Late in the Season (14 page)

“Why are you staring?” he asked.

“I’m not,” Jonathan said. “I’m staring out into space, thinking. We composers do it all the time.”

“He’s staring because you look funny,” Artie said, not even lifting his head from his playing.

“I do?” Ken said, and was amused. “How?”

“Just funny,” Artie said.

“Like what?”

Like an underage Hollywood girl trying to play movie star, Jonathan thought. “Like an Egyptian,” Artie said, finally looking up.

“You mean a mummy?” Ken asked.

“No. A real Egyptian. I once saw a picture of an Egyptian king at the beach,” Artie explained.

“Must have been King Farouk,” Jonathan said.

“Well, I don’t feel like a king,” Ken said, huffily. “Unless they get sunburned too.”

The last seaplane back to the city was at sunset, and Jonathan managed to get the boys packed and down to the dock in time. He sat on the pier, watching the seaplane sail out into a huge, orange, gibbous sun over a glittering blue bay. A mild prevailing easterly blew at the back of his neck, and he had to lift his jacket collar, feeling his hair—too long since his last haircut—rippled by the breeze.

What kind of life was this, he wondered, with everyone he loved always going away from him, leaving him here, on this little jetty, watching them fly off?

Don’t get into that, Jonathan, he warned himself. Not now. Go back and finish that chorus.

Is that why? Just to write a few songs?

As good a reason as any other. Go home. Why feel bad? The boys had been here all weekend. Dan’s boys. Your boys too, by default. If only Janet would give them up to him and Dan for the next few years, until they were safely through adolescence. Her life—especially her emotional life—was far too unstable to raise children. Alan, Hugh, and now Pete: the worst. He didn’t even have a job. Ran around on motorcycles, parachute jumping, drinking beer, in general acting like a seventeen-year-old himself. Was that any way to gain someone like Ken’s respect? They’d be better off here, even at the apartment on Central Park West. Anything was better than being with Pete. Or would their presence drive Jonathan and Dan apart, instead of bringing them closer?

Go home. Start working.

The day was settling around him with a soft pink glow as he stood up from the dock and began walking home. For the first time so far this summer, his sockless ankles were chilled. At home, he began to shut all the glass doors, and even a few windows, and checked the fireplace. More than enough logs. He hadn’t built a fire since the night of the storm. Stevie Locke. What did she want?

The cup of tea he brewed made him sleepy. Why was that? It had as much caffeine as coffee, which always woke him up. Perhaps it was associative. Whenever he was ill as a child, his mother would bring him big mugs of tea, laced with sugar and lemon, and he would soon go to sleep after drinking it. Had she laced something else into the tea? He also remembered her feeding him bowls of fluffy-looking creamed soups when he was sick: cream of mushroom, cream of celery. He wondered if he would feel sleepy if he ate a bowl of creamed soup. In some ways, childhood was better, wasn’t it? All but for the utter dependence a child had, or his parents insisted he have. Jonathan had always hated and rebelled against that dependence. He tried to instill that same rebellion in Dan’s boys.

He finally gave in to the drowsiness, and napped on the living room sofa. Awakened, more than two hours later, he felt out of time, off schedule, uncertain of what he really wanted to do. He turned on the radio, and quite by accident just managed to tune in the opening bars of Mozart’s autumnally beautiful last Piano Concerto in F. The originality and the subtlety of the interwoven piano and orchestra impressed him as Mozart’s work always did. But this time he began contemplating other, nonmusical matters: how at the time of this work, one of Mozart’s last, the composer was the same age as Jonathan now, at the end of his career, with so much behind him, operas, concerti by the dozen, string quartets, piano sonatas, choral works, symphonies. Of course he’d begun earlier. But that wasn’t the entire answer. Composing must have meant more to Mozart than
The Lady and the Falcon
meant to Jonathan, for him to have worked so indefatigably. Or had Mozart more energy—more will even? Was the current race of men really degenerate in the truest sense of the word?

Thinking of Mozart led him to want to listen to more of the composer’s music. He found a cassette of highlights from
The Marriage of Figaro,
and listened to the by now familiar but unendingly lovely arias, trios, and duets. When he came to
“Non sono pus,”
he immediately imagined Cherubino—Mozart’s mezzo-soprano as a love-struck boy—as Stevie Locke.

What was he going to do about her? It was becoming increasingly clear she was someone he would have to deal with. Already he felt some kind of tenuous presence linking her parents’ house to this one—a link that had never been there before, which must mean that they had already forged some kind of relationship.

After the aria was over, he stood up, and walked to the west window and looked out. She hadn’t returned to the city yet; two windows showed lights on in what he remembered to be the living room of the old, clapboard house. Hadn’t she said she would only remain out here a week?

That was disturbing. Perhaps he ought not jump to any conclusions, but simply look hard at the facts of the situation. She had come out here alone, she said, to work on various crises in her young life. Understandable. Objectively speaking—and who could be more objective than Jonathan, who would soon be auditioning scores of young girls for the role of Fiammetta?—Stevie Locke was beautiful: slender, lithe, with attractive and well-sized breasts, a waist you could put two hands around easily, a scrumptious ass, long golden legs, smooth, tight skin, lips that were designed for kissing and uttering soft pleas and obscenities, and… Large, gray eyes, slightly speckled with other colors. Her brother Jerry’s mischievous smile. Barry Meade would cream in his shorts just looking at Stevie. Marge would divorce Barry if she ever saw them together. That was fact number one. Objective. Indisputable.

That was fact. Now for the speculation. It seemed clear from what happened around the hot tub that Stevie Locke wanted him. Him, not her boyfriend Bill, not the two Halley boys she’d seen on the beach, in the surf. Him. But was that true? He would have to review the progress of events from the beginning to check it out. After all, it was still only speculation.

She’d arrived here at some unknown time. He’d first seen her on the beach. She’d waved and said something. Then nothing for a day and a half. The storm. She’d come in, and had tried to talk to him about her life. He hadn’t allowed that, but had let her stay over when she seemed ready to go to sleep at the fireplace. So far, no problem. The next morning she’d served him coffee. Had he been more awake then he might have noticed her behaving oddly. All he saw was that she was being rather quiet. Expected. And that he’d had to pull up his sheets. Then, later that day on the beach, he’d been friendly, gone over to her blanket.
That
was when she brought up the morning.
That
was when he first began to think she was flirting. Then the dinner invitation. The dinner, all very polite and easy, with the friendly little meaningless good night kiss—a kiss he would give to anyone after a pleasant dinner unless she had third-degree burns on her face, or some signs of syphilitic degeneration. Then Dan’s boys had come and they’d met her at the harbor. A nice, brief little talk before she’d turned off and gone to the beach for a swim. Why had she left so suddenly? He’d assumed they would walk home together. So had the kids; that’s why they’d run ahead. Nothing for another day or so, then she arrived to borrow the books, and had wanted to wash his back in the hot tub. Another friendly gesture, no? “Who washes you?” she’d asked, probably having seen him wash Ken. Why make so much of it?

But he had. He’d heard her voice, the low, oboelike quaver in her voice, almost a catch at every other word, as she’d asked him. He’d felt that presence in the small distance between them, and it had been a palpable thing—real sexual tension. The sudden touch of her hands on him, the dry heat of her skin, the eagerness of her fingers, the overwhelming feeling that something was going to happen if he didn’t get up and out of the tub immediately!

Right, Jonathan. She’d scared you. An eighteen-year-old girl had frightened big bad you with her probably unconscious desire, and slight horniness. Scared you, but turned you on too. Admit it.

What had he thought she’d do anyway, with the kids in the house, not far away, with him in the tub. Really! All she’d wanted was to wash him, as she said.

No. That wasn’t true. She wanted him.

Back to the facts. Daniel was being an absolute son of a bitch. He was in London, having a ball, really on air, fucking everything that moved, being bowed and scraped to professionally, having tea with royalty and getting off all his burdens on Jonathan. Again. He’d not even asked Jonathan to go with him to England. It had been only a two-week trip at first, true. But then it had become extended in advance to three weeks, then a month, and now after only a week look at what a mess their relationship was in. Damn. That was the betrayal, not his screwing around with some Elephant and Castle bike boy.

Fact: Jonathan was horny too. Yesterday evening he hadn’t even had to fantasize in order to get hard. It had just happened, like that. He hadn’t had sex since Dan had gone: hadn’t picked up anyone at the village bar-disco, as Dan had assumed he would, if only for hygienic purposes.

Once that fact too was admitted, Jonathan needed a drink. After a minute during which he considered alternatives—opening a book and trying to read, going back to his desk and the almost accusingly unfinished score—he sat down with the drink and went on.

Men and women had sex. It was that clear. Except, of course, when there were taboos: mothers and sons, fathers and daughters, sometimes aunts and nephews. Genetic stuff. Otherwise they had sex: period. They did so past social taboos all the time, past age differences, past color and size differences, and language barriers. None of these were any problem. Men and women had sex.

Jonathan, however, did not have sex with women—or at least hadn’t in several years, and then always unexpectedly: with his roommate’s sister at their shared, off-campus apartment, Ernie talking out loud in his sleep in the next room; with another girl, Yukio, on the beach one night near a campfire, among a group of other people their age, all of them off somewhere in the dunes; once too with Daniel and that black model Jonathan had always thought was a spectacularly good transvestite until that slightly druggy night.

What was that? Three times in his life? Nothing, compared to the number of men he’d bedded and been bedded by—before and even since he and Daniel began living together. And there was an essential difference in the two experiences, beyond the obvious ones. With the women, Jonathan had always been surprised by how suddenly, totally aroused he’d gotten, how passionate they’d been, and how vague, amorphous, somehow unfocused and primitive their activity had been together. He and Dan could make love for hours, playing each other’s bodies like the various dials and panels of a great synthesizer, up to and away from climaxes, expertly, rhythmically. With other men, the rhythms might be different—faster, more jarring for rougher sex; or slower, more exotic, sinuous and twisting; sometimes enlivened by sudden role switches and mind games. All his times with women seemed completely mindless, unsophisticated, mere wallowings in the dark, too quickly over for experimentation, for the intensity to build to a level where he could begin to really enjoy it.

Then there were the different emotional perspectives. Jonathan had a thousand ideas about men, fantasies, images, words spoken, glances given, that combined worked on him constantly whether he was aware of them or not. He seemed to hold few emotional correlatives about women. He couldn’t contemplate being hurt by a woman, for example, being in anguish over one, even a woman he might love: certainly not the way he could be distressed over something Daniel did. It wasn’t the Venus and Adonis myth but that of Gilgamesh and Enkiddu—the first written love story—that appeared to guide Jonathan’s fate in love. It seemed he had to battle another man: and to love him at the same time. Daniel was his eternal mystery—not Stevie Locke, or Janet Halpirn, who he believed he could usually understand as though their skulls were transparent—their thoughts written out fully in tiny neon lettering, impossible to misconstrue. Dan, even Barry Meade sometimes, would do something that would leave Jonathan in a cold sweat of misunderstanding, outraged and confused. That’s what goaded him, infuriated him, fascinated him: not Amadea being Amadea.

That being so, conclusions were in order. Refill on the Dewar’s, please.

Seeing Stevie would not be fulfilling because it would most likely
not
be knock-down physically orgiastic, which was what he really needed right now. For that he’d do better to take the seaplane to town tomorrow and park his act in the Tubs with the door open.

Seeing Stevie would also not be adequate compensation for what he saw more and more as Daniel’s disloyalty to him; that could only occur if the emotional content of a new affair were equal in intensity—if only temporarily—to their own relationship. An affair with someone’s houseboy out here, say. Some number he’d looked at guardedly all summer. If any were foolish enough to have allowed themselves to still be stuck out in Sea Mist this late.