Now and Yesterday (36 page)

“Peter . . . ,” said Will, shaking his head in a mellow way.

“OK, OK,” said Peter. “Just so you know. No pressure.” He slipped into his bed and pulled up the covers.

“No, I do know, and it's not pressure,” said Will. “I like you—I like you a lot. But honestly, Peter, I have no idea where I stand on love, on sex . . . with anybody. Maybe you could tell. I think I'm a little nuts that way.”

“OK,” said Peter, carefully, “I guess I get that.”

“No, I don't know if you do get that,” said Will. “I don't see how you could. I never talk about it. I just started therapy—big surprise, right?—and I think . . . I'm going as fast as I can. Maybe someday soon I'll be able to talk about this with you. I want to.”

“Well, that would be nice.”

“I think so, too. Believe me.”

Will tucked away the seascape and slipped under his own covers, drawing them up over his shoulders.

“You're an amazing man,” added Will.

“Oh, I'm amazing, all right,” said Peter, with a big yawn. “And just so you know, I'm not so sure where I stand on love, either—which is, excuse me, a big thing for me to have to parse, since I invented love.”

Will laughed.

“You did—you invented it?” he said. “Your generation and the Summer of Love?”

“No, me personally,” said Peter. “I, who have stood on the shoulders of giants and personally reinvented eros for the modern age. This was not a game for me. It was some kind of responsibility.”

“Oh, I see.”

“And suddenly, all this revealed knowledge about eros and civilization and such, which used to be true
for all eternity,
hardly applies anymore.”

“Don't worry, you can adapt.”

“Can I?” Peter snorted. “The dinosaur surviving the crunch? Will,
you
know: I've gone out a lot and fooled around a lot. But at last I can see how sex and love are this one, whole thing—at least they are for me—which makes dating in today's modern, fast-and-loose social environment a little weird. People don't necessarily go out at night looking for that one, whole thing.”

“Funny,” said Will. “And I've only had sex with people I didn't love, and am possibly afraid of the whole, real thing. Not that I'd even know it if I saw it.”

They were silent for a moment.

“But c'mon, buddy,” continued Will. “You're a little wounded, too, aren't you? It's not just the world that's changed. It's
you
.”

“Precisely,” said Peter. “I'm the walking wounded. And I love you for knowing that.”

“What can I say?” said Will. “I'm immense.”

Peter smiled.

“And I love that you remember I once called you that,” he said. “It's true, you know—you
are
immense.”

“I do remember.”

And with that, Peter switched off the lamp on the night table and both of them made themselves comfortable in their beds.

“Therapy?” whispered Peter, after a minute.

“Oh, please, not now,” murmured Will.

S
unday was rainy, which was exactly the kind of weather that allowed a more essential quality of Jonathan's house than its beauty to emerge: solidity. In the kitchen that morning, despite the squalling outside, the loudest sound to be heard, besides talking, was the crackling of the fire that Aldebar had built in the old fireplace. Jonathan and Will were sitting nearby, at the big table, chatting quietly over coffee, while Peter was upstairs on his laptop and Aldebar was out looking for fresh tarragon.

“So that's why you're hemming and hawing?” asked Jonathan. “He's ‘almost too nice'?”

“Sort of,” said Will.

“Bullshit.”

“He's not nice?”

“That's not what's going on. I'm too nice, too.”

“But you never fell in love with me.”

“Didn't I?”

“Oh, Jonathan. You never indicated that you did.”

“I respected you and liked you. I still do.”

“And that means a lot to me. Thank you.”

“But now you know he's in love with you,” said Jonathan.

“I do,” said Will, “though I was the last person to find out. He's always going on about all the models he's dated and the golden age of gay sex. . . .”

“That's my boy.”

“And I respect all that. But every time I was sure he was going to make a move, he didn't. And then I felt relieved, even though I was disappointed, because I'm such a mess.”

“Jesus.”

“I grew up afraid of so-called ‘real' sex, because of AIDS, and I guess I was afraid of finding out he could be just another handjob guy.”

“Ucch.”

“Or that I was just working myself.”

“Speaking of which, I gather he doesn't know yet.”

“Uh-uh.”

“You gonna tell him?”

“It's not that big a deal.”

“Which is why you asked me not to say anything.”

“I want to tell him myself.”

“Don't tell me you're still at it?”

“Jonathan! I'm a classy magazine editor now!”

“I've known editors to hook—editors at your magazine, in fact.”

“It's over, and I
will
tell him. My therapist says that being honest is part of taking care of myself.”

“So what's the big play now that you're an honest man, Will? A career, a relationship? A family?”

“I don't know, I don't know! I never had to know these things. I don't know how to know them.”

“Which is pretty much where we were last fall, puppy.”

“Even this thing at the magazine, which I was lucky to get—it isn't aligned with any great vector I was aiming for. I just like talking to people. My dad's always talking about vectors—the ones that point in the direction you've chosen to go in, the ones that don't.”

Jonathan sighed.

“Forgive me for saying so, but your generation is fucked,” he said. “And I don't mean in a good way.”

“I know,” said Will.

“Completely overprotected and underchallenged.”

“I know.”

“And you've amused yourselves to death. No wonder all of you sit around watching vampire and zombie stories.”

Will snickered.

“I hate that stuff,” he said.

“Parodies of life.”

“True.”

“The hustling wasn't even work. It was a parody of work.”

“Fair enough. Though . . . it did feel like work, sometimes, with some people. Not you.”

“Oh, man,” said Jonathan, “I hope I didn't contribute to your becoming a zombie.”

“How so?” said Will.

“By hiring you that way! You know, I've developed some guilt around this, as I've come to know you better.”

“Why? What about Aldebar?”

“Aldebar's different. He's full-time. Besides, he has a very special talent for helping people. It's like a calling.”

“Anyway, no worries. It's not like you were the first and you
turned
me.”

“Well, I did recommend you to Randy and Eric. . . .”

“Helped me pay the rent while I stayed in New York and looked for a real job.”

“Still. I should be enriching your mind, seeing to
your
special talent. Maybe I can make it up to you.”

Conversation over lunch was spotty. Few topics found any traction. More than once, the four of them agreed that Aldebar's chicken salad, made with leftover roast chicken, was superb. They'd used up all their ebullient small talk about matters past and present during the previous forty-eight hours, and in view of the imminent departure of Peter and Will, exchanges about the future felt forced and sad. Nevertheless, and despite the gray day, they worked up some cheer after lunch, when Peter and Will were leaving, as they all stood on the terrace, the van already loaded, promising to see each other the following month, at a screening Jonathan was planning of footage from the movie.

“Is this the sort of thing you want me to bring people to?” said Peter.

“No, that will come later,” said Jonathan decisively. “This is more for family and friends.”

Peter understood. By plan, the movie would not be finished until after Jonathan's death. It was to include scenes of him and Connor Frankel talking, presumably, until the point at which Jonathan could no longer endure the process of filming. This screening was only to give Jonathan the pleasure of seeing some part of his work with people who mattered to him most. Attending would be a sort of memorial service in advance of the fact. As they stood there, with Jonathan leaning on a cane, Peter caught himself surprised to hear intention still so strong in his friend's voice. Without knowing it, he had allowed thoughts of Jonathan's frailty to undermine the premise that his friend was still an autonomous adult and artist—which he reckoned was like thinking paper money worthless unless backed by gold.

“Until soon then,” said Peter.

“Right-o,” said Jonathan.

It took Peter a few minutes to compose himself, as he and Will descended Jonathan's road to the main highway. He had to breathe deeply in order to stave off a bout of weeping.

“He seems in a good place right now,” said Will.

“I know,” said Peter. “I'll be fine.”

The drive to Catskill was quick—a zip down the highway and over the Rip Van Winkle Bridge, a graceless contraption built in the 1930s that is conspicuously unworthy of the verdant hills surrounding it. Clouds hung low in the sky, and it continued to rain off and on—another reason why Peter was glad they would be driving home later on the Thruway, which was wider and straighter than the Taconic. And he was glad, too, to have the van, which in all the blowy wetness felt as safe as a space capsule. The seats were indeed that much higher above the road, the wipers that much more powerful, as they swept away sheet after sheet of rain.

Yet finding Arnie's place was not easy. They had Google Mapped the route, but the house was located up in the hills, where the roads were sparsely marked and the road signs few, and the signs they did see were hard to make out in the pounding rain.

It was the land of many dominions. Mile after mile, they passed homes whose streetside décorismo announced all manner of upstate working-class scenarios: the bland little ranchburger belonging to The Guy Who Knows What's Best For Everyone; the gussied-up bungalow of The Couple Who Seem Friendly Enough But Clearly Don't Want To Get Close To Anyone; the grandiloquent McMansion of The Family Who Seem To Excel At Everything In Public But Argue Violently Among Themselves Every Night In Private. Driveways lined in beds of pansies; property lines staked with painted brick stanchions; yards anchored by exactly symmetrical groupings of neatly groomed shrubbery; chimneys emblazoned with initials of family surnames; shutters pierced with cut-outs in the shape of little pine trees—all of which reflected, Peter knew, strains of Americana that needed to be addressed, and perhaps even cherished, if one was to sell the owners of such places cars and energy drinks and political leaders.

They missed the turnoff to Arnie's road because it was no wider than a driveway, then they missed the driveway itself because the mailbox was obscured by a mass of rain-sagged laurel. When they finally pulled up to the house, in back of a beat-up blue Corolla, Arnie was waiting on the screened-in porch.

“Sort of a shack,” said Peter, switching off the ignition and unbuckling his seat belt.

“Be nice,” said Will.

It was a modest, one-story cottage tucked into a mass of ill-tended hemlock bushes and old beech trees. The rain coming down on all those leaves sounded like applause over machine-gun fire.

“You made it,” shouted Arnie, as Peter and Will dashed up a weed-edged path of stone and gravel to the porch. The yard was a swath of overgrown green that might once have been lawn, patched with humus-layered bare spots under the bushes and trees.

“Yeah,” said Peter. “Easy drive.”

“C'mon in,” said Arnie.

The orange-gingery scent that greeted them inside reminded Peter of Old Spice. Two big brown pit bulls bounded over to welcome the guests eagerly, as shoes were wiped and jackets taken.

“Don't worry, they're very friendly,” said Arnie. “Gustav and Alma. Big sweetie pies.”

Will knelt down to greet and fondle the dogs, which were delighted with the attention.

The cottage had been a summer place for a New York family, built in the '20s, explained Arnie. It had been winterized in the '60s by the professor from whom he bought it.

“Very nice,” said Peter, looking around.

“Thanks,” said Arnie. “Look around, make yourselves comfortable. I'm just putting the water in the pot.” Though the day was cool and wet, Arnie was wearing a pair of cargo shorts with his hoodie and T-shirt, and a pair of clogs with thick gray socks.

The place was homey in a cute-bordering-on-kitsch way. In the living room, a crowd of mismatched bookcases laden with books, CDs, and mementos was accented with aggressively charming accessories like a blue glass vase in the shape of a violin and a pair of vintage paint-by-number landscapes in shadowbox frames. The room's color scheme—cornflower blue for the painted wood floors, maize for the walls—appeared to be taken from the Mexican folk art retablo that was displayed prominently on a cabinet. The furniture included several handsome mid-century modern pieces, but it was clear from the haphazard way they and the rest of Arnie's things were arranged that he was more of an accumulator than a collector.

He came back with a tray of tea and cookies, and they installed themselves around the coffee table. The dogs trotted off to another room.

“Some of this stuff was Professor Birdwell's,” said Arnie, about the furniture. “He and his wife were serious modernists. I just liked it, and it's pretty well made. I see stuff just like this on Warren Street for prices I can't believe.”

“It's great,” said Will.

“Had to replace the windows a few years ago. The roof is next.”

“Eww, big job,” said Peter.

“It's always something,” said Arnie. “I'd love to do the kitchen one day—not that I'm much of a cook.”

Through a doorway Peter could see what must be Arnie's den, with an upright piano piled with sheet music.

“So you guys had a good weekend?” said Arnie.

“Pretty good, yeah,” said Peter. “Lots of eating and cooking . . .”

“And talking,” said Will.

“Cool.”

“We took an amazing drive. Gorgeous country.”

“And Jonathan showed us a bit of the film he's working on,” said Peter.

“Oh?” said Arnie. “What's it about?”

“Good question. I guess it's about life—gay life. American gay life. Nominally, it's about Connor Frankel.”

“What? The artist?”

“Yeah.”

“He's lending his name to a gay-identified project?”

“It's kind of about him. He's coming out.”

“Will wonders never cease?” said Arnie. “I thought he was pretty closeted.”

“He was, for the first eighty years of his life,” said Peter. “I gather he's decided to make a change.”

“Well, good for him,” said Arnie. “The titan takes a baby step.”

“People will go at their own pace, won't they,” observed Peter.

“I guess,” said Arnie. “But I've always felt a little—what?—judgmental about people like that. And
him
in particular. Supposedly such a revolutionary, a fearless innovator!—
pfff!
More like a big coward.”

“That could be a little . . . ,” began Peter.

“Harsh? I know,” laughed Arnie. “As you see, I have a little anger around this.” His manner in expressing such a strong condemnation was oddly jolly. Peter remembered this about him—the mixture of cheer and the doctrinaire.

“But c'mon,” continued Arnie, “if you get married and are so out of touch with your soul that you wake up to it only when you have grandchildren—I mean, I guess I can have some pity for you and the fact that you missed half your life. Now, if you
know
what you want, like Frankel, and have lovers, and simply choose to keep it secret because of some pact with polite society, then that's reprehensible. I hafta conclude that you don't take your soul very seriously, and I have to wonder what kind of art comes out of that.”

“Sure,” said Peter, “but you do have to admit, some pretty un-together people have made some pretty good art over the years, haven't they?”

“I suppose you're right,” said Arnie. And then he directed an aside to Will: “I came out in 1968 and expected the whole world to be out by 1970.”

Laughter all around—which gave Peter a moment to wonder if the cheer in Arnie's manner had given way to a certain kind of smugness in the politically correct. Their generation had forged
politically correct
as a tool of revolution, but now that the revolution had been superseded by something else, those who still wielded the tool without a little irony looked a little pathetic, even if, to an old comrade, the act also nostalgically evoked the heady aspirations of exciting times. In fact, thought Peter, Arnie had probably undermined himself with that attitude, over the years, among New York's cultural elite, despite his musical talent. Smugness, like a hundred other personality traits, can cause someone to pass on a project without ever explaining why, sometimes without their even knowing why. A pass can be as simple as an instinct about the other person—unconscious, yet decisive. And even when people
are
conscious of what they consider to be flaws in other people's personalities, they rarely take it upon themselves to advise or instruct, leaving the others without the benefit of input that just might—if they happen to be open to it—help them improve their karma. Thus, whatever people like Arnie tell themselves about why a project or career didn't work out—“I was too smart!” “I was too nice!”—the explanation remains conveniently untested.