The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (14 page)

I’m dying to hear how everything is there and how your plans have been received and everything. I know nobody can change your mind so I’m not really worried. Don’t forget to try to get a rug from your mother. We really need one.

I’ve been through the drawings before I locked them up for good and picked out the most prim and proper one and I’ve pinned it up near the foot of the bed where I can see it from everywhere. It’s not the one I’d like to put up, as you can imagine. I’m looking at it now. To an expert eye, it’s not really all that prim and proper because it keeps moving.

I’ll keep you posted about everything here, but I don’t suppose there will be much to tell you. I’m discovering that being in love isn’t all fun. I’d better not write any more now. God, last night was wonderful, except for thinking about today. Write soon.

Your champ

Charlie’s letter crossed Peter’s first:

My love—

I could go on saying that about nine hundred and seventy-six times, but I guess it might get monotonous for you. It’s worse than anything I imagined. I’ve been without you for one night and it’s absolute torture, it seems like six months already. I haven’t done myself for years, old Late-Starter Pete, but I sit around thinking about you and you’ve seen often enough what that does to me. So I have to do something about it and it’s awful and such a waste because you’re not here.

I know one thing. You’ve taught me how to laugh. It’s amazing. I go around roaring like a hyena, and my dismal little brothers and sisters think Big Brother has finally lost his marbles.

I thought the picture was going to be such a big help, but every time I try to look at it I start bawling my head off so I’ve had to lock it up again. I don’t guess I’m making much sense, laughing one minute and crying the next, but that’s the way it is. I think about your football captain and it scares me so. It really did happen to us, didn’t it, my darling, my dearest, my big lover? It isn’t something that we’re just going to build up in our minds and then find out it’s no good? You’ve got to tell me it can’t be like that. I keep thinking maybe I shouldn’t write you at all, I shouldn’t even think about you—ha-ha—and then when we’re together again it would be as if we hadn’t been apart at all. Don’t you dare think anything like that. I’ll die if I don’t hear from you all the time. Maybe it’ll be better when I actually have a letter from you.

It seems my father isn’t speaking to me. I’m allowed in the house just to humor my mother, and the sooner I leave the better. So I’ve Sacrificed All for Love. Thank Goodness. Mother is really being very decent about it. She says she has a rug we can have. Also some fairly lousy silverware. I’ll bring it for the servants.

How is this for a love letter? It turns out that a love letter is just saying what you think to someone you love. I love you more than anybody has ever loved anybody ever. I’m thinking about your cock and having it inside me. I’m thinking about you having my cock in your mouth. I wish we could do both at once. That would be something. I don’t even dare think about night before last, because it was too incredible. I want you all inside me and me inside you so we couldn’t tell where one of us began or ended. I want you so, it kills me. I want you to call me baby. I’m not going to sign this so you’ll have to guess who it’s from.

FROM here on, memory grows erratic. The past is people moving against a vague background of events. The physical background comes in flashes: sunlight filtering through trees, surf breaking on a beach; that was at the beginning, then dirty snow piled up in a city street, a bar, a room. Was somebody running for President? Was there a war on? Well, yes, a World War broke out in Europe about this time, but we scarcely noticed it. That would come later. What was running on Broadway? What courses did Peter take? When did the draft start? How long did Charlie work for the publishing house? I don’t remember. I could look it all up, but it doesn’t matter; let the anachronisms fall where they may. The people are there, impervious to time, passionately acting out their lives while the world moves dimly around them. A short stretch of dirty New York street on a hot September afternoon fills the mind’s eye.

Peter arrived ahead of time. He stood beside the entrance to a dingy medical appliance shop, two battered bags and a roll of carpet at his feet. At his right, the marquee of El Morocco stretched out to the curb, looking astonishingly shabby in the harsh afternoon light. Peter’s face was drawn and anxious. His wide eyes scanned every approaching pedestrian and flew from taxi to taxi as they roared toward him from Lexington Avenue. He kept looking at his watch and chewing the knuckle of his forefinger. He had been standing there for fourteen minutes when a taxi swerved in to the curb and stopped in front of him. He was so busy covering all approaches that it took him an instant to see Charlie climbing out of it. Their eyes met, they exchanged a smile, and then Charlie was busy extracting luggage from the cab and paying the driver. Peter didn’t know whether to shout, or to leap in the air, or to burst into tears. He was trembling violently all over. The taxi pulled away, leaving Charlie standing in a small island of luggage.

“Hi. Will you help me with this junk?”

Peter lurched toward him and grabbed the two biggest suitcases and dragged them across the sidewalk to his. Charlie followed with the rest. He dropped it all together and took out a key and opened the door beside the entrance to the truss shop. It was on a spring and they propped it open with a bag as they trundled everything into the hall. Charlie went past the staircase to the back of the hall and opened another door.

“It’s back here,” he said. Peter grabbed luggage again and rushed it all back. Charlie helped and, when it was all in, closed the door behind them. Peter flung himself on him and crowded him back against the door and covered his face with kisses. He was still trembling from head to foot and uttered odd little noises. Charlie held him tight for a moment and then eased him away and chuckled. “Take it easy, baby. Somebody’s supposed to be here any minute to do something about the stove.”

Peter took a grip on himself and let him go. The worst was perhaps over. “Never again,” he said. “I was just barely able to get through it. From now on, I’m not budging. You’re just as beautiful as ever. I didn’t imagine that.”

Charlie put his hand on his shoulder and gave it a careless squeeze. “Come on. Don’t you want to see our nest?” They were standing in a narrow entrance hall. Ahead of them a door gave into what appeared to be a fairly spacious kitchen. He gave Peter’s shoulder a little push, and they entered a room to the right. Furniture was set aimlessly about in it, some of it still wrapped in brown paper. At one end were two windows that opened onto a tree in a littered yard. At the other end, there was an arched area that was big for an alcove but small for a room. It was very hot and smelled of fresh paint.

“This is it,” Peter said wonderingly. “We’re going to live here. I mean, golly, this is
life
.”

“We’ve got to decide where everything goes. I wanted to get it all ready for you, but the lease only started yesterday. The furniture’s just arrived.”

Peter wasn’t interested in the furniture. “Tell me things,” he said. “What’s it been like for you?”

“Oh, lord, I’ve missed you, but that’s all over. We’ve got work to do. Let’s get these windows open.”

Peter moved obediently to a window. The sense of momentousness that he felt should belong to the occasion was definitely missing. His heart contracted. The barely suppressed fears crowded in on him from their precarious confinement. He lifted the heavy sash with numb fingers. Hot air stirred around him.

“I’ve just come from C. B.,” Charlie said from the other window. “She expects us for dinner tonight. She’s dying to see you.”

It was a bitter blow, but Peter wasn’t surprised. As much as he wanted to see C. B., he had been looking forward longingly to their first meal together in their own place. Naturally, C. B. took precedence. The realization of a dream could be postponed. He said nothing.

“You have an appointment tomorrow with some man about a job,” Charlie went on. “I really start work tomorrow, too. I’ve been in a couple of times already. It’s going to be all right, I guess.”

The glory was dimming minute by minute. They were together again, yet Charlie’s manner contained no hint of the momentous experiences they had shared. It couldn’t be like this. Charlie moved out into the middle of the small room. Peter couldn’t look at him.

“Now then. Where shall we begin?” A bell rang and Charlie went out into the hall and pushed a button. Peter heard the door open.

“Come about the stove,” a rough voice said. “Where’s the missus?”

“There isn’t any missus,” Charlie said. “The stove’s in there.” Charlie came back into the room and they wandered about, fingering the furniture. There was an occasional bang from the kitchen. In a few minutes, the man appeared in the doorway.

“She’s fixed. A couple of guys, huh? Well, it’s happening all over. Sweet.” He leered grotesquely and lumbered out.

“The son of a—” Charlie exclaimed and strode into the hall and slammed the door. He reappeared looking indignant.

Peter stood without moving, slackly, close to tears. That was all that had been needed to finish things off. “All right. You might as well tell me,” he said. “What’s wrong?”

“Well, that son of a bitch—”

“I don’t care about him. I mean everything. I tried not to build it up in my mind. I couldn’t, really. It was so big to start with. What’s gone wrong?”

“Gone wrong? What are you talking about? Oh, for God’s sake.” He laughed with a touch of exasperation. “Are you thinking of Eddie again? I’ve told you, it wasn’t anything like it is with us. We were all set before you left. It hasn’t changed.”

“Hasn’t it? Do you really mean that?”

“Oh, baby.” Charlie went to him and put his hand under his chin and kissed him on the mouth. “Darling baby. No, it hasn’t.”

Peter took a long, gasping breath and shook his head. “I’m sorry. I’m a dope.” He threw his head back and laughed. “You see? That’s my hyena laugh. Isn’t it frightening?” He put his hands on Charlie’s crotch and held the sex and growled. “That’s what I wanted. What’ve I been waiting for? I was so bowled over seeing you that I didn’t know what I was doing. I guess all I could think about was piling into bed with you. It was sort of a shock discovering there wasn’t any bed to pile into.”

Charlie put his hands over Peter’s and pressed them to him. “Wait till tonight, baby.” They smiled into each other’s eyes. A little thrill of anticipation ran down Peter’s spine. The sex was heavy in his hands.

“Yes. Well, then, let’s get this place in operating order.” They threw off their jackets and ties. Peter laughed again for no particular reason. His spirits lifted, the strains and terrors of separation receded into the background of his memory. They pushed furniture around. It was all solid, some of it handsome, the rest serviceable.

They placed Peter’s rug. As they went about their chores, they kissed frequently and put their hands on each other. Peter worked fast, hoping that there would be some time to spare at the end of the afternoon, but they were still at it past the hour when they should have been getting ready for C. B. They showered hurriedly, catching glimpses of each other’s bodies as they passed back and forth to the bathroom, but not daring to pause for fear of missing dinner entirely. They pulled on their clothes and permitted themselves a parting kiss. Peter took a final glance at the bed, now in place and ready, before they went out. It was getting cooler. They crossed over to Park Avenue and walked uptown in the glittering night. Peter was inclined to take Charlie’s arm at crossings, but Charlie shook him off.

“We’ve got to be careful. You saw what happened this afternoon.”

Peter couldn’t see that it made any difference in this anonymous city, but he complied. He felt blissfully alone with his love, eager to proclaim the joy they shared, but keyed up by the presence of people.

They were admitted to C. B.’s apartment by an unknown Negro. After the impersonal opulence of the building, it was like stepping into another age and another country. Here, all was old and burnished and delicate, creating an immediate atmosphere of grace and ease. C. B. was waiting for them in a large living room that looked as if it ought to give onto tree-shaded lawns. She flew to Peter and enveloped him in silks and lace as she embraced him extravagantly and kissed him. Diamonds scrached him. She held him at arm’s length and welcomed him ecstatically.

“My darling. Darling Peter. At last. We’ve longed for you so. We’ve talked of nothing else for three weeks. You’ve captured both our hearts. How incomplete we’d have been if things hadn’t turned out this way.”

Peter quite forgot his disappointment about dinner in the intoxicating warmth of her greeting. She pattered off to the bar cabinet, chatting all the while.

“I’ve made a special reunion drink for us. We have so much to talk about. You have an appointment with Bryan Wilcox tomorrow. He’s the head of the firm and doesn’t generally interview applicants for messenger boy, but he’s very much interested in you. Poor darling. It doesn’t sound very glamorous, but it’s a start. At least you’ll have a little place of your own to go home to, and Charlie to discover New York with. You’ve seen the place. It’s absurdly small, but you’ll be happy together. Whenever I begin to worry about you, I remind myself that anything is better than West Point. Don’t you look smart in city clothes! And you haven’t lost any of that glorious summer tan. I want you to come here whenever you’re at a loose end. You’ll meet interesting and attractive people. When you have your job settled, we’ll see if you need a little extra pocket money. I think we’ll have a splendid winter. Well, here’s to all of us, my darling, my dearest. I am so fortunate to have you both.”