Second Chances (4 page)

Partly to forestall any conversation about that party (a topic they must have exhausted: actually Sam drank too much too, and he told a perfectly nice woman that she was a harridan, and spoiled rotten, to boot), Dudley goes on even more about Celeste.

“Whatever is happening with this Bill is fairly crazy,” she tells Sam. “He takes her to these incredibly expensive places, I’m a little afraid that’s part of his charm for her. Assuming always that there
really is a Bill, whom she actually sees. But do you know? Sometimes when we’re talking on the phone, you know, the way we always do, she tells me that she has to get off, Bill might call. Or even that she can’t come out for tea, she’s expecting a call. She waits for his calls! At her age. Talk about acting girlish.”

“Well, after all, poor girl” is Sam’s more kindly, if somewhat inconclusive comment.

As Dudley thinks: How awful—could I possibly be like that, ever, again?

Freddy, whose real name is Fernando Fuentes, comes from Mexico City, originally. A small, dark man, compact and tightly built, with regular, tidy features, in his early youth he could have been described as pretty. And he was so described, by some of Edward’s less kindly friends. “That pretty little boy of Edward’s.” To Edward he was and is, simply (or not simply at all) quite beautiful. Long ago, soon after first meeting Freddy, Edward to Dudley wrote somewhat plaintively (to Dudley, very movingly): “Freddy is so beautiful that people tend to accord our connection less dignity than it deserves.”

Edward has also had occasion to think of Auden’s lines: “Mortal, guilty, but to me, / The entirely beautiful.”

Just now, having spoken to Celeste and returning from the phone, Edward sees Freddy in the lamplight, at the far end of their tufted brown sofa, and he is struck by the dark perfection of that face—as far too often Edward is struck, he thinks, by Freddy’s beauty; he is thus kept vulnerable. Also, in the linen-shaded lamplight, Freddy looks much closer to forty, or even thirty-five, than to the fifty that he almost is.

For a variety of reasons Edward says none of this to Freddy; instead he announces, “Well, at last we get to meet the mysterious Bill. Celeste’s Bill. Whom Dudley will not believe actually exists.”

“Dear Dudley” is Freddy’s only comment. The friendship between Freddy and Dudley is warm, but at certain times a little strained—possibly because, first passionately in love with Edward, Freddy experienced a dark, Latin jealousy of all Edward’s friends. But for the most part he and Dudley get along quite well these days.

“A Valentine’s dinner, of all things,” Edward continues. “Can you imagine?” As he thinks: Why in God’s name do we have to sound so silly with each other? Two intelligent men, who in their ways care a lot about each other, but we go on and on like aging queens. Especially me. And he further thinks: We avoid all major issues. Can we no longer afford them?

The issue just now being avoided is that of the night before, which was New Year’s Eve, and which Freddy spent in San Francisco. At a meeting to discuss the possible closing of gay bathhouses. The meeting went unmentioned in this morning’s paper, Edward was half-gratified to note; after such events in which Freddy (Fernando to those friends: no one here in San Sebastian calls him Fernando except, puzzlingly, Polly Blake), Freddy-Fernando, is increasingly involved, Edward often imagines a huge and appallingly clear news photograph: Freddy embracing another man, or some boy.

On the other hand, poor Freddy was no doubt disappointed at the lack of publicity for his cause—in which, after all, basically Edward also believes.

Edward has no idea whether he is more terrified of Freddy’s being with another man in a sexual way or of Freddy’s dying of AIDS: he fears that the two terrors are almost equal, in his mind. Since he and Freddy no longer make love (they simply stopped, gradually, some time ago, for no specific reason—and again, something never discussed between them), Edward does not think of the possibility of AIDS for himself.

Last night Freddy came home at an eminently sensible hour, though; Edward heard his car and then Freddy himself shortly after midnight. That would mean that he must have left San Francisco at about ten-thirty. Edward, lying awake despite resolutions to the contrary, considered getting up, saying Happy New Year, even suggesting champagne. But he did not, mainly not wanting to admit that he was awake, that he was in fact waiting up. Still, Edward now observes that Freddy looks rather tired.

But suddenly (and why?—why just then?) with an enormous effort Edward does manage to ask, “It went all right, last night?”

Visibly surprised at the question, Freddy, after a short look at Edward, turns a little away and frowns. “Actually not too great,” he says.

Gratified in ways that he does not choose to examine just now, Edward comments, “Oh? That’s too bad.”

“Well, as you can imagine it’s terribly complicated.” As always, Freddy’s whole body is eloquent; his tight shoulders suggest concentration as his small, elegant hands gesture complexity, discouragement. (He is somewhat like Celeste in this, Edward has observed; once an actress, in a rather minor way, Celeste still makes statements with her gestures)

Freddy shifts on the sofa, so that once more he faces Edward fully as his posture announces an intention to confide. “It’s so complicated,” he repeats, with more emphasis. “And confused. You know, you’d probably agree, that closing the baths is not really a homophobic move. And even if it does only a little good, it might be worth it.”

Cautiously: “That’s very possible,” says Edward.

“We have to face it, that kind of sex these days is suicidal.” Freddy has averted his face from Edward’s for a moment, but now he comes back. “There’s a lot of pretty violent and simplistic thinking going on,” he says. “Some of which includes the rather odd notion that AIDS was invented by Jerry Falwell. Not to mention our wonderful President and some of his old cronies.”

Still cautious, Edward laughs.

“But to make it more complicated,” Freddy continues, “there’s the obvious fact that closing the baths may not do any good at all. Guys who’re really into that sort of thing.” A wry smile. “The suicidal promiscuous types will go right on doing their thing. As one says. And then there’re the civil libertarians who say it’ll very likely do more harm than good. You can get lost in all this. You know, the best lacking all conviction.”

“Well, as you say, it is difficult. And complicated,” Edward agrees. He is experiencing a surge of pure happiness, though, from the sheer fact of their conversation. They talk quite a lot, of course, but so often it is simply concerned with practicalities: what to have for dinner, what needs fixing around the house. Or fairly silly gossip. Slightly malicious bitch talk.

Edward has imaginary conversations about serious matters with Freddy. About poetry, for instance. As a very young man, he published one small book of verse—not distinguished, in his own view.
Since then he has tried, and tried, to write more, better poems. On moving to San Sebastian, since Freddy was to teach in San Francisco, Edward in a burst of practicality went out and got his real-estate license; real estate seemed something he could do in a part-time way, and still write. However, these days he accomplishes very little along either line, few finished poems, and possibly even fewer houses sold. (Charles used to tease Edward about being a one-man anti-growth movement for San Sebastian.)

Nor, come to think of it, does Freddy talk to Edward much about his teaching job—at which Edward assumes he is bored.

Over the past few years, the years of Freddy’s emergence as an outspoken gay activist, there have been, though, some stiff arguments between the two of them about being “out,” as Freddy would put it. Edward thinks of this as simply coming to terms with one’s sexual orientation, but Freddy points out that that is not quite the same thing; according to Freddy, it is characteristic of Edward only to think of his own private life.

Most of these arguments, then, have been neither pleasant nor conclusive. “But I’ve always accepted being queer,” Edward has said, deliberately choosing that word—and not quite speaking the truth. “I have never pretended otherwise. I just don’t choose to wave flags.”

And Freddy has countered, “With the Religious Right still around, and fag-bashing on Polk Street, and all over, not to mention AIDS, maybe it’s time to wave some flags.” Freddy scowling, very heated.

Freddy now sounds, though, as if all that had been somehow resolved, as if Edward were in fact “out.” (Edward himself is unable to hear that phrase without recalling his mother’s use of it—to signify Boston girls who had made their début. And sometimes, ludicrously, along with the words there comes a mad vision of himself in pink tulle, a small drag princess, at a coming-out party in Beverly Farms, his parents’ country place. He is not entirely sure that Freddy would think this was very funny. And so he has never told him.)

Some time ago, someone even older than Edward now is (Who—when? Was it Charles? Celeste? Edward can’t remember:
does
he have Alzheimer’s?)—someone said that in old age it takes less to make you miserable, but also much less to make you happy. He now considers the truth of that remark, as he finds himself so extremely
pleased at the tone and the turn of this dialogue with Freddy. He chooses, however, to ascribe his pleasure to another cause.

“You must admit,” he joyously admonishes Freddy, “that our room looks better and better. You could say it’s aging well. Even coming into its own.”

At which Freddy smiles, agreeing.

For although their house and all its contents are owned in common, Edward can and does credit himself with its décor. And he is right about their house, and especially this living room, which is warm and comfortable and very beautiful. Mainly, everything there looks as if it has been there forever: the velvet sofa, dark red leather chairs, the “good” Oriental rugs, brown Calvin linen draperies. The walls of books, shelves of records and tapes. The chastely framed line drawings, which, closely inspected, turn out to be very good indeed: a small but exquisite Picasso, a male nude; more nudes by Seurat (very early Seurat). A Paul Wonner still life. An oil (more nudes) by Theophilus Brown.

Edward and Freddy, from this narrow, high Victorian house, have much the same view as that of Dudley and Sam from their architecturally so dissimilar house: hills, now in almost total darkness, only a couple of lights from distant houses visible. But they can see lights both from Celeste’s and from Dudley and Sam’s. Polly Blake’s house is too far away, too close to the village, for her friends to see her lights.

“You’re absolutely right, this is a perfect room.” Freddy smiles his pleasure at the room, his appreciation of it. And returns to their more familiar mode of conversation, or one of their modes. “Sara coming to live with Celeste will make quite a difference in our social life, such as it is,” he says, and gives a small laugh.

In fact, their social life consists of a curiously formal exchange of dinners, lunch parties—quite ritualized as to their order, as to who owes whom. On rare occasions, people from San Francisco and environs have been imported by one host or hostess or another, but this has generally led to trouble, and is regarded as a risk.

“I guess Sara will be there at Valentine’s, along with Bill?” now asks Freddy.

“So Celeste says.”

“And Polly?” Freddy asks. For reasons that none of the others have quite worked out, not even Edward, Freddy and old Polly Blake are markedly close friends. True pals. The fact that they both speak Spanish is not quite an explanation, it is felt, since they do not always speak it with each other. Polly, somewhat mysteriously, speaks an exceptionally fluent Castilian; and Freddy, the professor of Spanish and Portuguese, speaks a variety of dialects, mostly South American.

“I guess. I’m afraid it’ll be another huge bash.” But, saying this, Edward still smiles, in a private way: he has his own memory of the last big party given by Celeste. His last tiny love affair, his one and only act of infidelity to Freddy, and he has always wondered if somehow Freddy knew.

“Well, you must admit, the last was rather fun.” Freddy says this with a certain innocence, however; or maybe he had some good time on his own?

“I wonder if this Bill will really show up” is what Freddy says next.

“Funny, that’s almost exactly what Dudley said. She thinks he won’t.”

“Well, Dudley’s not all bad, I never said she was. She just talks so much. And this Bill of Celeste’s is probably some tearing old queen. Importer, my eye.”

Edward laughs. He is uneasy, though, at this return to their more usual tone. However, “What an idea,” he contributes.

“You must admit, quite plausible? It’s a little hard to see our dear Celeste as anyone’s sex object, don’t you think? And heaven knows she does at least look rich.” Freddy then adds, “But what isn’t plausible, these days.”

“Oh, right.”

And then Freddy asks, “It is true—isn’t it?—that Sara’s Celeste’s only heir, or heiress, whatever?”

“Well, I think so. What with Charles not having any children either. But I think somehow Dudley and Sam would come into it too. Assuming always that there’s something to come into.” Descended from lines of New England bankers on both sides, Edward is almost involuntarily knowledgeable about such things, as though such information came along with his genes.

Freddy laughs. “Suppose she marries this Bill? She’s surely acting
like a woman in love. Getting her hair done every week in Watsonville—I get that information courtesy of Polly, who thinks it’s funny. All these new clothes. She even giggles. But her marriage would really throw everything out of kilter, wouldn’t it?”

Edward looks at him oddly. “Again, that’s just what Dudley said. You two must be in tune, somehow. But I do agree, anything’s possible. Given Celeste’s addiction to fantasy. And really, I think she misses Charles so much that it’s made her dizzy.”

He smiles, and after the smallest hesitation asks Freddy: “Speaking of dizzy, shouldn’t we have some champagne? After all, it is New Year’s Day.”