Turning Idolater (25 page)

“I’m late,” he whispered in the dog’s ear. “I might
catch some hell.” Although he had never known Tee to pitchfork any
hell. Still, there was a disapproving stare occasionally tossed.
Philip knew it and had learned how to disarm it. Well, he had
better be about it now. He stretched, and then crossed
The Pink
Swallow’s
threshold.

While the hotel rooms were utilitarian, encouraging
visitors to flee to the beach,
The Pink Swallow’s
parlor was
a warm, velvety Victorian sitting room, much too hotly decorated
for the weather. Still, it invited guests in the morning cool to
lounge with a cup of Joe or a Sally Lunn from the Brit Pastry Shop
next door. It was not a noonday escape, however, and since the heat
lingered well into the evening hours, it was not the best place to
relax after dinner. Philip reached for the banister when he came
through the door, but only double-stepped up half the way when he
smelled a tangerine aroma that he knew well. He halted and retraced
his way into the parlor, where Thomas sat in a high backed chair,
his feet square on the
T’ien-tsin
rug.

“Tee. Is there anything wrong?”

“Nope.”

“I know I’m late. Sorry. Are we too late for the
play?”

“Nope. Change and we shall go.”

Thomas was already attired in a white shirt and
dress slacks. Philip was surprised at the absence of a tie, but he
suspected that was a concession to the heat. Philip crossed the
room, leaned over the chair and planted a kiss on Tee’s nose. He
then sat on his lap.

“Did you have a good time at the Tea Dance?”

Philip bounced on Tee’s knees. “You’ve been to one
Tea Dance, you’ve been to them all.”

“How many have you ever been to?”

“Well, not here.”

“Did you lose Sprakie?”

Philip kissed Tee again, and then plopped on the
couch. “You don’t lose Sprakie. Did you lose Flo?”

A hand raised from another high backed chair, a
chair that face away from the couch thereby hiding its occupant.
“Present,” Flo said.

“Oh. Sorry.”

“Go change,” Thomas said.

Philip sniffed his armpits. “I’ll be fine. I don’t
stink any worse than that fruit shit you took a bath in.”

Thomas frowned. “I think you should wear your new
satin blouse and those green flared slacks.”

Philip clicked his tongue. “Too hot. I’d ruin them.
I’m sure there will be plenty of
hoohoo
’s in beachwear. I’m
sure of it.”

Thomas raised his brow. “You are an expert, I can
see.”

Philip stood. “Well, I’m not sitting in a cramped
theatre, sweating my balls off. If you want me to dress up, I’ll
pass.”

“No. You can go as you are.”

“Well, thank you.”

Thomas frowned —
the frown
. Philip softened
and kissed him.

“You were drinking.”

Philip stiffened again. “Here comes the underage
drinking lecture.”

“No,” Thomas said. “It is just that . . . you
usually do not drink alone.”

“Well, if you wanna know, I picked up ten guys today
and fucked them all under the boardwalk. Take a number.”

“Liar,” Thomas said.

“Liar,” came the voice of Mr. Townsend.

Philip twitched. He could understand a jealous
outburst from Thomas, although this was the first, but he couldn’t
tolerate one-liners from Florian Townsend. He started toward the
back turned chair, but Thomas stood, blocking the way.

“Forgive me,” Thomas said. “I was out of line.”

“I think you were,” Philip said. “Nothing happened
at the Tea Dance. I hung around with Sprakie, and then spied an old
acquaintance from New York.”

“An old acquaintance?”

“A trick of the past,” Flo said.

“Shut-up, Flo,” Philip said. “It was just someone I
had met once before. We had a few drinks and a couple of
dances.”

“Dances?” Tee asked.

“It was a fucking Tea Dance.”

Suddenly, over the threshold came Sprakie — alone
and sour-pussed. He blinked at the company, obviously not expecting
them.

“Jesus Marie.”

“Jesus Marie,” Flo mocked.

“Is there a fucking echo in here?”

Philip moved Thomas toward the door. “We’re just on
our way to the play,” he said. “Did you wanna come?”

Sprakie rolled his eyes. “If I’m not the star, I’m
not likely to attend. You should know that by now. Where did you
ditch Green Shorts Guy?”

“Green Shorts Guy?” Thomas asked.

“The old acquaintance,” Philip said.

“He didn’t look so old to me,” Sprakie countered.
“You didn’t even introduce me.”

“You were busy.”

“Manners, manners. Did you get that
old
acquaintance’s
name at least?”

“It’s Dennis.”

“Dennis
what?”

Philip was suddenly tense. “What’s with the twenty
questions?” He turned to Thomas. “I’ll meet you outside.”

“We shall leave together.”

Sprakie waved his hands in their direction.
“Mismatched as always. What a collection of rags.”

Thomas grinned. “Well, Robert.” Sprakie smirked.
“You can stay here and keep Florian company. I think you have met
your match there.”

Sprakie’s jaw dropped. “I’d rather hump Old
Charlotte. Jesus Marie.” He turned — an angry pirouette and
cascaded over the threshold. Philip gave Thomas a feeble stare and
proceeded out, Thomas following — diminished resolve.

“Jesus Marie,” came the voice of Florian Townsend
from his clandestine seat. His voice was high pitched — bird like.
He also waved a backhand
goodbye
. If either Philip or Thomas
had lingered to see that hand, they would have witness it transform
into a one-fingered salute.

Sprakie stood beneath the potted fuchsia that draped
near the hammock. Dusk tinged the leaves gray, the red and white
flowers closing their eyes in slumber. He gazed after Philip. Old
Charlotte had left the premises, perhaps for the beach or to his
backyard kennel. A sense of abandonment reigned.

“Fool,” Sprakie muttered. “I told him not to get so
comfortable, because when the bough breaks . . .”

“Down will fall baby,” came Florian’s voice.

Sprakie jumped. “Jesus Marie. Do you always creep up
on people and scare the shit out of them?”

Florian shrugged. “Sorry if I spoiled your
reverie.”

“Well, don’t let me spoil yours.”

“I think we have the same thought on this
issue.”

“Issue? What issue?”

Flo leaned on the pillar, and then cracked his
knuckles. “As obnoxious as you are, I believe you are watching out
for your friend’s best interest.”

“Sweet talk from a grave digger. I’ve noticed your
interest also. What was Tdye to you, anyway?”

Florian heaved a sigh, his shoulders arching high —
higher than the shrug. “Thomas Dye has one of the finest minds to
my knowledge. Noble. Quick. Precise. We were a couple, you
know?”

“Could have fooled me, Jesus Marie.”

“What’s with that
Jesus Marie?
If you knew
how annoying that was, you’d keep it under wraps.”

Sprakie flung his hands over his head and stomped
his foot. “Jesus Marie. Jesus Marie. Jesus Marie.”

Flo grabbed his shoulders, forcing his arms down,
entrapping him. “I ought to pitch you off this porch.”

“Go ahead. See if I care.”

Flo pushed Sprakie away. “Damn you. I could put up
with your little friend if you weren’t always in the shadows.”

“Shadows? I’m a sunshine boy. You’re the dark spirit
here — lurking and lusting for something that has been over for
years . . . Jesus Marie.” He snapped his fingers just as Flo
approached for another shake. “Away with you,” Sprakie said. “Your
powers are no good here. Be careful that no one drops a house on
you
.”

Flo’s fist clenched. He turned aside. “This is
getting us nowhere.”

“Where did you think you were going? Between my
legs, Creepy man? Not for all the yen in China.”

“Japan.”

“Excuse me?”

“Yen comes from Japan, not China.”

Sprakie pouted. “You’re pathetic.”

Flo raised the back of his hand. “I’m not pathetic.
I’m threadbare. Philip is pathetic.”

“Can’t argue with you there. I mean, I’ve preached
up and down and back and forth about the day when the aged Mr. Dye
decides his cash flow needs adjusting.”

Florian turned, his grin wide, tinged with evil.
“Tee doesn’t support your friend. Philip has come into possession
of a rare book.”

“A book? How?”

“My uncle, who is as big a jack ass as you are, gave
it to him as payment for sexual favors.”

“And this book, you say, is valuable?”

“Enough to bankroll a credit line at Chase.”

Sprakie stumbled to the hammock and managed to
teeter at the edge. His mind spun. The one argument that could have
blasted Philip back to him was shattered. Although Philip had
hinted at his economic independence, Sprakie never real believed
it. However, now the ground swelled and a gulf opened.

“Sorry to burst your bubble,” Flo said.

“Well, good for him,” Sprakie said. “He can pay for
his own destruction, when it comes. He won’t need to crawl back to
me and beg for a space in my cubby.”

Florian studied Sprakie’s angst. Mr. Townsend seemed
to soften, not in physical features, but in his voice. “I fear that
your intention to dissolve this match is waning.”

“What can
I
do?”

“Tell him.”

“I’ve used every argument in the queen’s book of
romantic disasters to discourage him. Philip has romantic notions.
He gives Tdye every benefit of the doubt. There’s nothing more for
me to say. The time for chatter is over.”

“Tell him the truth.”

“Now there’s a laugh.” Sprakie was nervous. He gave
Flo a stubborn glance. He suddenly mistrusted this sinister man who
hovered over the hammock. “When you’re young, truth is whatever the
traffic bears and the moment holds. Can’t you remember that far
back?”

Flo stretched his hand out offering Sprakie a boost
out of the hammock. “Perhaps you should come with me.”

“You don’t give up, do you, Jesus Mar . . .”

“No, I don’t. Moreover, I don’t want your body. I
want your voice.”

“What would you have me say?”

“Come with me. I will show you the truth. I will
tell you what to say.”

Sprakie grasped Mr. Townsend’s hand allowing himself
to be pulled to his feet. “This had better be good.”

“It’s
Bright Darkness.
”

“
Bright
what?”

Florian ushered Sprakie across the threshold. “You
shall see. You shall hear, and then you can tell him.”

Sprakie had only one thought in mind:
Jesus
Marie
, but he dared not voice it.

The Provincetown Theatre was comparatively small. No
Belasco this. Not even a Shubert. Still, it accommodated
four-hundred comfortably and four-hundred and twenty-five in a
crunch; and it was crunch time, because this was the height of the
season and O’Neill played well in this town, even in these days of
Spam-a-lot
and
Mama Mia!
The stage was broad and
remarkably deep. It had been used perhaps for many years to mount
Desire Under the Elms
— Provincetown being a favorite haunt
of more than sandpipers and gulls. The set was shabby, but since it
was meant to depict an nineteenth century New England farmhouse —
two stories, it could have been swiped from the Vermont woods
intact. It even had a second floor stage, which Philip assumed
would be used to some effect — he didn’t know, having a paucity of
O’Neill in his experience. He
did
wonder why there was no
curtain.
Shouldn’t there be a curtain?
He almost asked
Thomas, but Tee had been fretting and such questions would stoke up
some antique explanation better flaunted on
Wikipedia
. So
Philip fidgeted with his
Playbill
, sifting through the
five-person cast and extras.

They sat in the third row, center. Both stage wings
were visible. A makeshift forest stood on both sides. A threadbare
fence, dilapidated, hinged a gate at the top of a
faux
path.
A porch was prominent, stage left, while the house was cut-away,
stage right to reveal a hearth room, or something like it. Philip
couldn’t see the details, as the place was dark while the house
lights were up.

“Shouldn’t they be starting?” Philip noted as if he
was a paragon of punctuality.

Thomas didn’t answer. He just glanced at his watch
and sniffed. Then, the lights dimmed and the stage glowed a phantom
blue. The audience’s murmuring, which had been hive-like, settled
into an occasional
Playbill
shuffle and a cough. Philip
expected that someone, perhaps Lars Hamilton himself, would march
center stage, announce the play, and plead with the audience to
silence their cell phones, but no such preamble occurred. Instead,
a young golden haired actor sauntered through the side woods and
pushed open the rickety gate. He stood before the house and looked
out to the audience.

“God,” he said, his voice sailing to the back rows.
“Purty.”

Philip choked. Suddenly, he was overcome with
memory. He thought he saw Max Gold there looking to the sky and
praising the Maker for His handiwork. And where was Max Gold now
but sewn into to that handiwork. Philip swallowed deeply, his
breath hitching. He looked to Thomas, who was enrapt upon the
stage.
How can he not see it?
Philip thought. Philip wanted
to leave. Then, he refocused his eyes on Eben Cabot, as that
character was named in the
Playbill
, and decided that the
actor didn’t resemble Max Gold in the least. It was that fucking
purty
line that did this. So Philip settled back, clutched
the program and tried to follow the drama.

It was a loveless play, to Philip’s mind. This
O’Neill feller had a dour quill, scrawling out scum buckets of hate
and venom. The language didn’t lilt like Melville’s did. The Cabot
brothers, when they assembled under the same sky and under the same
roof were a hateful crew. They disliked each other and each in turn
despised their father, Ephraim Cabot, who was played by the
incomparable Lars Hamilton, who trundled about the farm hacking and
spewing New England mutterings by the churn full. He had brought a
woman home — his new wife, a thousand years younger than himself,
to Philip’s reckoning. As the old man with the young maiden theme
spun across the proscenium, Philip became uncomfortable. Then, the
young Eben and the maiden, whose name was Abbie, fell in love — as
young people should do.