Three-Martini Lunch (39 page)

66

R
usty and I were in my dump of an apartment, singing drunken medleys to each other. We were celebrating my book deal. The sun had just gone down and an eerie glow was radiating through the window like an atom bomb. Once the simile came to me it bothered me something awful, so I got up to turn on the overhead light to break up the violet light of the glow. No sooner had my finger left the switch than I heard a loud noise at the door and a man came crashing into the room. It was a tall Negro man and at first I thought we were being burgled but then I made out the familiar shape of Miles.

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” I hollered, and waved my arms.

“You dirty son of a bitch,” he spat at me, and when I saw the look on his face I knew somehow he had found out the truth of everything. Ordinarily Miles was the type of guy who looked civilized in every situation, with his glasses and posture and polite manners, but his entire being had shifted now and a deep guttural roar started somewhere in his throat. I
knew he was going to lunge at me and I considered various evasive maneuvers. Rusty was still on the ground over by the mattress and he sat up and crawled farther into the corner and I could see if I decided to take Miles on I would have to do it on my own. When he had slipped someone Amytal, Rusty was very brave and keen to get in on the action, but when he hadn't he was much more the spectating type.

“YOU SON OF A BITCH THIEF!” Miles roared, and came at me with everything he had. Any other time, I would've laid him out flat, hey. But I was exceptionally drunk that night, and besides, I more or less understood why the guy was angry and even though I didn't sympathize, I figured maybe it was best to let an angry guy get it out of his system. Let him get in a few licks and send him on his way. I felt Miles's hands grip my shoulders and drag me to the ground and soon enough he'd thrown a punch and caught me square in the left eye. I scrambled away and he caught me again and I scrambled away again.

“Truce! Truce!” I yelled, because now I was really worried Miles had lost it and might truly injure me if he didn't regain some sense. He stopped hitting me but pinned me all the same, until I was lying face-up on the floor and he was on top of me with his forearm bracing my chest and throat.

“Who the hell do you think you are?”
he yelled, sweat and tears and spit dripping off of him and onto my face. “You have no right.”

I could just make out Rusty in the corner looking on.

“If you think I'll be quiet about this, you've got another thing coming,” Miles warned. “You may have my composition book, but I have my father's journal, and it doesn't lie. All those stories—his life! What do you think, Cliff, you think everyone is going to believe it's a coincidence?” he said in a bitter, mocking voice.

All at once an idea occurred to me and it was like the time I was fighting with Eden and I suddenly knew if I really wanted to shut her up what
I ought to say. I wasn't proud of that fight I'd had with her but my tactics had proved effective and anyway Miles was hardly Eden. I didn't owe Miles anything.

“Say, Rusty,” I called from the floor where Miles had me pinned. “What'd you say was the name of that fella Miles was running around with last night?”

This startled Miles. Freshly alert, he turned his head to look over at Rusty, and Rusty looked at us with that smirk of his and got a glint in his eye because he knew exactly where this was going. He opened his mouth to respond but before he did Miles cut him off and this meant Rusty and I had him on the hook.

“See, we know a few things about you, Miles. About you and your friend,” I said.

“You don't know what you're talking about,” Miles said. But as he said it, Miles's body went all stiff and I knew I'd hit the jackpot. “He's nobody,” he said.

“You weren't looking at him like he was nobody, Miles,” I said. He let up on the pressure of his forearm across my chest and I squirmed away and sat up. I was still drunk but I had started to sober up and as I looked around the room the walls had stopped spinning and Miles's face came into focus.

I stared at old Miles, watching him shake now that I had called his bluff. “Rusty here says your friend works for the State Department,” I continued. “Lots of
you boys
work for the State Department, don't ya? Seems like every time I pick up a paper, I read about them kicking out yet another homosexual commie.”

I paused for emphasis. I wanted to make sure Miles heard my next point loud and clear.

“Sure would be a shame if someone were to make a phone call and report your friend—what was his name again?” I turned to Rusty. “You remember the fella's name, don't you?”

Miles's face went slack. He took his hands off me as though my skin were hot and burned him, and in that moment I believe we both realized he was defeated. He stood up, looked around the room, and took a few staggering steps, first towards the window, then away. Finally, without another word, he went out the apartment door.

“You don't really plan on making that telephone call, do you?” Rusty asked after Miles had gone. Rusty was clearly delighted with the situation.

“Of course not,” I said. “I only meant to put old Miles in his place.”

“Say, what did he mean?” Rusty asked with that sly expression on his face. “What did he mean with that business about you being a thief?”

67

T
hat's when things turned ugly. Looking back on things now, I realize I was carrying around something combustible in me, only there was no way to know it at the time; I was too blinded by wild-eyed fear. A bitter winter had settled into the cold concrete bones of New York, and suddenly it felt as though the dark clouds overhead were laced with constant threat.

“What happened to your cheek?” Joey asked the next time he saw me.

I knew I had a cut there, a souvenir from my confrontation at Cliff's apartment. I had put a Band-Aid over it, hoping to pass it off as a shaving accident, but when I told Joey this lie his mouth twitched.

“Awfully high up,” he commented, as the cut was on my cheekbone just under my eye, nowhere near my beard line.

“Cob bumped me,” I said.

Joey did not press further. We had plenty to do that day, as we were moving our things to a new hotel. No sooner had Joey checked in and called me over than he became convinced we should check out and leave. This was a defensive measure: The clerk at our regular hotel had begun to
eye us with suspicion. We knew it was impossible to go completely unnoticed, but there was generally a comfort in the apathetic dispositions of New Yorkers, who noticed but more often than not decided it was none of their business. The clerk had seemed reassuringly indifferent to us the first few times we'd stayed at the hotel, but over the course of our visits his demeanor had somehow soured, and now he was distinctly unfriendly and full of snide insinuations and veiled threats. It was only a matter of time, we both felt, until the clerk began dropping hints to the police.

To me, it felt like danger was suddenly all around us, ready to pounce from all sides, but of course Joey couldn't know why I felt this way. I hadn't uttered a word to Joey about losing my composition book, hadn't told him about my confrontation with Cliff, or that Joey and his job at the State Department had been the main target of Cliff's threats. I would like to be able to say I kept this information from Joey to protect him, but that wouldn't be truthful. The truth was I felt too angry, too short-changed, and too powerless to put any of this into words.

“I don't understand,” I said now. I could hear the anger in my own voice, but I could do nothing to stop it. “Why did you bother to check in if you had a bad feeling about the clerk in the first place?”

“I don't know, Miles,” Joey said, tired. “I didn't think it was as bad as it is but you should've seen him just now. He was either on a telephone call or pretending to be, going on about reporting a guest to the police. He was looking at me over the desk the whole time he was talking.”

“You ought to have changed hotels a few visits ago, Joey. You're reckless and pigheaded.”

Joey snapped to attention at my impatience. I was being irritable and nasty; I couldn't help it. I was frustrated with the whole situation, which in my mind was somehow linked to the injustice of Cliff stealing what amounted to my father's life story. Inexplicably, I decided to take my anger out on the person for whom I felt the most passionate feelings.

We went downstairs to check out. I agreed to wait outside on the
street, so as not to raise the clerk's ire any further. After a few minutes Joey came hustling out.

“Made me pay in full for tonight. Knew I wouldn't argue. You should've seen him,” Joey said. “I don't think I've ever seen anyone look so smug.”

“Let's hurry,” I said.

We took a taxi across town, farther west, nearer to the docks, where the hotels grew incrementally seedier every block you drew nearer to the Hudson. These were the hotels that played host to temporary “assignations,” as they were often dubbed by law enforcement and courts. The hotel where we finally stopped was not so bad as all that, but I was ready to complain about anything and everything.

“If these hotels get any seedier, next thing you know, we'll be sleeping in the Brooklyn Navy Yard,” I said, referring to the notorious homosexual haunt as we stepped onto the curb.

“What's that supposed to mean?” Joey replied.

Ah,
I thought,
so now you've grown a spine and are going to fight back, are you?
“It means I have the feeling you've been through all this before.”

Joey's mouth dropped open. He didn't reply.

“Don't tell me you don't already know where to find the YMCA in Washington, or that you haven't learned which hotels specialize in
discretion
. I'm surprised we're not lousy with bedbugs already.”

“Why are you like this, Miles?” Joey asked in a quiet voice. “That cut . . . did someone beat you up? Were you jumped?”

“I told you,” I said. “Shaving accident.”

I could tell he thought I'd been attacked, that he was sorry for me, even worried. All at once, it broke my heart to read the intensity of concern inscribed in his face.

“Fine,” he said, sighing and avoiding a bigger argument. He turned towards the hotel entrance. “Let me go first. I'll check us in, then you can follow.”

Joey checked in, and we found our way upstairs to our room without incident. We set down our suitcases and lay down on the bed, not touching, both of us mentally exhausted. Minutes ticked by. The faucet in the bathroom sink was suffering from a minor but noticeable leak. We stared up at the ceiling and listened.

I reached for him first. I don't know why I did it; perhaps to get things over with. There was a certain gravity about our bodies coming together, just as there had been that first time on the houseboat, only this time it was much darker and more terrible and rote. We were rough, not tender. It was mechanical, and as we went through the motions I felt those first poisonous drops of hate mixed into our love.

When it was over, we wound up lying on our sides with our backs to each other. I waited for sleep to come, feeling the great and burdensome expense of Joey. He was—I was irrationally convinced—the reason I'd lost my composition book, or, at the very least, the number one obstacle that prevented me from getting it back. It galled me to think of what Cliff might've done with it and how he was going to stamp his name on it as if it had always been his. A tremor of true hate passed through me. Unable to direct it at Cliff, I directed it at the man lying next to me. Just before I fell unconscious, Joey rolled over and slipped his arm around me, pulling me close again.

It was as if he could feel the tide turning.

I
called Joey at home the following Thursday and canceled our plans to see each other the next weekend.

“Something wrong?” he asked.

“I wish you would stop asking that.”

“I wish I would stop feeling like I ought to.” He sighed. “C'mon. It was one bad weekend; let it pass. You promised you wouldn't do this to me again.”

“I'm not. It's just . . . we don't have to see each other
every
weekend, Joey,” I said. “I've got a life to live. I'm sure you do, too.”

“What's that supposed to mean?”

“I haven't been paying much attention to Janet. This isn't fair to her.”

He laughed. “This isn't fair to anyone,” he said. “But it's the world we live in.”

“I've got plans to be with her this weekend,” I said. I knew this was a knife of sorts. I felt it pierce his skin, but instead of pulling it back, I
decided to push it in further. “Janet and I have things to discuss. We'll be looking for an apartment of our own soon.”

“Miles . . .”

“I'm sure you'll find someone else to amuse you this weekend—and other weekends, too, perhaps.”

“Is that really what you think of me?” he asked.

“I don't know,” I said, and sighed. “Look, I'm sorry.” I
was
sorry, but the truth was, ever since Cliff had made his threat, I had grown frightened for—and intolerant of—Joey. Where I had once smiled pleasantly, now I squirmed whenever I thought of him, and felt my throat constrict. “I'd better go before my mother comes in and asks me who I'm talking to.”

He was quiet for a long moment, and I was tempted to hang up the phone.

“Do you love her?” he finally said.

“Who?”

“This silly girl of yours. Janet.”

I hesitated. “I don't know,” I said finally.

“Do you love me?”

The line was silent for several seconds. “I don't know,” I repeated. It was the truth, I realized. Joey's only response was to hang up.

•   •   •

I
t is clear to me now that what I did next I did out of fear and a desperate desire to distance myself from Joey, though I wouldn't have acknowledged this simple truth at the time.

I was out with Janet one evening when I impulsively reached for her hand and said, “Let's get a room.” We were walking through the park, and as the sun was setting it was clear we were both chilled to the bone and would need to go somewhere to warm up. I couldn't stand the thought of another diner with bad lighting, sitting across from Janet and making small talk.

Janet looked at me now, vaguely alarmed to be so easily offered the one thing she had requested for so long. “Let's get a nice one,” I continued. “I've been saving up some money for our apartment, but we've done enough waiting.”

“All right,” she agreed. I could hear the nerves in her voice. She had wanted us to be together, but now that it was truly happening she was anxious, timid to follow through on her offer. We were at the south end of the park, and we left the park to stroll the streets nearby, looking for a hotel that felt right.

“How about this one?” I said. It was an old historical hotel, small—nothing so grand as the Pierre or the Plaza—but with a dignified entrance and plush red carpet leading to a revolving door.

Once inside, we garnered some looks from the reception staff. It was not likely they received many colored couples for guests. They frowned but said nothing. I paid the deposit, and soon enough we were signing the hotel register. Janet's hand was shaking, I noticed, as she scrawled the unfamiliar combination of words
Janet Tillman
, next to the line where I had written
Miles Tillman
. A bellhop came over to take our luggage to the room, and there was some embarrassment when we admitted we didn't have any, for our sole purpose in taking the room was revealed. The clerk behind the desk gave a disapproving
tsk
, and I waited for him to throw us out or remind us they weren't the sort of establishment that rented rooms by the hour, but he let it go. Without the bellhop to show us, we took the elevator up three flights and found our way to the room on our own, which was just as well, for we were both growing increasingly nervous.

I fumbled with the key in the door, and Janet tripped ever so slightly over the threshold. The room looked out into an air shaft—I felt certain the clerk had assigned us this room on purpose—but it was well furnished, the walls and the upholstery an elegant buttery-yellow color. I switched on a few lamps; then, remembering why we had come, I switched all of them off again, save one. Once Janet and I had taken our coats off, we
stood there a moment, not knowing quite where to begin. The tension between us was excruciating.

“Let's just hold each other awhile,” Janet suggested.

“Is that what you would like?” I asked stupidly.

“It would help.”

We lay down on the bed together, and I took Janet into my arms. Her body, I realized, was completely unfamiliar to me; our petting in the park had done nothing to help me memorize the ridges and curves one might expect a fiancé to know by heart. She was a thin woman, but as I touched her now, she seemed strangely soft and doughy, and I felt slightly nauseated. Several minutes passed. I was anxious to get things over with and began to run my hands more aggressively over Janet's body, feeling under her shirt and toying with buttons. She warmed to me shyly at first, and began doing the same, until she was in the lead and I was nearly undressed. I reached over to the nightstand to click off the light of the remaining lamp, and our bodies became shadow shapes in the dark, moving and writhing as we labored. Janet winced a bit when we finally began in earnest, and I felt all the more sorry for her, and all the more responsibility to uphold my end of the deal. Our undertaking was a task, I realized, one at which I could not afford to fail. I understood I possessed some monstrous component within my personality to do this to Janet, to treat her so; but we were moving forward now, and forward was the only direction I wanted to go. I wanted to move out onto the horizon, far past Joey, and leave him behind.

Janet began to moan softly, and I began to sweat, thwarted by the sound. I felt as though I were climbing a mountain that was forever getting taller.

•   •   •

A
fterwards, when it was over, we lay side-by-side for the better part of an hour, our sticky skin cooling. We both knew Janet had to go home to her
aunt and uncle's apartment, or else telephone and make some excuse they weren't likely to believe. She got up to put her clothes on, and I got up to follow her, assuming I would escort her home.

“That's all right,” Janet said, stopping me. “You ought to stay and enjoy the room. It cost a lot. And, well, I'd like to be alone. I feel . . . different.”

My heart convulsed. “About me?” I asked.

“No, no,” she reassured me. “Just different in the way a girl feels after.”

I hadn't given Janet's virginity much thought, but now it was clear she had, and she was presently experiencing all the feelings of farewell and nostalgia that came with it.

“Are you sure you don't want me to take you home?”

“I'm sure.”

I walked her to the door.

“Thank you, Miles,” she said. I felt terrible she was thanking me, and said nothing. But then she smiled with the pleased air of a smug child, and I realized part of her felt as though she had finally won some sort of battle; that, self-sacrificial as she was, she was also claiming victory for herself.

“I love you,” she told me, and kissed me good night.

Alone in the room, I felt more monstrous than ever. I switched on the lamps and looked around, wondering what to do with myself. I found a small spot of blood in the sheets, and it occurred to me that a great act of violence had just taken place.

I thought about Joey and wondered what he was doing. He would've enjoyed the room I was in now, and suddenly I was sorry he wasn't there with me, sleeping next to me through the night. I picked up the telephone receiver from its cradle but thought better of it, and set it back down.