know that there's any trick to it,” said Jonathan.

“Seriously. I'm almost sixty, I've got all the money I need, and I'm still renting. I wouldn't know how to get a home like this into my life.”

“It's not as hard as you think. You'll see.”

Lunch turned out to be a steak-and-mushroom potpie, studded with bits of smoked bacon and laced with ale. As Aldebar served from a baking dish, Peter and Will marveled appropriately. He told them it was easy to make—“just a quick stew, with a crust.” It was the four of them, at the table. The cheese was a Double Gloucester.

“A little something to tide us over to dinner,” said Jonathan, as they tucked in.

“I'm impressed,” said Peter.

“He buys the pastry dough at that bakery,” said Jonathan.

“Why not take a little help?” said Aldebar, with a wink. “I'm no cook.”