Paul went up to Larken and extended his hand. "I'm sorry," he said. "I've even forgotten your name."
"Lark," came the reply as they shook hands. Paul's face clouded, and Jake chuckled. "I mean 'Russ,'" Larken quickly added.
"Come on, boys," said "Terry," guiding them into the living room with a hand on each shoulder. "Let's conspire."
Dear Elaine,
You had the most wonderful reunion with three of your classmates this afternoon. A gossip lunch. You remember Sally Lankston. Made the All-State Cheering Squad because she had the most spectacular breasts in Santa Ana? Anyway, I thought so. Last time I saw her, she was engaged to a Quaker from Whittier. She's a hooker now—afternoons, when her husband's at work. She
loves
it. I asked her how she got through a date with some coarse galoot, and she said it's no problem at all once you realize that all men are the same. Because what distinguishes people
as
people is their feelings, and of course men don't have any. So what's the big deal?, she says.
And Marjorie Thomas was there—that sort-of-troublemaker who ran around with bikers and greaseballs? Marjorie said that Sally had a pretty good theory going there, because a woman's approach to love-making had many variations, whereas men were strictly "Shove in and spend."
Sally said, "Absolutely," nodding her head over and over just the way she used to do. Remember how she would say "Absolutely" at least once every two minutes?
Marjorie will only wear men's clothes. Suits and so on. And her hair looked great chopped short like that, straight black hair flopping around to
just
below her ears. I offered her one of my cigarillos, but she said she prefers a substantial cigar, and only after dinner.
Sarah Wild was there, too—my dearest friend at Santa Ana High. Boy, has she changed! Swears like a trucker and looks you right in the eyes to speak her mind and she killed her husband. She says it was an accident. He had bashed the car up putting it in the garage, and Sarah said, "Well, that's so typical," and he got offended and impossible, the way men will. So she clonked him on the head with the skillet in which she was going to fix a chili dinner, and he sort of died. So, after dark, she dragged him out to where the car was stuck into the side of the garage and put him in the driver's seat. Then she cooked the chili and ate it and called the cops. So they think he got killed in a car accident.
Sally said that was probably the best way out for all concerned. "A clean break," she called it. "Absolutely." And Marjorie asked if she could go through his closet.
It was really nice seeing the girls again, even if I am making the whole thing up—because I have been thinking a lot about them, about what they look like now, and even dreaming of them, of having long talks and taking naps with them.
Larken was hardly listening to the Meeting. He kept getting distracted by that guy in the park, going over the conversation and trying to see where he had made the wrong move. Some of the queens at Jill's claimed that you could get anyone as long as you played it right. Larken didn't believe that. But there was, he was certain, a science of cruising, a
discipline,
and if he could only reckon it he wouldn't have to go home alone all the time.
I've got to
clamp down,
Larken was thinking. I need to be more sure of myself—at least, I have to seem it. But how do you
seem
sure of yourself if—
Everyone was looking at him, Paul with annoyance.
"I what?" said Larken.
"I
asked
you," said Paul, "if you would be willing to host the next meeting."
"Oh. Oh, sure. Of course."
"Write down the address and directions north and south, navigating by the Freeway," said Paul, handing Larken paper and a pencil.
But Larken was already back in the park, rehearsing his patter for the hundredth time. I really liked that guy a lot, Larken kept thinking. Sometimes you just know about someone.
The Meeting broke up with staggered departures to match the staggered arrivals. Two of the men left by the back door and cut through an alley to gain the street. Larken, waiting his turn, wondered what they were accomplishing. Sure, it had to start somewhere, and talking about the problems of being a homosexual in an anti-homosexual society relieved some of the tension. Still, in the long ran, what were they but a bunch of frightened men hoping for the impossible?
It was dark by the time Larken, last of the guests, was counting off for his departure, and Paul said, "Don't be in such a hurry. Sit down. Relax. There's more beer and—"
"The thing is," said Larken, "that all this secrecy is probably the opposite of what we need. We have to become visible and... regular. Like soda pop or blond hair. If they keep thinking of us as—well, if
we
keep thinking of—"
"The Meeting's over, so calm down," Paul urged him, guiding him to the sofa, a great old monster patched here and there with black tape. "Next time we can raise any issue you want."
"And it shouldn't be behind closed blinds like this," Larken went on, as Paul sat next to him.
"We need the security," Paul purred, a hand kneading Larken's shoulder. "We want to outwit them, don't we, hmm?"
"No, see, that's just the—" Paul's hand moved to Larken's thigh, and Larken jumped to his feet. " We have to be open about what we are," he said, backing away as Paul advanced. "They say it's shameful, and we say it isn't. But if we meet in all this"—Paul had Larken backed against the front door—"this darkness, then it's as if we're agreeing that it's shameful."
"But it's such an advanced approach. So
bold."
Larken threw the door open.
"I have to go," he said. "I have to be open. I have to go to the park and find that guy and be more aggressive. That's always been my problem, not being self-assertive and Dale Carnegie and everything."
Paul stood well back from the door, very irritated. "Running out on me like this." He looked at his watch. "And it's long, long before your time."
Larken ran to his car.
Frank's father had known that Frank was going to be a cop before Frank did. Frank's father was a cop, and he told Frank's mother that they had a little cop on hand when Frank was born. Frank's father held the infant in his arms in the hospital—that early on—and solemnly announced, "This is the next cop. He's going to save the world, watch."
They named him Winston Peter Hubbard, Jr., and called him Little Pete. But in June of 1933, after the "Hundred Days" Congress that launched the New Deal, when the boy was five, his father decided to rename him Franklin Delano Hubbard.
So now they called him Frank, and because they had both wanted a son, and because he was their only child, they petted him and heartened him and protected him. Frank's father would settle Frank on his lap and tell him stories, especially "The Dog On the Quicksand":
"When I was no bigger than you are right now," Frank's father would begin, "there was a quicksand pit on the edge of town. There was a sign there reading, 'Stay Away.' No one knew who had put the sign up, but everyone knew about it, and about the quicksand, which is, like, at first you think you got stuck a little, but soon you're sinking, and then you're swimming, and at last you're drowning. That's how quicksand works.
"Now, it happened that the town needed to repave its roadways, and there was a crew working right where the quicksand was. And it happens that a homeless dog lived round about there in a dump, and he would lope up at lunch hour to see if any of the workers would share a piece of his lunch with a harmless and friendly old dog like himself.
"Well, one of the workers was a low sort, never had a kind thought for man or beast, or for wife or child. He had a liverwish sandwich for lunch there. And he waved it at the dog, kind of luring him over. So then he pulled off a good-sized bite of liverwish sandwich and tossed it atop the quicksand, right in the center of the pit there.
"Now, the dog had some idea about this quicksand, because that's how dogs are. They couldn't tell you what quicksand is, or analyze up the way of how it sucks you in. But they know enough to stay off it.
"Still, that dog was hungry, because strays are always hungry. There's nobody putting out a bowl of dog food for them, so they're on the lookout for a chaw of something day and night. Never know when it'll turn out to be the last for a while, you see. And there's this thing about dogs that you have to know about, that they're always hoping to find a person they can trust. That's how they are, dogs. They need someone to believe in.
"So the dog's looking at this guy with the sandwich, trying to figure out what a dog should know about him, and he's also looking at the hunk of liverwish sandwich sitting there on the quicksand. Meanwhile, the man's wheedling him, like, 'Go on, little doggie, scoop up that liverwish, now.' The dog thinks that is a pretty corny routine, but it's the usual thing that people do when they're cozying up to dogs. So the dog mistakes the man's motive. And even though he doesn't like the way this guy smells, the dog's judgment is getting overwhelmed by the liverwish.
"So the dog's guard is down, and that is a big mistake. You never let your guard down except with people you know. But finally the dog can't figure it out any more. All he knows is, he had just better collect that piece of liverwish there. So he lets out one good loud bark and hops over to the food and goofs it down. Then he turns to the man and wags his tail and barks again.
"By this time, the dog is already sinking. And he can see that something screwy is going on, and he starts to move out of there. But he can't. The more he struggles, the faster he's going down. And all the workers are standing there watching him. A few of them are thinking, Well, this is a serious and interesting thing, to watch a living creature die with the full knowledge that it is dying. But to most of them it's a joke. And not one of those guys moves to rescue the dog. They could easily lean over and pull it out with no risk to themselves. But no, no. They don't even try to. They stand there watching this thing that is happening. And there's the dog, fighting to keep his poor old head above the ooze, bravely pumping away but sinking all the same, probably wondering why nobody's helping him. At last he's all gone, and the men pack up their stuff and go back to work."
When Frank was very young, his response to this story was "Did the dog come back later?"
When Frank was a little older, his response was "Did that really happen?"
And when Frank was a teenager, he asked his father, "How come you told me that story?"
Frank's father had been waiting quite some time for that question. He said, "Because I wanted you to see what's missing from that story. What it doesn't have that it needs."
"A smarter dog?"
"Don't be a wise guy," said Frank's father, tousling Frank's hair.
"I give up."
"Don't give up. Think about it."
Frank did. But at every try his father would say, "Good guess, but no," or "Keep trying, son."
And Frank would reply, "Do you have to call me 'son'?"
"What'll I call you, 'Uncle'?"
"How about
Frank?"
Frank's father called Frank 'son' because simply uttering the word emphasized their bond, and kept the boy close to him, and expressed his love. It was Frank's father's way of holding and kissing Frank when Frank was too old for it.
Frank hated it, especially when his friends were around, so Frank's father offered a deal: He'd call Frank by his name when, as, and if Frank figured out what was missing in the story of the dog and the quicksand.
So now Frank thought hard on the matter, because you can't go on being a son forever. And one Saturday when he was fourteen, he went outside to talk to his father, who was giving the Ford a water-and-wax.
Frank said, "What's missing from the story is a cop."
"How so?" said Frank's father, working on the window on the driver's side.
"Because a cop is there to keep guys from drawing decent people into the quicksand."
"You got it, Frank."
Frank had a crush on his father, much more than most boys do. But since Frank's father was a great guy and because Frank had no siblings, it seemed like the most natural thing to both of them that they would hug each other and roughhouse around all the time. And Frank's mother thought it was cute.
Still, it was an odd thing, this crush, because Frank was always thinking about his father, and admiring him, and comparing other men with him, even past the age when boys grow apart from their parents and concentrate their attention upon their coevals, especially girls. Yet, to the casual glance, Frank was enjoying the standard high-school life of his place and time. He played ball and surfed, dated for movie shows or dances, and got into endearingly minor trouble with his pals. He was a handsome but serious boy with a somewhat sluggish sense of humor—but this made him wonderfully mysterious to the girls. To each other, they called him "deep," a word of highest praise among kids in that era.
Like many a word tossed about by high-schoolers, "deep" bore a number of meanings. In its pure form—which must have lasted for all of two months during the summer of 1944, when it was introduced on the beach by a waggish junior from Pasadena High—it meant "intense in
an intelligent
way." But it quickly became almost meaninglessly complimentary, denoting anything from "cute" to "dangerous." Frank used it, privately, when he would lie on his bed thinking, to describe men of quiet determination, fearless men with a purpose in life, like his father. Like Mr. Hillingson, the tenth-grade history teacher; or Skip Deroyan, Frank's father's bowling-team captain; or Lieutenant Peterson, the Homicide detective with whom Frank became friendly when he was first assigned.
Frank had had crushes on all of them, one after the other. They weren't sustained crushes, like the one on his father, and of course Frank never thought of them that way. Crushes were for girls mooning over some boy they had spotted in the grocery store. Frank was a man. A cop. A "hard rower," as his father liked to phrase it. Men didn't have crushes. Men fell in love with women, whom they married.