The Night Singers (16 page)

“Aren't those unusual heroes for a Trinidadian child?” she asks Johnny.

Sometimes I think I won the Naples posting because Annette is such a good conversationalist—genuinely curious, questioning in an unobtrusive, charming way.

He whoops, shakes his head, then laughs harder, as if his life story is a new joke he hasn't heard.

“We got all the old American TV programs—‘The Cisco Kid,' ‘The Lone Ranger,' ‘Bat Masterson,' ‘Gunsmoke,' ‘Ponderosa.' And I don't know, I did a project in secondary school on the American West …”

Annette sips her foam, nodding for him to continue.

“Brrring. Brrrring. Bopsy. Bopsy zooooom.”

The kid is tapping my shoes with a new, blue pointy weapon.

“Quiet down there, Cliffie,” Johnny calls gently. “Can't you see Dad's talking to these nice people?”

“Well, I got a scholarship to Haverford College, that's near Philadelphia, and married, became a father, then divorced. The city didn't seem a safe place to raise Cliffie.”

On hearing his name, the astronaut reboards ship, pressing knobs. “Ping. Ping.”

“I wanted somewhere I could keep an eye on him. Where, if he got lost for a couple of hours, neighbours would watch out for the boy. You wouldn't believe it, but in some senses this town is like the Islands. People look after children.”

I've finished the
espresso
and am antsy to get to Badlands National Park before dark. Annette is still asking questions about race relations, schools. She tells him about Aunt Uma. Of course, as a diplomat's wife, she'll learn timing. We're both new to this.

“So, he's happy here?” she asks. “Does Cliff love the Wild West, too?”

“Oh, ho,” The cup of coffee on Johnny's belly is shaking hazardously. “He's gone one step beyond, as you can perhaps discern. I thought I could raise a Trinidadian cowboy and he turned into an intergalactic explorer.”

Judging from his current technology, I think, the kid won't be lifting off any time soon.

“Yes,” Annette laughs. “I guess we all want to go somewhere else.”

She looks at me in that quizzical way. I guess she wants to get back on the road.

The Best Sex Ever

Lou was swanning in the corner, surrounded by women's laughter. He sipped Sancerre as he leaned on the piano telling his stories: Boston theatre gossip for the elegant matrons of Clapton.

One of them, Dorothy Glendenning, was curator of the excellent local museum. Before I moved here, I had no idea how well they preserved history in these Northeast villages; it felt as if people here had always known they lived in an important place.

Even Clapton's private homes exuded tradition. On one wall of this grand living room, ancient family portraits of pale, long-faced men were framed in dark mahogany. Over the mantle hung a Georgian map of the Thirteen Colonies.

Martin, our host, waylaid me at the refreshment table. “Everyone loves Lou,” he whispered, unsteadily waving his third g and t.

The yellow cheeses stank beautifully of French and Italian alleys. Martin's sangria tasted of decent red wine and I refilled my glass. Everyone dressed in that crisp, casual, expensive style. I was savvy enough to buy my long summer shirt from a Junior League shop in another part of the state. No one wore black. This was
not
New York.

As much as I missed the Village and Amy, I was beginning to savour Clapton's comforts. I loved the distinct, dramatic seasons. And the architecture was stunning in this old, many would say “venerable”, New England town where several houses dated back to the mid-18th century. Some people, like Lou, commuted to Boston. But most worked at the distinguished college, the art gallery, the orchestra, the shops or in municipal jobs. Clapton
prized
the local. You had to wait three generations to become native. Yet townspeople were welcoming after a while.

Martin found me again. “I mean, Lou is such a good storyteller. Look how he draws in the ladies, even if he is
gay
.”

I sidled away from my well-lubricated host, wondering if I were wise or cowardly. As the new cellist, I wasn't ready to come out. I felt grateful for my seat in a good regional orchestra after ten years of scraping by on the chamber music festival circuit. OK, this was a life of compromise. Someday I wanted to drive a reliable car and to share a condo with my one true love. Meanwhile, I was content renting half of Lou's duplex.

I perched tentatively on a French provincial chair, observing the raconteur again, and feeling oddly jealous of his matrons. Each woman had a safe crush on Lou. Even though he'd run as far as possible from the cowboy culture of his youth, he still carried Texas in his voice and they loved Lou's soft drawl. Of course I had a more intimate relationship with him after nine months as his tenant-neighbour.

Now I considered his handsome face, bordered by the trim beard. Ash blond. I doubted he used colouring. However, with a job way off in Boston, he could be engaged in all sorts of camouflage. Alas, he led a pretty straight life for a gay guy. A lonesome one, which was strange for an attractive, successful lawyer. What more could you want than this man, so fit (off to the gym every morning—I knew because his car woke me up), tall, smart, lively. Lou's sartorial style murmured discretion: one small gold earring, a simple watch, an expertly pressed mauve silk shirt, tucked into his perfectly creased grey cotton pants. He considered the loneliness his fault. Too picky, he admitted ruefully.

Lou noticed me and winked, a sign that we'd be leaving soon.

He couldn't have been more neighbourly—
that's
what it was at the beginning of course. Friendship takes time to develop. Patiently, he shifted furniture around my new living room until I was happy.
Feng Shui
isn't my thing. He began inviting me over for pasta once a week. We discovered mutual tastes in literature and politics. I'm pretty good with fish, so now I returned the hospitality on Sundays. With our mutual friends Dennis and Kate, who introduced us, we attended film or theatre three or four times a month. Recently, he'd been talking more about loneliness, really fretting that gay men grow less desirable as they age. Although Kate set him up with two different friends from the college, he never answered their calls after the first dates.

Finishing his story with a flourish, Lou raised a glass to our host, “Thanks, Martin, for a splendid evening,” he pronounced. Then, despite sighs from the chorus, “I need to get up early and work tomorrow.”

“On a Saturday?” protested Dorothy Glendenning. “No, that's not healthy.”

“Complicated case,” he grinned and raised an eyebrow to me.

Chit chat, even with these very pleasant people, could wear a person down.

We slipped onto the warm summer street. I listened to crickets and frogs and the very occasional swoosh of a passing automobile, thinking, as I did every day, how different this was from New York. Quiet. Secure. Peaceful. Maybe a
little
eerie.

He was humming, walking too quickly, until I reminded him about the relative lengths of our legs.

“You really have to work tomorrow?”

“An accusation of dissembling?” Hand on his broad chest, he gasped. Then laughed. “Actually, Andrea, I have a
date
tonight.”

“Tonight?” I was more startled because Clapton closed down at 10pm than by the bulletin about his social life.

“Promise you won't tell a soul?”

I nodded warily.

“I met him in a chat room on Monday and I think I'm falling in love.”

“Oh, yes?” I prodded. “What is he, well, like?” I felt sad he'd resorted to virtual dating. Perhaps he'd exhausted Clapton's fleshly options.

“We haven't exchanged pix yet. But he tells me he's five foot nine, slim, pale skin, dark hair, no beard, brown eyes. I've always liked little guys.”

“What do you do you chat about in the chat room?” Electronic courtship seemed kind of dry. We passed Reverend Clara's garden teeming with heady honeysuckle.

“Oh, we switched to our own emails on Tuesday night.”

“You moved in after one day?” I laughed.

“Well, that's how it works, of course, if you want to get intimate.”

“Intimate on the internet?”

“Don't be so Victorian, hun,” he scolded archly. “Writing is a fantastic erotic tool and James has a facility with certain turns of phrase.”

James, I mused, reassured by the normal name. We had three more blocks before the duplex, which wouldn't leave enough time for my questions. Maybe that was good. “Where does James live when he's not cavorting on the internet?”

“Florida,” he didn't miss a beat. “He has a beach house outside Miami.”

On the doorstep, he pecked my cheek. “Now you've promised not to tell a soul.”

“Cross my heart,” I whispered, trying to ignore lingering qualms. Naturally Lou would be fine. This wasn't a bath house romance; it was a nice, germ-free email exchange.

Pasta night was
cavvatapi
with fresh basil, heirloom tomatoes,
Kalamata
olives, garlic and a pinch of
pesto
. We ate earlier than usual because he had a date with James tonight. Disappointed by the shortened evening, I hoped we'd still have time to talk over some problems I was having with my conductor.

Lou was rosy and buoyant.

“So how's the chatting?” I savoured the breeze and the cool Sauvignon Blanc after a blistering day. I'd have to think carefully about the
vino
for Sunday night's halibut. We weren't in a competition or anything. I liked the way our dinners allowed us to express affection and have a good time.

“Great, just great.” He blushed.

I smiled, in spite of myself, at the unflappable attorney flapping.

“You're really into this,” I observed.

He played with the collar of his new Ikat cotton shirt, then took a fork of the scrumptious pasta.

I loved eating dinner in Lou's minimalist dining room, sitting back on the black and white chairs, surrounded by framed, ancient world maps. Fresh flowers always graced the table. Tonight six perfect irises in various stages of bloom. I stared at the map of Old Saxony until Lou finished swallowing. He remained silent.

“Well?” I tapped his hand.

“Andrea,” he was sighing, “It's the
best sex ever
.” He waved his long fingers, a pianist in his last life, then blushed again.

What was I going to say to that? Are you a top or a bottom? How do you do it? One hand on the keyboard, I guessed. What was the etiquette here? The supportive response?

“I'm not embarrassing you, am I?” he frowned.

“Of course not.”

He cleared the hand-thrown ceramic plates from the table. They came from a small Providence pottery and I was thinking of buying him a matching serving dish for his birthday. A little extravagant, but he'd been so kind to me.

While he fiddled in the kitchen, I stared at one map, wondering what they would have made of Lou's affair in Old Saxony.

He returned with the dessert tray and I tried again. “I'm just glad your, uh, relationship, is going so well.”

Lemon sorbet and chocolate wafers. The perfect treat for a hot night. Maybe now I could mention the conflict at work. Sometimes talking to Lou could be as helpful as talking to my ex, Amy; he knew me that well.

“You don't mind if we have coffee now—instead of after dessert—do you? I promised James to log on by 9.00.”

“Oh, no …” I began.

“
Espresso
or
cappuccino
tonight,
Signorina
?”

“
Espresso
,” I said because it would be faster.

Too restless to retire to my side of the house, I took a walk. The heat had abated slightly and exercise would do me good. Amy and I often strolled on summer nights in the Village, which felt safe with so many people on the streets. Nightlife was one reason Amy refused to move to Clapton with me. God knows her computer consulting was portable. And life was cheaper, less harried up here.

“How many witches do you think they burned in Clapton?” she'd demanded.

Of course she had looked it up, so I just shrugged. Shrugged off our five year partnership, according to her. But I needed a
steady job
. I loved playing music. I was even willing to commute, but that wasn't good enough for the all-or-nothing Amy. We decided to be
just friends
and most of the time I felt OK with that. Amy probably wasn't the love of my life, but how many people found the loves of their lives?

A crescent moon caught my eye. The rich coral colour was a memento of the day's heat. No danger walking Clapton streets—at least not since those witch trials ended.

The Glendennings were listening to Copland, at a moderate volume so as not to disturb the neighbours whose windows were also open this warm evening. Air-conditioning was too modern for most locals. I ambled as far as the old granite Presbyterian church and admired its 19th century arches and windows. A peaceful, pretty town, why couldn't Amy appreciate this? Lou was as cosmopolitan as anyone and he exalted Clapton's virtues.

Wind rose up to frenzy the leaves of two ample maple trees. Storm on the way, no doubt. I hurried home but as I reached our duplex, the air turned still, the warmth unbroken. Next door Lou's study was dark except for the glowing computer screen. I didn't look too closely.

The following week we walked together to Goodfellows Theatre to meet Dennis and Kate for a drink. We had snagged reservations at the Waltham Inn for dinner afterward. A cotton skirt whisked pleasantly against my bare legs and I felt grateful that the wretched heat had made me drag a couple of summer dresses from the closet. I enjoyed the swishiness. Lou looked debonair in his polished cotton t-shirt and linen slacks.

“I think it's time to come out to Dennis and Kate,” he said pensively.