Late in the Season

A telling novel about gay life after Stonewall, Late in the Season is one of the finest novels in the long career of one of the founding members of the Violet Quill Club. Set on Fire Island in late September, this is the story of an unlikely pair of friends—a gay composer in his late thirties and an eighteen-year-old schoolgirl—both of whom are trying to make sense of their complicated lives. But much more than this, it is a compelling portrait of a magical time and place, after the Stonewall riots opened up so many possibilities and before AIDS forever changed the face of the gay world.
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Late in the Season

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Late in the Season

© 1981 By Felice Picano. Afterword.

© 1997 By Felice Picano. All Rights Reserved.

ISBN 13: 978-1-60282-449-2

This Electronic Book is published by

Bold Strokes Books, Inc.

P.O. Box 249

Valley Falls, New York 12185

First Bold Strokes Printing June 2009

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission.

Credits

Production Design: Stacia Seaman

Cover Design By Sheri ([email protected])

A House on the Ocean, a House on the Bay

Dryland’s End

Like People in History

The New Joy of Gay Sex (with Charles Silverstein)

Men Who Loved Me

To the Seventh Power

Ambidextrous, the Secret Lives of Children

House of Cards

Slashed to Ribbons in Defense of Love and other Stories

An Asian Minor

A True Likeness: Lesbian and Gay Writing Today

The Lure

The Deformity Lover and Other Poems

The Mesmerist

Eyes

Smart as the Devil

It was a perfect day for composing. The morning mist had finally burned off the ocean, unfurling the blue sky like a huge banner of victory. Kites were fluttering at various levels of the warm, balmy air. From down the beach came the sweet-voiced distortions of children’s cries in play—the last children of the season—adding extra vibrancy to their sounds, piercing the scrim of post-Labor-Day-weekend silence that had softly dropped a week ago. Already the first dying leaves of an autumn that came early to the seashore and would blaze madly for a mere month of picture-book beauty had flung themselves at the glass doors this morning. They had saddened Jonathan then, perched over his large mug of coffee, feeling the hot sun on his closed eyelids. But now the morning felt so clear and sunny, so absolutely cloudless, he felt he might strike it with the little glass pestle in the dining room bowl, and the day would ring back, echoing crystal, like a gamelan orchestra.

Sixty fresh sheets of newly scored, oversize paper lay on the table in front of him—unstirred on the oceanside deck by any wind. Next to them was a stenographer’s open flap spiral notebook, its pages filled with sketches of melodies and modulations, with samples of instrumental combinations he would incorporate into the score—jottings from the entire summer. He’d already written out many solos. Half would go into the score intact; the rest would have to be completed, revised according to the hieroglyphic notes he’d made over the past few months. Orchestral introductions and instrumental transitions would be required. But the most difficult numbers were done: the laughing quartet for male voices, Fiammetta’s lament, the six madrigals the chorus would sing, commenting on the principals’ actions, and furthering the flavor of thirteenth-century Florence. Barry would love them. So would Amadea and Saul, producers of
The Lady and the Falcon,
their fourth show together, the first to be written for Broadway.

Above him, to the left, there was a rippling flutter like a stricken bird’s panic of feathers. A black, bat-shaped kite with two yellow eyes painted on it was falling from the highest airdraft, spinning foward, bucking, dropping through current after current. Jonathan thought it would plummet endlessly, struggling all the way down like a living thing, until it hit the sea-stained gray board roof of the Locke family’s summer house next door. But the kite swept up suddenly, caught a draft, righted itself, then floated serenely on slacker line, its plastic wings unwrinkled.

Jonathan quickly wrote at the top of one score page “Gentile’s Prayer,” then began to fill in the tenor’s vocal line, moving steadily across the page and down half a staff and only stopping at bar sixteen for the break. Last night he’d gotten away from the others in the house long enough to get down to the ocean’s edge. There he’d walked, his hands shoved in his pockets, the sweatshirt flapping around his torso; there, too, he’d heard the last cries of migrating birds repeating certain phrases against the solid bass line of surf, phrases that had reminded him of a Landini arietta from seven centuries ago. Their plaintive rise and fall had unconsciously become the tenor line of Gentile’s hopeless prayer.

Now he began to write in the bass continuo. That was easy until the break, so he moved up to the alto line: a high oboe that would accompany the singer over low strings. The break should lead to a more agitated central section: music like Dan last night when he came down to the water’s edge and asked Jonathan to return to the house, to the others. It was their last night together for a while, Dan had reminded Jonathan almost guiltily. Yes, this central section would be anxious, sad, recalling how guilty Dan felt going away again, and his barely disguised alarm that Jonathan was taking it far too easily. That, and Dan’s usual considerate fear that his life, his concerns, his career, his friends and family were taking up too much of his lover’s now valuable creative time. All that Gentile would somehow express to his beloved Fiammetta on the embarkation eve of his quest for the fabled falcon.

Now for the final section—the resigned but hopeful return of the initial theme in a new key. What would that sound like?

Suddenly there was a sound like a loud slap of rubber behind him, loud enough to break his concentration. Jonathan didn’t have to turn to know it was Dan, slamming open the sliding doors. No one else did it quite so forcefully.

“Jonathan, do you know where my shaving kit is?”

“Bottom left-hand drawer. You put it there when you came back from L.A. Remember?”

“I looked there.”

“Under the rugby shirts. Haven’t you packed them? You’ll need them, you know. It’ll be cooler in London.”

“I’ll go look again,” Dan said, but his tone of voice said he’d never find the shaving kit.

“Want me to?”

“No. You’re busy. I’m sorry to bother you while you’re working.”

Jonathan got up, weighted the score with an ashtray, and went to where Dan had just stepped inside the doorway. Dan was dressed in an open-necked shirt, casual slacks, and sports jacket. He’d be flying directly to the airport, where he’d board a jet.

“I’ll look,” Jonathan said. “It’s no trouble.” He went past Dan into the house. “When’s your plane?”

“Not till one.”

“It’s almost noon now. Are you packed?”

“All but the shaving kit.”

In their large bedroom two suitcases were open on the bed. They appeared to be neatly, fully packed, but Dan was so distracted lately, it would be just like him to forget something essential—socks, or underwear. They ought to be checked.

Jonathan rummaged through the wide bottom drawer, pushing aside various shirts, some of them wrapped in thin paper from the laundry, others still encased in plastic from their purchase. Why didn’t Dan wear these shirts when they looked so good on him? Jonathan always thought his own body too stocky for them. On the bottom, shoved between two of them but bulkily apparent, was the shaving kit. Surely Dan had seen it?

“You were right,” Dan said, receiving the kit, “as usual!” He stood looking at the shiny cracked leather kit in Jonathan’s palms, until Jonathan thought he was going to say something: admit he’d known where it was all along and merely wanted Jonathan’s company. Then Dan made a typical wry smile and hugged him, crushing the kit between them.

“Who’s going to find my shaving kit for me in London?” he asked, low, against the nape of Jonathan’s neck. Dan smelled of cologne today; for the trip, Jonathan supposed. Last night, after their guests had gone home, they’d put the dishes in the washer and slowly, expertly made love for hours as only couples who’ve been together years knew how to do. Last night Dan had smelled of almond cold cream soap, chocolate, Brie, and lust.

“You’ll be all right in London.”

“I always feel as though I’m missing an arm or leg or something when I’m away from you too long.”

“It’s only a month.”

“I don’t want to go,” Dan said. He still held him, continued to nuzzle against his neck. The kit began to fall and Jonathan let it drop.

“You’ll feel better about it when you’re on the plane. You know how excited you get once you’re flying.’’

Dan pulled back, still holding Jonathan, staring at his face. His own face was so familiar Jonathan wondered if he could ever forget it. Dan was tanned, of course—honey tan—they both were. His left eyebrow had two long bright orange hairs sticking out of the surrounding chestnut like little signal flags. Dan’s long nose and forehead were slightly freckled, even through his tan; his forelock and mustache tinged with vague touches of gray that almost seemed blond. All the rest was the same face that Jonathan had looked at for almost a decade: the country boy urbanized, sophisticated, grown up.

“What are you thinking?” Dan asked.

‘‘How good-looking you are.”