One for the Gods (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (13 page)

The telegram had inevitably reminded him of something Tony had said when Charlie had asked how he had managed to escape the draft. “I told them I was a faggot. Anybody who doesn’t is nuts. They catch you with a cock in your mouth and you go to prison for the rest of your life. No thanks.”

Fear had clutched at his heart. The telegram seemed reassuring on this score, but he wanted to pray for the first time in his life, he wanted to do penance, anything to get Peter through safely. Tony dropped in on him the next day in the casual way he had of turning up at any hour of the day or night.

“I’m afraid I’m not going to be seeing you any more,” Charlie said when they were seated in Peter’s stylish living room.

“Oh? Your new kid Milly going to monopolize your time?”

“I said good-bye to him yesterday.” He handed Tony the telegram and studied him as he read it. His eyes could never get their fill of his beauty. The tilted nose, the prominent cheekbones, the hollows beneath them, the full red lips, the long line of jaw punctuated by a dimple in the chin were all full of unexpected quirks and curves and angles, as if drawn by a quick nervous hand, and yet achieved perfect harmony. His rich chestnut hair lay smooth against his head, unlike the preposterous pompadour he had worn when they first met. He lifted his bold eyes to Charlie.

“Christ, honey. It’s what I’ve always said. You know the other guy?”

“He’s an old friend. An officer.”

“An officer? Then it’s probably all right. I know of cases. They usually try to cover it up. Two GI’s is really bad. I’m sorry.” He rose and went and sat on the arm of Charlie’s chair. “Anyway, a guy like you wouldn’t want a hustler hanging around indefinitely. We’ve had some wild times. I’ve never known anybody like you before. You’ve taught me a lot of things. How to speak better. How I should dress, if I had the dough. My hair.” He laughed. “Maybe I’ll find some rich guy to keep me. You’ve given me ideas. Hey, Charlie.”

“Yes?”

“Nothing. I just like to say your name. You’re a wonderful guy. You know what I’d like?”

“When you look at me like that, I can make a good guess. No, slave.”

“OK, master.” They laughed. “I won’t have any trouble remembering what it’s like. So that’s it? No more playing around? Don’t worry. I’m sure it’ll work out. How about a kiss?”

“That’s different. It’s a crime against nature not to kiss that mouth when it’s available. You didn’t have to suggest it.”

When Charlie released him, Tony laughed again. “It’s lucky I didn’t fall in love with you. Is it all right if I call in a week or so just to find out if Peter’s all right?”

“Thanks, sweetheart. That would be nice.”

And from that moment it had never entered his head again to make a sexual move toward anybody but Peter. He wondered what had become of Tony. After ten years, even his startling beauty must have begun to fade. He hoped he had found his rich friend.

He felt Jean-Claude’s hand on him and brushed it away. How was he going to spend a whole day with this miserable boy? Maybe he couldn’t, but he certainly wasn’t going home. He thought of Peter’s threat to leave. Let him. His rage, his lust for revenge, had become a cold painful rejection of everything they had known and made together. Except that he wouldn’t leave. He couldn’t; their lives were too intertwined. It would take days just to untangle their finances. Peter had put quite a lot of money in his name over the years to establish a fiction of independence. He had no intention of keeping it, but Peter would have to tell him how to give it back. He didn’t understand anything about stocks and things. Luckily he had the show coming up in the fall. He could get by, probably better without Peter, who wouldn’t let him do portraits and hack work, which was where the easy money was. Renounce love. Strip his life down to bare essentials. Work. His mind approved the prospect, but his pain didn’t ease.

He sat up and wiped sweat out of his eyes and looked around, hoping to see somebody he knew. There was no one close enough to recognize. He saw three male figures strolling along the edge of the sea headed in his direction. He watched their approach and identified one of them as a cute American boy they had met here and there. When they were within hailing distance, Charlie lifted an arm and waved. All three waved back and the American called. Jean-Claude heard and sat up and saw them. he snatched up his trunks and wriggled into them.

“Put yours on,
mon amour,”
he said.

“Why?”

“You are mine now. I don’t want everybody to see you.”

“You haven’t acquired exclusive rights, you know. Besides, I’m covered.”

“You may think so. I can see a great deal.”

“Maybe somebody else would like a look.”

The three had almost reached them. The American broke into a jog for the last few yards and dropped to his knees between them, arranging for a leg to almost touch Charlie’s. He greeted them both, but his eyes kept darting to Charlie. He had a lively face and a trim, smooth body and his trunks had an aggressive swell. Jean-Claude knew the other two, who were Dutch, and introduced them. They all chatted of the weather and of parties they had been to or were going to.

“Where’s your friend?” the American asked Charlie. “I’ve always seen you together before.”

“Yeah. It must get monotonous.”

“You’re a beautiful pair. Is your friend’s hair natural?”

“Sure.”

“You’ve got a beautiful tan. It’s so even all over.” This was an excuse for the American’s eyes to linger on his body and drop to his haphazardly covered sex. When he looked up, his eyes conveyed an open invitation. Charlie smiled into them. Christ, he thought, is this what life would be again? Sure, he could probably have a good time in bed with this boy. What then? The Dutch pair, too, perhaps? One of them, certainly, who was also eyeing him. And after that, some more experiments of the sort that Tony had arranged, that Guy had proposed yesterday? The utter desolation of it filled him with dread. He must save himself somehow. The American put a hand on his knee as if to balance himself, and the leg finally slid over and touched his. Charlie shifted slightly so that the trunks fell away from his sex. The hand tightened on his knee, and the fingers began an invisible caress. Jean-Claude, who was watching, raised an arm to make a nervous swipe at his hair.

“But look,” one of the Dutchmen exclaimed, “Jeannot has shaved his armpits.”

Jean-Claude dropped his arm quickly and Charlie laughed. “I did it. Isn’t it sexy?”

“I’ve thought of doing it and didn’t dare,” the American said. “Do you really like it? I think I’ll do mine.”

“You see, Jeannot? I told you you’d start a fashion. What’re you all wearing trunks for? Nobody does at this end of the beach.” He plucked his own from between his legs and tossed them aside.

“You are right,” the Dutchman who had been eyeing him said and promptly slipped his off.

“I don’t know—” the American said.

“Go on. It’s much more comfortable.”

The American ducked forward and muttered, “You do things to me.”

“That’s very flattering. Go ahead. Nobody’ll mind.”

The American stood and did as he was told, turning his back to the others. His sex slanted forward stiffly. Charlie looked up at him and smiled. “Very nice,” he said.

“It’s not too—”

“Not at all. You’re still decent. Come on, Jeannot. Everybody else is starkers. What are you waiting for?”

Jeannot’s eyes burned at him. “But no,
mon amour.
You know—”

“Don’t be silly. If you sit there all dressed up, you’ll embarrass the rest of us.”

“No. No, I—”

“Come on, men. He’s hiding something from you. I happen to know what it is. You’ve got to see it.” He glanced at the American. “Grab him.” He made a pass at Jean-Claude’s trunks that wasn’t supposed to accomplish anything. The American crowded in close to him, letting his sex brush against him as Jean-Claude clutched at his trunks and tried to wriggle away. The Dutch pair joined in, trying to get a grip on Jean-Claude’s arms. The American’s hands appeared to be tugging at the trunks, but they were finding opportunities to make quick exploratory contacts with Charlie’s body.

“Go on, get him,” Charlie whispered. “We’ll have it later.”

As Jean-Claude’s struggles became more frenzied, the others warmed to their task. They were all shouting and laughing. The American had got the message and was really concentrating now. When Charlie saw them all engaged, he sprang away and pulled on his trunks. He gathered up his things in one swoop and went pounding off down the beach.

“Shar—lee,” Jean-Claude screamed after him. He heard shouts and laughter and then only the thud of his feet as he ran on at a fast, steady pace.

The physical exertion made him feel cleansed and free, free at least of Jean-Claude. The boy would doubtless fall in love with all three of them before the scuffle was over. His hunger for revenge was appeased; Jean-Claude was no longer any concern of his. He squinted down the beach, trying to pick out the low shack of Tahiti Beach, where the road to town ended at the sea. He had a long way to go. He couldn’t run indefinitely. Would he be in time? In time for what? Peter wouldn’t go anywhere. He didn’t know how long he had been away, but he didn’t think it could have been much more than an hour. Running and walking, he should be able to make the house in another half-hour. Say two hours in all. Just time enough for Peter to finally face what he had done and explore the extent of their loss. What would the realization of it do to him? He would survive. His grasp of life was too sunny and jaunty and assured for him to ever dream of doing himself harm, no matter how much of the assurance derived from their being together. He would suffer.

All of Charlie’s protective instincts were aroused at the thought; he wanted to get to him quickly to comfort him. In a frantic moment, he might rush off in the car just for the sake of doing something. He was inclined to drive too fast. An accident. He tried to accelerate his pace but his apprehension made breathing more difficult. His chest was already heaving painfully. Goddamn Peter for all of this. What comfort could he offer? He couldn’t alter the facts. And who was to comfort him? He hoped he would never feel anything for anybody ever again.

When he reached the beach installations, he turned in toward the road, looking neither to right nor left so as not to be delayed by anybody. He heard his name called once—Guy?—but didn’t pause. When he reached the road, he slowed to a walk. He had to catch his breath. He forced himself to maintain a good pace, in spite of his panting. He still had several miles to go. He heard a motor and turned and saw an old Rolls Royce convertible approaching, overflowing with laughing, shouting boys and girls. It coasted up beside him and hands reached out to him, pulling him aboard. He jumped onto the runningboard and the car started forward. Hands continued to pull at him, trying to get him into the car.

“No,” he shouted. “I have to get off just after the Colette house.” There must have been eight of them in the Rolls, all sprawled on top of each other, all young and beautiful with the sun and high spirits. A boy put an arm around his waist. A girl held his hand. He pulled himself free. He was sick of being handled. When he saw the road through the vineyard, his heart lifted with relief and he shouted for them to stop. As soon as they had slowed sufficiently, he leaped off with a shout of thanks and went sprinting in through the vineyard. In a few moments, he caught his first glimpse of the house through the trees and, a moment later, the car, standing pretty much where he remembered leaving it so that it probably hadn’t been moved. Of course Peter hadn’t gone anywhere. He was just sitting there feeling quite confident of Charlie’s return. He probably wasn’t even aware of the havoc he had created. He would expect a few angry words and a tearful reconciliation and that would be the end of it. Only it wasn’t going to be like that. Rage began to boil up in Charlie again. He should have stayed away, let him suffer, given him a bit more of his own medicine before making the final break. He would look a complete fool rushing back so soon after his defiant parting words.

He came to an abrupt halt and gave his lungs time to recover from their strain. He forced himself on as his breathing returned to normal. Anger was coursing through him and he made no effort to control it. Now that he was here, he would tell Peter what he thought of him once and for all and leave again. He should have stayed with the happy band in the Rolls instead of trudging home to a sordid little domestic scene. Married. Christ, he was sick of all of it.

The house was silent as he approached it. He mounted to the terrace and went in. Peter was nowhere about. Panic stabbed through his anger. Was he upstairs packing? Had he done something really stupid? He sprang for the stairs and raced up them. Peter was emerging from their bedroom as he reached the top. Relief struck him with such force that it took him a moment to assume the coldly hostile mask behind which he wished to hide his feelings. Peter’s face had lighted up, though he didn’t allow himself to smile. They confronted each other thus for a long silent moment, their eyes probing each other, Peter’s full of an appeal that Charlie steeled himself against.

“I thought you were leaving,” Charlie said finally, harsh and mocking.

“I thought you weren’t due back till tomorrow, if then.”

“Christ, you didn’t really think I’d spend the night with that dismal shit, did you? An hour was bad enough.”