In One Person (56 page)

But Arthur—the wrestler’s name was Arthur—misunderstood me. He thought I meant that I
used to
wrestle, and I was just being modest or self-deprecating.

Arthur had gone on and on (the way wrestlers will) about how I should still be wrestling. “You should be picking up some other moves to go with that duck-under—it’s not too late!” he’d told me. Arthur wrestled at a club on Central Park South, where he said there were a lot of guys “our age” who were still wrestling. Arthur was confident that I could find an appropriate workout partner in my weight-class.

Arthur was unstoppably enthusiastic about my not “quitting” wrestling, simply because I was in my thirties and no longer competing on a school or college team.

“But I was never on a team!” I tried to tell him.

“Look—I know a lot of guys our age who were never starters,” Arthur had told me. “And they’re still wrestling!”

Finally, as I told Herm Hoyt, I just became so exasperated with Arthur’s insistence that I come to wrestling practice at his frigging club, I told him the truth.

“Exactly what did you tell the fella, Billy?” Coach Hoyt asked me.

That I was gay—or, more accurately, bisexual.

“Jeez . . .” Herm started to say.

That a former wrestler, who’d briefly been my lover, had tried to teach me a little wrestling—strictly for my own self-defense. That the former wrestling coach of this same ex-wrestler had also given me some tips.

“You mean that duck-under you mentioned—that’s
it
?” Arthur had asked.

“That’s it. Just the duck-under,” I’d admitted.

“Jeez, Billy . . .” old Coach Hoyt was saying, shaking his head.

“Well, that’s the story,” I said to Herm. “I
haven’t
been practicing the duck-under.”

“There’s only one wrestlin’ club I know on Central Park South, Billy,” Herm Hoyt told me. “It’s a pretty good one.”

“When Arthur understood what my history with the duck-under was, he didn’t seem interested in pursuing the matter of my coming to wrestling practice,” I explained to Coach Hoyt.

“It might not be the best idea,” Herm said. “I don’t know the fellas at that club—not anymore.”

“They probably don’t get many gay guys wrestling there—you know, for self-defense—is that your guess, Herm?” I asked the old coach.

“Has this Arthur fella read your
writin’,
Billy?” Herm Hoyt asked me.

“Have
you
?” I asked Herm, surprised.

“Jeez—sure, I have. Just don’t ask me what it’s
about,
Billy!” the old wrestling coach said.

“How about Miss Frost?” I suddenly asked him. “Has
she
read my writing?”

“Persistent, isn’t he?” Uncle Bob asked Herm.

“She knows you’re a writer, Billy—everybody who knows you knows that,” the wrestling coach said.

“Don’t ask
me
what you write about, either, Billy,” Uncle Bob said. He dropped the empty bottle and I kicked it under Grandpa Harry’s couch. The woman with the dyed-red hair brought another beer for the Racquet Man. I realized why she’d seemed familiar; all the caterers were from the Favorite River Academy dining service—they were kitchen workers, from the academy dining halls. That woman who kept bringing Bob another beer had been in her forties when I’d last seen her; she came from the
past,
which would always be with me.

“The wrestlin’ club is the New York Athletic Club—they have other sports there, for sure, but they weren’t bad at wrestlin’, Billy. You could probably do some practicin’ of your duck-under there,” Herm was saying. “Maybe ask that Arthur fella about it, Billy—after all these years, I’ll bet you could use some
practicin’.
”

“Herm, what if the wrestlers beat the shit out of me?” I asked him. “Wouldn’t that kind of defeat the purpose of Miss Frost and you showing me a duck-under in the first place?”

“Bob’s asleep, and he’s pissed all over himself,” the old coach abruptly observed.

“Uncle Bob . . .” I started to say, but Herm Hoyt grabbed the Racquet Man by both shoulders and shook him.

“Bob—stop pissin’!” the wrestling coach shouted.

When Bob’s eyes blinked open, he was as caught off-guard as anyone working in the office of Alumni Affairs at Favorite River Academy ever would be.

“España,” the Racquet Man said, when he saw me.

“Jeez, Bob—be careful what you say,” Herm Hoyt said.

“España,” I repeated.

“That’s where he is—he says he’s never coming back, Billy,” Uncle Bob told me.

“That’s where
who
is?” I asked my drunken uncle.

Our only conversation, if you could call it that, had been about Kittredge; it was hard to imagine Kittredge speaking Spanish. I knew the Racquet Man didn’t mean Big Al—Uncle Bob wasn’t telling me that Miss Frost was in Spain, and
she
was never coming back.

“Bob . . .” I started to say, but the Racquet Man had nodded off again. Herm Hoyt and I could see that Bob was still pissing.

“Herm . . .” I started to say.

“Franny Dean, my former wrestlin’-team manager, Billy—
he’s
in Spain. Your father is in Spain, Billy, and he’s happy there—that’s all I know.”

“
Where
in Spain, Herm?” I asked the old coach.

“España,” Herm Hoyt repeated, shrugging. “Somewhere in Spain, Billy—that’s all I can tell ya. Just keep thinkin’ about the
happy
part. Your dad is happy, and he’s in Spain. Your mom was never happy, Billy.”

I knew Herm was right about that. I went looking for Elaine; I wanted to tell her that my father was in Spain. My mother was dead, but my father—whom I’d never known—was alive and happy.

But before I could tell her, Elaine spoke to me first. “We should sleep in your bedroom tonight, Billy—not in mine,” she began.

“Okay—” I said.

“If Richard wakes up and decides to
say
something, he shouldn’t be alone—we should be there,” Elaine went on.

“Okay, but I just found out about something,” I told her; she wasn’t listening.

“I owe you a blow job, Billy—maybe this is your lucky night,” Elaine said. I thought she was drunk, or else I’d misheard her.

“What?” I said.

“I’m sorry for what I said about Rachel. That’s what the blow job is
for,” Elaine explained; she
was
drunk, extending the number of syllables in her words in the overly articulated manner of the Racquet Man.

“You don’t
owe
me a blow job, Elaine,” I told her.

“You don’t want a blow job, Billy?” she asked me; she made “blow job” sound as if it had four or five syllables.

“I didn’t say I didn’t
want
one,” I told her. “España,” I said suddenly, because
that’s
what I wanted to talk about.

“España?” Elaine said. “Is that a kind of Spanish blow job, Billy?” She was tripping a little, as I led her over to say good night to Grandpa Harry.

“Don’t worry, Bill,” Nils Borkman suddenly said to me. “I am unloading the rifles! I am keeping a secret of the bullets!”

“España,” Elaine repeated. “Is it a
gay
thing, Billy?” she whispered to me.

“No,” I told her.

“You’ll show me, right?” Elaine asked. I knew that the trick would be keeping her awake until we were back in Bancroft Hall.

“I love you!” I said to Grandpa Harry, hugging him.

“I love
you,
Bill!” Harry told me, hugging me back. (His falsies had to have been modeled on someone with breasts as big as my aunt Muriel’s, but I didn’t tell my grandfather that.)

“You don’t
owe
me anything, Elaine,” I was saying, as we left that River Street house.

“Don’t say good night to my mom and dad, Billy—don’t get anywhere near my dad,” Elaine told me. “Not unless you want to hear about more casualties—not unless you have the stomach to listen to more fucking body-counting.”

After hearing about Trowbridge, I truly didn’t have the stomach for more casualties. I didn’t even say good night to Mrs. Hadley, because I could see that Mr. Hadley was loitering around.

“España,” I said quietly to myself, as I was helping Elaine up those three flights of stairs in Bancroft Hall; it’s a good thing I didn’t have to get her as far as
her
bedroom, which was on the frigging fifth floor.

As we were navigating the third-floor dormitory hall, I must have softly said “España” again—not so softly, I guess, because Elaine heard me.

“I’m a little worried about what kind of blow job an España is, exactly. It’s not rough stuff, is it, Billy?” Elaine asked me.

There was a boy in his pajamas in the hall—such a little boy, and he had his toothbrush in his hand. From his frightened expression, he obviously
didn’t know who Elaine and I were; he’d also clearly heard what Elaine had asked about the España blow job.

“We’re just fooling around,” I told the small boy. “There’s not going to be any rough stuff. There’s not going to be a blow job!” I said to Elaine and the boy in pajamas. (With his toothbrush, he’d reminded me of Trowbridge, of course.)

“Trowbridge is dead. Did you know Trowbridge? He was killed in Vietnam,” I told Elaine.

“I didn’t know any Trowbridge,” Elaine said; like me, Elaine couldn’t stop staring at the young boy in pajamas. “You’re crying, Billy—please stop crying,” Elaine said. We were leaning on each other when I managed to open the door to silent Richard’s apartment. “Don’t worry about him crying—his mom just died. He’ll be all right,” Elaine said to the boy holding his toothbrush. But I had seen Trowbridge standing there, and perhaps I foresaw that there were more casualties coming; maybe I’d imagined all the body-counting in the not-too-distant future.

“Billy, Billy—please stop crying,” Elaine was saying. “What did you mean? ‘There’s not going to be a blow job!’ Do you think I’m
bluffing
? You know me, Billy—I’ve stopped bluffing. I don’t
bluff
anymore, Billy,” she babbled on.

“My father is alive. He’s living in Spain, and he’s happy. That’s all I know, Elaine,” I told her. “My dad, Franny Dean, is living in Spain—España.” But that was as far as I got.

Elaine had slipped off her coat as we’d stumbled through Richard and my mother’s living room; she’d kicked off her shoes and her skirt, upon entering my bedroom, and she was struggling to unbutton the buttons on her blouse when—on another level of half-consciousness—Elaine saw the bed of my adolescent years and dove for it, or she somehow managed to throw herself on it.

By the time I knelt next to her on the bed, I could see that Elaine had completely passed out; she was limp and unmoving as I took off her blouse and unclasped her rather uncomfortable-looking necklace. I put her to bed in her bra and panties, and went about the usual business of getting into the small bed beside her.

“España,” I whispered in the dark.

“You’ll show me, right?” Elaine said in her sleep.

I fell asleep thinking about why I had never tried to find my father. A part of me had rationalized this: If he’s curious about me, let him find me,
I’d thought. But in truth I had a fabulous father; my stepfather, Richard Abbott, was the best thing that ever happened to me. (My mom had never been happy, but Richard was the best thing that ever happened to her, too; my mother must have been happy with Richard.) Maybe I’d never tried to find Franny Dean because finding him would have made me feel I was betraying Richard.

“What’s up with you, Jacques Kittredge?” the Racquet Man had written; of course I fell asleep thinking about that, too.

Do epidemics herald their own arrivals, or do they generally arrive unannounced? I had two warnings; at the time, they seemed merely coincidental—I didn’t heed them.

It was a few weeks after my mother’s death before Richard Abbott began to speak again. He continued to teach his classes at the academy—albeit by rote, Richard had even managed to direct a play—but he had nothing personal to say to those of us who loved him.

It was April of that same year (’78) when Elaine told me that Richard had spoken to her mother. I called Mrs. Hadley immediately after I got off the phone with Elaine.

“I know Richard’s going to call you, Billy,” Martha Hadley told me. “Just don’t expect him to be quite his old self.”

“How is he?” I asked her.

“I’m trying to say this carefully,” Mrs. Hadley said. “I don’t want to blame Shakespeare, but there’s such a thing as too much graveyard humor—if you ask me.”

I didn’t know what Martha Hadley meant; I just waited for Richard to call. I think it was May before I finally heard from him, and Richard just started right in—as if we’d never been out of touch.