Turning Idolater (22 page)

Flo’s nostrils flared, but Sprakie didn’t wait for
the explosion. He would meet the whale watchers on the dock, and
then work his persuasion from there. He trotted down
The Pink
Swallow’s
stairs, stopping only to kiss Old Charlotte’s muzzle.
He pointed back at Florian.

“Bite him. He’s a bad, bad man.”

Old Charlotte arose, his claws scratching the
porch’s gray paint. He looked toward Mr. Townsend, who he could
only see as a monochrome figure. Yawning, the oldest citizen of
Provincetown retreated into the hotel parlor, relinquishing his
beloved sun for a stretch of peace and quiet.

“Wow,” Philip cried as the spume sprayed across his
face. His eyes lilted over the waves as the duet of flukes lifted
above the snowy crest of sea and tails — a regal duet between the
master and mistress of the sea. “Thank you, Tee. I would have never
thought I’d see such a sight. Never.”

“Oh, you’ve seen it before,” Thomas said. “In your
mind’s eye:

“
Crushed thirty feet upwards, the waters flashed
for an instant like heaps of fountains, then brokenly sank in a
shower of flakes, leaving the circling surface creamed like new
milk round the marble trunk of the whale.”

Philip turned, and then planted a kiss on Thomas’
lips. “Yes, I have, but here it’s more real.”

Thomas smiled. “Look ahead.”

The leviathan rolled onto its back, its flipper
shaking in the sun. His mate raced beside him spouting in harmony
as if upon a liquid stage, the curtain of the tide had fully drawn
for popular appreciation. Then, together they dove, their flukes
again entangling the breeze.

The vessel sang its song, a loud horn blown over the
prow as if to applaud along with the tourists.

“The gods smiled on you, Philip.”

“How so?”

“I have been on this boat every season without fail
and only five times have seen the critters come from the deep.”

“Really?”

“Shy, they are not.” Thomas draped his arm over
Philip’s shoulder as the prow aimed ashore now. “Cautious. I
believe that they have a memory of us that has passed in whale-song
for generations.
Beware the land shark
, it goes.”

Philip smiled. “I don’t blame them. The book tells
how we hunted and slaughtered them . . . and for what?”

“It was business. No more. No less. Their carcass
yields unimaginable wealth in oil and fragrance. They were the
energy source of their time.”

Philip looked to sea, his eyes squinting to spy the
whales again. However, the sea spread calm, lost within the boat’s
wake. He wanted to see them again. He knew he could read those
lustrous words that laced the pages with shimmering sound and
sense, but he wanted the vision now — and not the mind’s eye. He
sighed.
Perhaps, next year.
Tee had been a jolly navigator
for such things.

“I wish they hadn’t gone.”

“Do you mean those whales of old — the potted and
boiled blubber fests that lured the whalers to their
enterprise?”

“No. I mean these whales. They were a sight to
see.”

Thomas chuckled. “Now there is a sight to see.”

Philip squinted again thinking that the great
creatures were cresting again. However, Thomas turned him about and
directed his attention to the nearing wharf. Philip scanned the
landfall — the rocky shore, the ramble of gables and turrets, and
the over lording high tower. He couldn’t imagine that any of these
could trump the sight he had just seen. Suddenly, he spotted what
appeared to be a naked youth jumping and waving to the boat.

“Is that . . .”

It was. It was Sprakie, and not naked, but nearly
so, hootin’ and hollerin’, scaring the gulls from the trash
barrels. Philip grinned. He was glad to see Sprakie in such good
spirits. It had been a haul since the
manluv
murder to get
the Sprakmeister back into the groove.

“Lahaina Roads,” Thomas said.

“Where’s that?”

“In Hawaii. When the ships approached Lahaina Roads,
the female villagers would welcome the whalers with flowers and
hoots and open legs. I think if Sprakie could do it, he would
spring into the soup and dazzle us with lays.”

“Potato Chips?”

Thomas laughed, and then squeezed Philip’s shoulders
just as the craft approached the wharf’s outer margin.

“Hello, sailors,” Sprakie yelled, waving his hand
and butt to the arriving boat.

Although this greeting was meant for Tee and Philip,
there was more than one sailor aboard willing to return the
greeting. There were also some fascinated tourists off course from
that famous Trollop tour. They showed a host of reactions, from
covering the childrens’ eyes to presenting upturned and
Presbyterian noses, as if the clam beds didn’t stink enough.

Philip bolted down the gangplank. “You’re a sight.
You’ll burn to a crisp.”

“My skin may be as soft as Elijah Wood’s ass, but
it’s as tough as Leona Helmsley’s heart.” Sprakie did a little spin
followed by a gracious bow — that to Thomas. “So you’ve been to the
sea in ships. Did you find Charlie the Tuna?”

“No,” Philip said, grabbing Sprakie’s arm and
walking him along the wharf toward Commercial Street. “I got to see
whales. Real whales. Big whales. Two of them, and they raised their
tails out of the water and did a dance . . . just for me. It was
spectacular. I can’t remember seeing anything so wonderful in all
my life.”

Sprakie stop short. His joy had evaporated. He
stared at Thomas — more an accusation than an affront. He clicked
his tongue. “More wonderful than that guy we spied at
Splash
. You know the one.” He juggled his hands to his
crotch. “The one with the big gun and hefty cannonballs.”

Philip smiled. “This was different. I can see guns
and cannonballs in the mirror. I can spy dozens of cute asses on
any street in New York . . . but the whales.”

“It was a special moment, Sprakie,” Thomas
intervened.

“You don’t say.” He cocked his head at Philip — a
mother hen assessing her chick. “Well, I’m a landlubber and prefer
my whales in a whole different sort of blow. Speaking of which, Mr.
Dye, could you spare Philip for the rest of the afternoon?”

“Some place special?”

Philip gazed toward the wharf. A sea gull was
perched on a pylon. It twitched at him as if to invite him to fly
away. Philip sighed.

“We have plans, Sprakie,” he said. “The
theater.”

“
Desire Under the Elms
,” Thomas said.
“However, the curtain rises at seven-thirty, Philip. You can go
play with Sprakie. I can get some work done.”

Sprakie grabbed Thomas’ arm. “Wonderful. I know
Philip wants to go to the Tea Dance at
The Boatslip
. Who
doesn’t?”

“Who, indeed,” Thomas quipped.

“
The Boatslip,
” Philip said, his mind
shifting from the waves to the
thumpa-thumpa
of a good
afternoon of hot dancing surrounded by a different kind of sea.
“That would be great, but I still need to change.”

“Change then,” Sprakie said. “I’m going as I am. Get
into your thong.”

Thomas cleared his throat. “Maybe those khaki shorts
and the red Izod shirt.”

Philip grinned. He did go shopping before he left
New York and with every occasion in mind.

Sprakie waved his hand at Thomas. “You’re dressed
like the professor on Gilligan’s Island, so don’t tell Philip what
to wear. When it comes to clubbing and outdoor frolicking, I’m the
expert. You go to your computer and that creepy agent. Leave the
attire to me.”

Sprakie marched Philip toward Commercial Street.
However, this was a short trek, because the Flaxen One halted,
planting his feet firmly — a bucking bronco couldn’t have done it
better. He drifted back to Thomas.

“I can dress myself,” he said. “I’ve been doing it
since I was this high. I’ll wear what I please.” This was as much
for Thomas as it was for Sprakie. Thomas grimaced. “Are you sure
you don’t mind me going to the Tea Dance?”

“No. And I do not want to dress you. I was just
offering a suggestion.”

Philip gave Tee a kiss on the cheek. “I know.” He
took Thomas’ hand. “We’ll go back to the hotel together.” He
reached out for Sprakie. “The three of us. We’ll be a mixed bag of
nuts for the tourists.”

Sprakie rolled his eyes, but appeared to come to
terms with the conditions. Desperation.

The stroll of these three
did
turn heads.
Actually, Sprakie turned the heads, but Philip’s good looks
commanded their share of attention. Thomas beamed like the proud
master of two fine leopards, as that would have been the assumption
in this town. As they promenaded past the restaurants, Philip kept
an eye on the lobster bake specials for the evening. Thomas had
trained him to find the best price. It was like shopping for gas —
pennies buying the difference. Sprakie also window-shopped —
jewelry, leather gear, sunglasses (he had some collection) and
men.

They stopped at the Monster shop (obligatory), not
only for its unabashed collection of porn magazines and DVDs, but
to gawk at the building’s garish outside. It had more graffiti than
a tattooed lady in a sideshow. From its gables showered a
collection of gallows folk, each distorted in death throes. Dungeon
paraphernalia, swastikas and a spray paint of ghoulies blanketed
the walls. It didn’t blend well with the neighboring shops, a suite
of prim New England Victorians that sold artwork and Native
American Silver.

Philip scanned the façade. He wasn’t into leather or
S&M and felt that the graffiti was the Sistine Chapel for such
temperaments. He stared at a witch painted apple green, with a
swollen belly and only two teeth — one each, upper and lower. The
customary broomstick was shoved between her legs, or perhaps up her
ass, if one had a notion. He found it repulsive. It was odd that he
should be in this outdoor gallery of gargoyle frescos after
witnessing the most serene sight of his life. It heightened both in
his sensibility.

“Exquisite,” Sprakie said.

“She’s awful looking,” Philip responded. Then he
noticed that Sprakie gazed up at the gallows collection.

“See how they swing,” Sprakie mused. “I find these
paintings exquisite. It captures the moment.”

“A nightmare,” Thomas said.

“I would think you would appreciate the irony of the
thing,” Sprakie said. “They are being punished, and unlike other
punishments, their rotten lives are being squeezed out by inches.”
His eyes opened wide. “The weight of their life is killing them.
Isn’t that imaginative, Mr. Dye? Just the thing you would expect to
read in a good mystery novel. Eh? Not a nightmare.”

Thomas grinned. “No. A nightmare. The fellow who
owns this place, and by the way, painted all this shit, had a
nightmare. He decided to share it with the world.”

“Some things are best left under the pillow,” Philip
said. “This place gives me the creeps.”

“Pity,” Sprakie said. “In all P’Town, this is my
favorite spot.”

Philip pulled Sprakie away from the door and down
the short flight of stairs. “I thought we were headed for
The
Boatslip
?”

“Another favorite spot,” Thomas said.

“I should say,” Sprakie said, glancing to the
gables.

“I prefer the Barbie House.” Thomas referred to the
Cape Cod down at the East End that had nothing less than a hundred
Barbie and Ken dolls landscaped into its garden — sunbathing
Barbie; water skiing Ken; a Barbie-que; a disco beach party. A
Barbie and Ken volleyball game. Barbie at sea. Ken to the rescue.
“Now, that is imagination.”

“You would fancy such things, professor,” Sprakie
said. “And they call me queenie.”

They continued their slow progression toward
The
Pink Swallow
, past
The Atlantic House, The Crown and
Anchor
and
The Spiritus
, a pizza parlor that became an
infamous meat market after midnight.
The White Swan
, now
sans
old queens, was in the distance as they approached the
hotel.

“Jesus Marie,” Sprakie said.

Florian Townsend stood sentinel on
The Pink
Swallow’s
porch. His sneer was as effective as any
lighthouse.

“I wish you two could get along,” Thomas said.

Sprakie shivered. “He’s like something from the
Munsters.”

“But I thought you liked that sort of thing,” Thomas
said. “All that gallows graffiti, I mean.”

Sprakie turned, his hands on his hips. “Those were
portraits of the living at the point of death. They’ll be suspended
between the worlds forever. Mr. Creepyman has already made it to
the morgue and walks among us.” He imitated a zombie’s walk.

“Stop it, Sprakie,” Philip said. He still laughed.
Flo was an acquired taste — like cod liver oil, nasty with every
spoonful. Still, Philip tried his best to keep the peace. He knew
that Flo disapproved of him and never neglected an opportunity to
whisper anti-Philip comments in Thomas’ ear, even when that whisper
was a gravelly roar that Philip was meant to hear. Still, for Tee’s
sake, Philip kept the peace. Sprakie should try also.

Flo descended. “I have some papers, Tee.”

“You always have some papers,” Thomas said. “I am on
vacation.”

“Looks that way,” Flo said.

“Well, you shall be glad to know that I will work
for the next few hours.” Thomas clasped his hands together. “I was
inspired by the sea air and, would you believe it, the whales
showed up — two of them. I swear, my prayers were answered. I
wanted Philip to get the full treatment, and two showed up. A
ballet in the waves.” He grasped Philip’s shoulder, pulling him
unto his breast.

“
Like noiseless nautilus shells, their light
prows sped through the sea; but only slowly they neared the foe. As
they neared him, the ocean grew still more smooth; seemed drawing a
carpet over its waves; seemed a noon-meadow, so serenely it spread.
At length the breathless hunter came so nigh his seemingly
unsuspecting prey, that his entire dazzling hump was distinctly
visible, sliding along the sea as if an isolated thing, and
continually set in a revolving ring of finest, fleecy, greenish
foam.”