Now and Yesterday (31 page)

“You've done a ton of important work, Jonathan,” said Peter. “It'll certainly stand the test of time.”

“Maybe,” said Jonathan. “And I do feel proud that I am getting so much into this film, even if it isn't
everything else I have to say
. I mean, I think it's good and honest. . . .” There was a pause, during which neither of them said anything, then Jonathan continued. “At least I am getting to do this house stuff myself. It's giving me a chance to go through everything thoughtfully, reverently, advisedly—how does that go . . . ?”

“Mmm,” said Peter.

“The Anglican wedding ceremony,” continued Jonathan, rallying a bit more energy. “Anyway, it's odd, because I find myself doing it as carefully as Connor and I are doing the film. Suddenly, everything needs to be done right. God, how many times in the eighties, Petey, did we come across some dead queen's belongings being tossed out into the street by the family? Stuff they didn't even know was valuable: books, clothes, records, invitations to the great parties—historical stuff, remember? Once—I think it was on Bank Street—we literally saw treasure being thrown out the window: this pile of glittery headdresses, like from the Peking Opera. Roberto shouted up, ‘Stop! We'll come up and take it away!' A collection some queen had been accumulating for years. . . .”

Peter said nothing.

“I dunno. I've had a good life. I've had some love. I can't complain. I certainly don't feel like a failure, only . . . I think I
shall
fail to stick around for the holidays this year. . . .”

Silence. Then, from the other end of the line, a sound that Jonathan realized was sobbing.

“Peter, are you crying? I'm sorry.”

“No, no . . .”

“Poor thing! I'm so sorry. I didn't mean to get you upset.”

“It's OK, Jon, really. Anything you wanna talk about or not talk about is fine with me.”

“Well, thank you, darling, but please.”

“And here I am, in the office,” said Peter, blowing his nose.

“Look, maybe we can cry our brains out some other time, OK? I just don't know if I'm up to it today.”

“Sure, sure.”

“Maybe this weekend,” said Jonathan slyly, as if he were talking about a jaunt to the bakery in Hudson that sold Peter's favorite cheese sticks.

Peter laughed.

“Won't that be fun,” he said.

“And poor Aldebar!” said Jonathan, sounding a bit more like his old self. “He never knows what to expect. No matter what I do, he's such a saint. Let's carry on like normal! Let's break down and go to pieces! You know, Peter, he has experience with the dying.” Jonathan whispered the last bit, as if it were a secret revelation.

“Oh?”

“I didn't know this before,” said Jonathan. “There are blessings and there are blessings.”

Peter wasn't quite sure what this meant, but reassured his friend again that he'd be there for him, no matter what.

“Oh, wait, hold on . . . ,” said Jonathan.

Aldebar was showing out the team from Christie's, the head of which stopped to exchange a few words with Jonathan. She was dressed in a gray suit, her white hair in an elegant chignon. “Highly important . . . the market is strong . . . especially the smaller of the black raku bowls. . . .” In the fading light, the woman stood in front of Jonathan's chair, holding his hand gently as they spoke, their handshake turning into something like the clasp between a guru and a devotee in a darshan line.

“I'm back,” he said, after the team had left.

“Everything OK?” said Peter.

“You should see this place—it's totally empty. The paint job still looks fresh.”

Peter was uptown, sitting at his desk on Madison Avenue, looking absently through his office's window into the atrium, as they spoke. A twenty-foot-tall inflatable sculpture of a rat with a crown commanded the space—the latest in the series of art projects installed there, this one by a well-known street artist from the U.K. On Peter's desk were a mug of tea and some deli napkins from the stash Peter kept in the drawer, several of which had been crumpled in his attempt to contain the bawling.

“That persimmon color is so pretty,” he said.

“So you guys are driving?”

“Yup.”

“Renting a car?”

“Yeah—and you wanna hear something funny? I had reserved a car—a nice one, like I always do—and then he says how much fun it would be to have a van. ‘In case we find some antiques.' ”

“I think that's a very smart idea.”

“A van, Jonathan! Vans aren't very comfortable.”

“Oh . . .”

“They're noisy and rattle-y.”

“Today's new vans are much nicer.”

“Ugh.”

“But you agreed?”

“Of course.”

“You'll be fine. You sit higher on the road, you know—much better visibility.”

“Like you know about driving a van.”

“I drove one in college. I delivered pizza.”

Peter snorted. “I'll see ya Friday, Jon-o,” he said. “We're leaving at eight, so expect us before lunch.”

“Drive safely.”

As he got off the call, Peter noticed that a text had arrived from McCaw.
Call me.

Christ
. The man had been requiring more and more face time with Peter, even as their teams continued to work together.

I need ten minutes of your time, good friend.

Fuck you, good friend,
thought Peter. He had so much on his mind, besides work! And now McCaw, who deserved the certain amount of stroking due any important client, was beginning to make Peter feel captive, with constant consultations about image and messaging. How did the man even have time for this? The conversations were always engaging, but Peter chafed at the evangelical ardor that ran through McCaw like a current, which had begun to feel personal between them—as if McCaw expected the two of them to become best buddies as a result of their work together. And now that McCaw had begun spending more time in New York, with his wife at her family home on the East Side, there had been social invitations—opportunities to get closer that Peter, reluctant to get too chummy with a man his friends still thought dangerous, had so far managed to avoid.

Does 3 work?
McCaw wrote. It was a command, and Peter saw that the hour had nearly arrived. Resignedly, he cleared the crumpled napkins from his desk, opened his laptop, and scrolled down his Skype contact list to the M's.

H
appily for Peter, the chat only lasted a few minutes. McCaw was always prepared with a precise question and quite disciplined about staying focused on it. This time, it was about his upcoming interview with Katie Couric: What should he wear? They settled on a blue blazer and white shirt, with no tie or little American flag pin, but McCaw had been thinking about a cardigan, for a “relaxed” look. Peter advised against.

“What do you mean, ‘It won't play'?” said McCaw.

“I mean it'll baffle people.”

“People know what a cardigan is.”

“That's not what I'm saying. You don't really wear cardigans, do you?”

“Well . . . no.”

“So you're trying to make some kind of
Father Knows Best
statement. But the very attempt would function as a solvent to your credibility. . . .”

“A plain cardigan?”

“Look at the reality. You're strategizing about wearing one; you're consulting me about wearing it. You're probably going to send somebody out to pull a bunch of them for you.”

McCaw snorted.

“Hendy, I know you want to sit there with Couric, all cozy and dad-like,” said Peter, “but I guarantee you, the
formulation
is what will come across.”

“Despite my words?”

“It's a costume. People will see that. TV's funny that way.”

“Huh.”

“It would create one of those subtle disconnects that people aren't even really aware of. But put two or three of 'em in a row, all acting subliminally, and
bang:
The words don't matter.”

“OK, then.”

“Tell people what you want them to know, absolutely. But play the subliminals, too. Just as much happens on that level. Ignore it at your peril.”

McCaw paused to process the information. Then he said: “Once more, I see why you get the big bucks.”

Peter laughed. McCaw had a gift for flattery, even seduction.

“If you ask me,” said Peter, “the real question is the shirt. Again, people will know the difference between a seventy-nine-dollar one and a four-hundred-and-fifty-dollar one, on some level. Which brings us back to a question we always have with you, doesn't it: How much do you come across as a rich guy and how do we handle that?”

McCaw was nodding thoughtfully.

“And, of course, the underlying question,” continued Peter, “which is, ‘Class warfare for America, pro or con?' ”

McCaw chuckled.

“Right,” he said. “Brilliant, as always, my friend. Well, we'll figure it out.” He tilted his head slightly. “Peter, I just don't understand why a guy like you is still single.”

“What?” A certain modesty, reflexive for Peter, unbalanced his instinct to remain calm in response to a sudden shock. The remark was decidedly off topic.

“Seriously,” said McCaw. “You're intelligent, accomplished, good-looking. . . .”

Good-looking?

“I don't know what to tell you,” said Peter.

“My wife is planning a dinner thing for a few weeks from now,” said McCaw. “I'll see that she invites you. We must know a couple of people you'd find interesting.”

Great.
He must mean men; he knew Peter was gay, didn't he? Was he offering to set Peter up—the man who had spoken publically against gay marriage? Yet after the call Peter put the matter out of his mind. There was too much life-and-death shit to worry about.

 

The weather was glorious on the Friday morning when Peter and Will set out for Hudson. It was one of those dazzling spring days that make the city look freshly built. They were a little late in collecting the van from a garage in the far west Thirties, but within minutes they had zipped through the side streets over to the edge of Manhattan and were heading north along the Henry Hudson Parkway, on the edge of the river.

Peter was driving. Having always served as designated driver on car trips with Harold and Nick, he had made it a point to ask Will if he had a preference, but Will seemed indifferent, so Peter hopped behind the wheel. And the van was indeed more comfortable and much quieter than the hollow tin can that he had been dreading. The steering was responsive, and the interior, especially up front, was padded out in a manner commonly known as “luxurious”—which, if not Maybach-level, was at least nicer than not luxurious. Over the insulated din of highway noise, they began chatting randomly about the fine weather, the light traffic, and the final choices each had made after an exchange the night before, about what to pack.

“I did bring the lighter jacket, after all. But with a sweater, so I can layer.”

“Jonathan told me it snowed up there last week.”

“No! I brought shorts, in case it gets really warm.”

“So did I!”

The rising sun had yet to make it above Manhattan's skyline, but morning brightness was streaming in from the right, revealing faint swipe marks on the dashboard's freshly cleaned, black faux-leather surface—which was at least better than not clean. A stoplight poke into the console compartment between the captain-style front seats turned up no dimes or chewing gum wrappers.

“Nice,” said Peter, after Will hooked his iPhone up to the van's sound system and got some music going.

“I made a playlist,” said Will.

“Goodie!”

“Nothing thematic. Just fluff.”

“I like fluff.”

“You
are
fluff.”

Will had deployed the console's cup holder for the Starbucks he brought for them, and adjusted the air vents in the middle and on his side. Automatically, he popped open the glove compartment to look inside, then popped it closed.

“Remember maps?” he said.

“It's not the same, is it?” said Peter, meaning Will's iPhone, on which Will had plotted the course with Google Maps. He reached over and gave Will's leg a little rub. “My little OnStar,” he said. “I'm so glad we're doing this.”

Leaving the city via the route they had planned—the Henry Hudson to the Saw Mill River Parkway, to the Taconic Parkway—involved subliminals, too, Peter mused. One minute, content for a moment after shifting into the correct lane for a gradual veer onto the Saw Mill, he felt a bit of city tension easing away, with a long exhale. The next minute, he was aware of all the tiny bits of information from the surrounding landscape that his brain was processing, that cued the easing: a three- to-five-percent decrease in the number of built right angles in his field of vision; the color green replacing shades of gray and brown at the rate of ten percent per minute (which would level off somewhere in Westchester); the increasing sweetness of the air flowing in through the vents, which contained perhaps a part or two less per million of hydrocarbons than the air behind them, a part or two more per million of pollen. Off to the left, along some rolling hills that had probably been cleared for farmland in the 1700s but were now reforested and had been protected since the planning of this parkway, in the 1920s, a bristle of trunks and branches—maple, beech, and birch, Peter guessed—was just at the point of being enveloped in the leafy foam thickening on top of it.

I suppose we'll still see a little more armature as we go north,
he thought, as the hills slid by.
Though Jonathan said his maples were pretty leafy already.

“Great highway, isn't it?” said Peter. They had been silent for a few minutes. Will seemed to be enjoying the scenery, too.

“Nice,” said Will.

“Somehow, it's a lot more art-meets-engineering than the Thruway, ya know?”

“Mmm.”

“You get the feeling that someone designed the Taconic with aesthetics in mind—the vistas that come into view as you go around a bend, the landscaping and all that.”

“I don't know the Thruway all that well.”

“It's all business—all the interstates are. Built in the fifties. You can smell the military thinking behind them. Mobilize the troops! Evacuate the cities! But until the bomb falls, enjoy your scenic motoring!”

Will giggled.

“Very postwar. But damn it, the cars didn't all look alike back then,” said Peter, jutting his chin to indicate the highway ahead, which ribboned into the distance for an armada of largely featureless little crates in silver, gray, and white. Theirs was silver, and parallel with them in the other lane were two or three other featureless crates.

“You have no idea how it was in the fifties,” said Peter. “Cars were sexy then, not efficient. It was all about aesthetics. People had two-tones! They didn't worry about resale value, if they wanted a car that was, oh, turquoise and salmon. When they unveiled the new models each fall, Will, it was like a fashion show: convertibles on turntables, curtains going up, girls in evening gowns! And season after season, those cars were always more gorgeous than the previous models. It was, I dunno, some kind of parade that charted the progress of modern living. And people paid attention to the details! They really looked at those cars—you know, all the new-and-improved swoops and bulges and what-have-you. They really cared about their makes and models.”

“Really.”

“Oh, yeah! I mean, every fall you saw things like a fender that had morphed into a jet pod, or a tailfin that had turned into a rocket ship wing; and you were happy for that make. Or, please—a bumper that grew a pair of torpedoes!? That enthralled people! It told a story people wanted to hear.”

Will smiled.

“I don't think people even look at sculpture that carefully nowadays,” continued Peter. “It was like these cars were their friends and they were growing up. The makes, like Chevy and Ford, were finding their way in postwar America—getting nice clothes and new hairstyles that suited them for the times.”

“Do you miss all that?”

“I . . . didn't think I did. But now that I think about it . . .”

They both laughed.

Exits flew by, for little towns, and rest areas, and other highways. Peter kept to the right lane, as he usually did when driving, sticking prudently to not more than nine miles per hour over the speed limit, as his father had taught him to do, to avoid tickets; and Will gently kidded him on this “pokey” style of driving. Conversation skittered from snacks, to cooking, to the ideal kitchen, to the idea of Peter moving back upstate someday.

“Wait till you see this place,” said Peter. “It's amazing.”

“Can't wait,” said Will.

“I gather he's done a lot of work on it, since I saw it last.”

“You guys never . . .”

“Me and Jonathan? Nope—uh-uh. Woulda, coulda, but we both had boyfriends, and . . . ya know. We've always admired each other from afar.”

“Cool.”

“He's the best friend I ever had.”

Will nodded.

“Harold and I always thought we would get a country house,” said Peter. “We all did. Up here or in Bucks County. Somehow, I stopped looking after he died. Yet I feel I'll end up here, someday.”

“When?”

“I dunno. When I'm ready. Some charming old place that's been really well cared for. I keep thinking, ‘Who's living in my house right now and are they taking care of the pipes?' ”

“Funny.”

“Which, of course, is the thing: I have no talent for owning property, the way Jonathan does. That's another part of that fifties programming that I sort of rejected. My father came home from the war, built a split-level, and told me that that's what you do. You get a wife and a mortgage and some kids. And a new car, every two years.”

“Did he know you were gay?”

“Oh, yeah. I told him, freshman year.”

“Did he accept it?”

“No. It was the first time I ever saw him cry.”

“Oh.”

“But within ten years, Will—and I take full credit for this—he was cutting out clippings from the newspaper on gay liberation and sending them to his proud gay son.”

“He came around.”

“He did. The same time he switched from Republican to Democrat.”

Miles racked up and traffic thinned out. Quiet moments began to stretch between their exchanges, which made Peter realize how comfortable he and Will had grown together. Silences, drivel, and non sequiturs were OK. Baby talk would probably be next. The question of where they were headed, relationship-wise, had subsided somewhat, even among their friends. Their odd friendship had become a given—though Peter still harbored a hope, which he sometimes excused as a form of instinct, that Will someday might announce himself attracted in more of a boyfriend way. Maybe, thought Peter, Will was working through an “older man thing,” or an “other man” thing, or maybe even just a “man” thing. Men of his generation were notoriously backward. Lots of young gay men Peter knew weren't especially comfortable being intimate or defined by the term “gay.” But whatever the issue—
iƒ
there was an issue—Peter kept this hope silent and feasted quietly in solace on the little things about Will that were part of the relationship as it was: the Starbucks, the travel music, the lilt of his laugh, the endearing way he plucked his shirt away from his chest reflexively, as if to neaten himself.

Peter glanced over. It was endlessly nice to look at Will. He was in jeans that day, with some Nikes and a pair of gray cropped athletic socks. Those ankles were so sexy! He was also wearing a light blue sweater and a khaki safari jacket. So put-together, yet so modern! The posture was appealingly proper, practically military; the hair looked a bit longer than usual, more luxuriant. Was he letting it grow?

Then Will gave his sweater one of those little plucks, as he shifted in his seat; he noticed Peter noticing and smiled, and went back to watching the scenery. And Peter thought,
What is that about anyway, the plucking?
A way to keep the sweater from wrinkling or clinging too closely to the chest—which Peter knew from Facebook pictures, if nothing else, was beautifully formed and smooth? Was it some sort of tell? Were there issues about the body, or sex, or physicality itself that Will was dealing with or needed to deal with? Issues he might not even be aware of, but which, if ever resolved—say, in therapy—would ready him for love?