Lives of the Circus Animals (18 page)

H
enry Lewse stood on the bright stage of the Booth Theatre, wearing a yachting cap and wagging dinky pretzel eyeglasses at the female lead as he
talked
a song at her:

 

It's awful to be rich.
You may not own a stitch.
But sing about your poverty
And folks will give you sympathy,
While I can never bitch.
How awful to be rich.

 

Toby sat in the sixth row, in a blue blazer and red striped tie—Frank's tie, which he had forgotten to return after rehearsal—slunk down in his seat. He felt very grave and professional watching Henry Lewse perform. What a fine actor, he thought. What a great man. Why was he wasting himself in crap?

Toby hated
Tom and Gerry
almost as soon as the curtain went up. It was so silly, so unrealistic—even for a musical. And adding to the pain, each and every male actor, from the lead down to the Pullman porters, made Toby think: I could be him, I could do that. It hurt like hell that he wasn't onstage with the others.

But he didn't feel like that with Henry. No, Henry was brilliant. Henry was irreplaceable. Henry was his friend. The man seemed so much larger here, magnified by lights and audience and laughter, than he had visiting the Apollo Room at the Gaiety.

“I suppose your husband is big,” said Henry.

“Oh, quite big,” said Gerry, the runaway wife.

Henry sighed. “One of the tragedies of this world is that the fellows most in need of a thrashing tend to be enormous.” A perfect note of absurdity made the dry words hilarious. Not that Toby laughed, but he felt the line click. And the audience laughed—good, strong, hundred-dollar guffaws, which was how much tickets cost.

As soon as Henry stepped offstage, Toby went back to hating the play. It was a bored kind of hatred, a bad mood that dug up all the dark thoughts he'd been having today. About Caleb, of course, who not only broke his heart but also accused him of being a whore who'd go to bed with a Broadway star. Ridiculous. Then Frank, who said Caleb wasn't rejecting love, he was rejecting Toby. What did Frank know? And here was Henry Lewse himself, who assumed that just because he was a rich and famous actor, he could snap his fingers and Toby would come running. If he thought dinner and a ticket to a bad musical were all it took to get into Toby Vogler's pants, he was even dumber than the others.

Henry reappeared and Toby couldn't hate him anymore. Hackensacker and his sister, the much-married Princess Centimillia, sang a duet, “Loving Lovely Love,” where Henry took the dumb rhyme of “matrimony” and “baloney” and made it funny with a deft little pause. But Henry Lewse onstage was different from the fellow who'd meet Toby after the show tonight, magical and airy. Did some of that Henry rub off on the letchy, earthy, human Henry? The letchy Henry was the only Henry that liked Toby.

The show got better before it got worse. The ending was real stupid, with the introduction of identical twins followed by a double wedding. But when the curtain came down, the audience jumped to its feet. They couldn't wait to give it a standing ovation.

Toby remained stubbornly, righteously seated—until Henry came out. Then Toby rose, and his beating hands joined the others. When he heard a few hollers, he let out one of his own. “Bravo!” he cried, but was ashamed his voice sounded so thin.

Henry stood twenty feet away, smiling, bowing. And then he saw Toby. Yes, he must have seen Toby because he winked. Toby almost burst out laughing, he was so tickled. He turned to the middle-aged couple beside him to see if they saw that. But no, they were busy picking their programs off the floor.

And then it was over. The cast stepped backward, the curtain fell,
the lights came up. All over the auditorium people were smugly smiling and sighing, as if after sex. Toby joined the throng moving toward the row of open doors, although nobody was in a hurry to get outside. It was still raining.

Toby opened his umbrella, stepped into the patter, and went around the corner to Shubert Alley. It felt good to be out in the cool air and tapping rain—so good that he was tempted to keep walking and head home and forget about dinner with Henry.

He came to the stage door. He was surprised that nobody else stood there: no friends or fans or autograph hounds eagerly waiting under the dripping eaves.

People began to come out. Toby had to look twice to recognize cast members: he saw Gerry behind a young woman's yawn, the Princess Centimillia in a motherly profile. Toto the gibberish-talking houseguest was just another East Village homo—he actually cruised Toby as he walked by. Then came Henry, who had started the evening as Henry, turned into Hackensacker, and now was Henry again. He wore denim, just like the night they'd met.

“Tobias! Hello!” He lifted both arms, uncertain if they were at the embracing stage yet, then lowered one arm and shook Toby's hand. “I forgot it was tonight. Such a nice surprise to spot you at the curtain call. So. Did you like it?”

“I liked
you
. You were wonderful. Henry.” He almost said “Mr. Lewse,” but no, he would call him Henry tonight. “You turned a pig's ear into a silk purse.”

“You think so? Well, it's not great theater, but it does provide one with opportunities. I try to make the best of them. I'm just glad you enjoyed it.”

“Everybody did. The audience loved you.” Which was true, but Toby feared Henry wouldn't believe him when there were no other fans. “Uh, I'm surprised I'm the only one out here.”

“So you are, so you are.” He looked around. “It
is
a weeknight. And it's raining. And stage-door Johnnies are a thing of the past. Except in
your
line of work.” He smiled. “I see you brought an umbrella. Very smart. Shall we?”

They stepped out into the rain. Henry stayed close, but he didn't touch Toby, only the slender shaft of his umbrella.

“Let's catch a cab. And then, if you don't mind, I'd like to swing by my place and change into something more spiffing. Jean Georges is a coat-and-tie kind of restaurant, even at midnight. I look rather grungy in my blue jean layabouts. Like rough trade.”

“Sure,” said Toby, even as he thought: Don't give me that change-my-clothes crap. You just want to get me home and get me into bed. It'll serve me right. It'll serve Caleb right too.

Henry flagged down a cab. “West Fifty-fifth and Broadway,” he told the driver, then fell back into the cushions and grinned at Toby. But instead of pouring on the flattery, as Toby expected, he fretted about his performance. “You think it went okay? I wish I could say the same. I
had
it a few weeks ago. Now it's beginning to slip.” He shook his head. “The hardest thing about comedy is keeping it new. With drama you can explore, build, try other approaches. But with comedy there's usually only one way to do it, and once you find it, things start to go downhill.”

They arrived at a brand-new apartment building and entered a glassed-in lobby with a doorman in a white shirt.

“Good evening, Mr. Lewse. Good show tonight?”

“I've done better. But I've done worse too. Thank you for asking, Mike.”

Toby watched the doorman's face for a smirk or scowl, something to indicate what he thought of Henry Lewse bringing a young male home, but the man betrayed no reaction.

As they rode up in the elevator, Toby decided: Oh, all right. Go ahead. Take me to bed. Let's get it over with.

He smiled and nodded at Henry Lewse. Henry Lewse smiled and nodded back.

The elevator doors opened and they walked down a carpeted hallway. Henry unlocked a door. “My home away from home.”

Toby followed him inside. Everything was in whites and grays, with one room filled by a sinister steel contraption that Toby didn't recognize at first. “You have your own Nautilus machine?”

“It
seemed
like a good idea at the time. The convenience. Exercising at home, however, you don't meet as many interesting men as you would at a gym. Go ahead. Give it a test drive.”

Toby entered the room, but he did not go to the machine, he went
toward the huge windows that looked out on the city. They were fifteen stories up and buildings stood all around. The illuminated peaks seemed to steam in the rain.

“Oh wow. It's like one of the Batman movies.”

“You think?” said Henry. “Not
Blade Runner
?”

Toby stood there, looking at the view, at his reflection, at the reflection of Henry Lewse in the doorway behind him. He waited for Henry to come up, embrace him from behind, and—

“Excuse me.” Henry's reflection turned away, entered another room, the bedroom, and
closed
the door.

Toby was confused. He was hurt. What's going on? Had Henry Lewse changed his mind? He doesn't want to seduce me?

Toby went to the bedroom door. He lightly knocked. “Henry?”

“Yes?”

“Here's a suggestion. You want to skip going out and order in? Pizza or Chinese food?”

The door popped open. Henry was barefoot but in his jeans and a sleeveless undershirt. An ugly unmade bed gaped behind him.

Toby expected a lewd smile, but the old man only looked confused. “Are you sure? I wanted to take you to Jean Georges. I hear it's very good. And it's so rare I get company for dinner.”

“Seems like so much trouble,” said Toby. “And it's expensive. And late. And I'm not that hungry.”

“We
could
stay in,” Henry offered. “There's first-rate Chinese nearby.” He let out a long, mock sigh. “You spoil my plans. I was going to wine you and dine you, stupefy you with food, then bring you back here, show you some dirty pictures, and take advantage of your innocence. But I suppose none of that appeals to you?”

He was smiling. He sounded deliberately absurd, a bit like Hackensacker, in fact. Toby didn't know what to say.

“I see,” said Henry—Toby couldn't guess what he saw. “Well. First things first.” He led Toby into the kitchen and took out a Chinese take-out menu. “I don't know about you, but I'm famished.”

He picked up the phone and placed an order.

“Scallion pancakes. Crystal shrimp dumplings. General Tso's chicken. Broccoli with garlic sauce.” Everything sounded new and wonderful when read out in that deep plush voice. “That should be
enough, don't you think?” he asked Toby. “Fifteen minutes? Thank you.” He clicked off the phone. “There. We've taken care of dinner. Would you like a drink? Oh sorry. You don't drink. Only hot cocoa.”

“No, I'll have a drink.”

Henry gave Toby a surprised, disapproving look. “That's a bad idea, don't you think?”

“Why?” Was he kidding?

“If we both start drinking, we might forget who we are, and who knows where
that
might lead?”

Toby laughed. “Isn't that where you wanted it to go?”

“Of course. But I presume you don't.”

Toby could feel himself stirring in his trousers.

“Maybe I do. Tonight.”

“You're just being polite,” said Henry.

“You don't know what I want,” said Toby with a nervous laugh.

“Do
you
know?” asked Henry.

Toby stood by the refrigerator, Henry by the stove. He did not look so old despite the gray hair peeking from the neck of his undershirt.

Toby stepped forward. He slipped his thumbs into the denim belt loops. He pulled Henry toward him. He'd forgotten how much taller he was than Henry.

“What's this?” said Henry. “And this? And what about—”

Toby silenced him with his mouth. He was startled by the lively tongue inside, but he pressed on and embraced Henry harder. Without thinking, he shoved a hand down the seat of a famous man's jeans. He stroked a cool, hairy butt, not as hairy as Caleb's, and not as solid as Toby liked, but not flabby or clammy either.

He broke off the kiss so he could think more clearly. “Wow. Double wow. I can't believe I'm doing this with an actor whose work I admire so much.”

“My boy—If you're going to blow smoke up my ass, wouldn't you be more comfortable doing it in bed?”

P
each skin. Blond haze. Freckles. The body stretched out before him, nearly level with his eyes, a lion-colored landscape, a Sahara of flesh. The slope of abdomen rose in the distance to the ridge of rib cage. Down below was a belly button like a water hole and, closer still, just under Henry's nose, a pale briar of pubic hair.

It's remarkable how sexless sex can be after the first half hour. Henry had to remind himself that the rubbery stiffness filling his mouth was Toby Vogler's penis. He pictured Toby himself on the other side of his rib cage, head on a pillow, hand behind his head, frowning at the ceiling. The boy was not a terribly demonstrative bedmate, offering little more than an occasional murmur from the back of his throat, like a dog chasing rabbits in its sleep.

Toby or not Toby. That is the question.

Here he was, the Hamlet of his generation, down on all fours between a muscular pair of American legs, trying to make it talk.

Toby lifted his hips, took a sharp breath, and seemed to swell against Henry's tongue. But no. He was only readjusting his buttocks, as if one cheek were going to sleep.

“Put your hand here. No. Here,” Toby commanded.

Henry had lost his own erection days ago. All he wanted now was to hear Toby groan and see him spurt. Orgasm had become a point of honor.

He was not entirely surprised. He had been caught off guard when they first arrived at the apartment and Toby started dropping hints, as light as crowbars, that he expected Henry to make a pass. It was a bit unnerving, like seeing a chess piece move itself, yet promising. But then they kissed and Henry could not find Toby's tongue. He had to chase
around his mouth before he caught it. When he opened his eyes, wondering what was wrong, he found Toby's eyes already wide open in front of him, like the eyes of a terrified horse. Toby quickly shut them, suggesting a child feigning sleep, and Henry wondered, Am I like kissing Hitler?

But Toby did not flee. He let Henry take him to bed. He let Henry undress him. But he had looked sexier in clothes.

His trousers, for example, were not as loose as the ones he wore the night they met; the fold in the middle of his bum was smaller, though it too flicked back and forth when he walked, but more quickly, like the tail of a puppy dog. Inside the trousers were underpants, white with some kind of mathematical formula on the waistband—as if his playwright used him as a notepad. Henry had been overjoyed to kneel down, rub his face in white, then slide the underpants down and release a cock as excited as his own. It had been downhill ever since.

If I were his age, thought Henry, and my prick were in Olivier's mouth, or even Gielgud's, the history alone would be enough to make me pop. What was the name of the boy who'd sat naked in his lap and asked to be jerked off while they watched a video of Henry's
Hamlet
? Now that was kinky, that was fun.

The phone rang.

“Want me to get it?” said Toby. He was closer to the nightstand. “Hello? Oh. It's our food. Shall I tell them to send it up?”

Henry had forgotten about dinner. It seemed like hours ago that he had ordered food. He nodded. His mouth was empty now, but numb. His tongue forgot how to shape words.

“Sure. Send him up,” said Toby, who was hardly winded.

Henry sat up, curling and rolling his lips back to life. He looked down at his bedmate. The boy stopped being a problem in hydraulics and became a person again, albeit a person with an erection—it lay bright red on his stomach like the club from a Punch and Judy show. Toby gazed up at Henry, trying out different expressions: an amused smile, a sad frown, an apologetic smirk.

The door buzzed. “Right back,” Henry said hoarsely and threw a towel around his waist.

He opened the door on a Chinese gentleman in a yellow slicker, a middle-aged fellow who instantly averted his eyes.

“Oh, sorry,” said Henry. “I'd given up on you. I was just about to step in the shower.”

The fellow nodded. “Sure, sure. No problem. Twenty-five ten.”

Henry was counting out the money when he noticed the man peeking from under his eyebrows into the apartment. Henry sniffed the air, wondering if the man could smell Toby on him.

“Thank you,” said the man when he took the money. “Enjoy. Enjoy all things. Much good. Our age. Good night.”

Henry carried the shopping bags of food back to the kitchen. Our age, indeed, he thought.

Toby appeared in the doorway. He was still naked.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Don't hate me.”

“Nothing to hate. It happens.” Henry was confused by how sad he felt to see him here, the boy from the Gaiety, standing nude in his kitchen. Be careful what you wish for.

“I guess I'm just feeling so awed to be with an actor that I admire so much.”

“Oh please. I'm not your type. Simple as that. You like me enough to get hard, but not enough to get off.” He hesitated. “Not to put too fine a point on it, but I
am
old enough to be your father.”

“I like you. Really. But I guess I'm still in love with Caleb.”

“Yes. There is that.” Henry was actually glad to remember this other reason.

“Did you want me to go?”

“Don't be ridiculous. We haven't had dinner yet.”

“I'd like that.” He looked relieved. “Should I get dressed?”

“Or stay as you are. Whatever makes you comfortable.” Henry smiled, daring Toby to remain naked, even though he felt judged by the boy's body. “I think I'll be a nudist myself tonight,” he declared, undid his towel, and tossed it. He slapped his solid, youthful stomach.

Toby frowned and looked away.

“But
you
get dressed,” said Henry. “It'll be like the night we met—with the roles reversed.”

That cinched it for Toby. “No, I'll stay like this,” he said. “I should probably wash my hands.”

“Good thinking.”

Henry knew he should be feeling angry and defeated right now,
but he felt fine. Somewhat sad, but not terribly so. He had reached the point in life where even bad sex was good sex.

A few minutes later they were sitting at the kitchen table. Henry briefly considered eating in the dining room, but it would've been too peculiar seeing their genitals through the glass tabletop.

He served up the food. “A nice paradox, don't you think? There's something absurd about a naked actor. Two naked actors is even more preposterous.”

“Could you pass the salt?”

They began to eat. The crunch of broccoli in the silent kitchen suggested two dinosaurs devouring a forest.

“‘We're actors. We're the opposite of people,'” Henry suddenly announced. “Who said that? It's not original.”

“I'm not a real actor,” said Toby. “Not yet anyway.”

“But you are,” Henry insisted. “The child is father to the man. Wishes are horses. All that stuff. But actors aren't so different from other people. Not at all. Whoever said that was talking nonsense. Once upon a time, maybe, when everyone else was God-fearing and selfless. We were freaks of vanity, monsters of egotism. Unlike the rest of humanity. Now, of course, everyone's a narcissist. Every nobody and somebody needs to strike a pose in the public mirror. Amateurs.”

Henry was talking only to hear himself talk, happily filling the silence. But during their first meeting, Toby had done most of the talking. The boy must be feeling very low if he could say so little.

“You are a real actor,” he assured Toby. “I recognize the need in you. The hunger. And your interest in craft. It's craft that separates a professional narcissist from an amateur.”

Toby took a deep breath. “I saw Caleb today. My ex?”

“Oh?” Henry speared a dumpling and plopped it in soy.

“I left some stuff at his place and had to pick it up.”

Henry shoved the dumpling in his mouth. “And he was wonderful,” he muttered around the dumpling. “And now you're in love again?”

“No. He was awful. So cool and casual. Like I was nobody. But I said some things I shouldn't have said.”

“Such as?”

“He had a boyfriend who died of AIDS. Six years ago. He's still in
love with him. You can't compete with a dead person. They're too perfect.”

“Quite true.” Henry had forgotten about Doyle's dead lover, but he doubted that the widower was still in love, not at his age.

“I said he loved him dead only because he didn't love him enough when he was alive and sick.”

“Oooo. That
is
bad.”

“Real shitty. He told me to get out. He must hate me now.”

“You poor guy.”

And Henry did feel sympathy, but for Doyle, not Toby. He was suddenly impatient and exasperated with the boy, and hurt.

“And that's why you were so eager to go to bed with me tonight? To get even with him.”

Toby stared. “No. I just—I saw you in a show and you were great, and I thought it'd be fun, and make me feel better if—I like you, Henry. I wanted to make you feel good.”

“Of course you did,” he said sharply. The boy hadn't done a damn thing for him. “Could you have orgasms with your playwright?”

Toby winced. “That's awfully personal.”

Henry shrugged. “Under these circumstances? I would think we could say absolutely anything to each other.”

Toby shifted around on his chair,
acting
naked.

“Did you fuck?” said Henry.

Toby looked down, his mouth pinched tight at the corners.

Henry leaned closer and softened his voice. “Or did you prefer frottage? Blow jobs or mutual wanks? What
do
you like?” If they couldn't fuck in the flesh, they could at least fuck in words.

“Crap!” Toby cried. “Crap, crap, crap!”

Henry leaned back in alarm.

“I can't do anything right! I can't be a good actor. I can't keep a boyfriend.” Tears garbled his speech. “I'm not even good sex!”

He was crying. There were actual tears on his cheeks. Henry scolded himself for being so cruel. He had never guessed his stripper could be so softhearted.

“Why am I a loser? Why does the world hate me?”

“There, there,” said Henry. He scooted his chair next to Toby's and lay an arm over his shoulder. “There, there.”

“Why am I such bad sex?”

“Nobody said you were bad sex. Every man has problems down there. You're not in the mood tonight. You're in love with someone else. Besides, an orgasm is only external behavior.”

The boy continued to sob and shudder. “Damn him,” he snarled. “Damn him, damn him, damn him.”

Henry held Toby against his chest. “This is why
I
never fall in love. You think about Him all the time. Not a real Him, an imaginary Him. The most hurtful Him. A Him who makes
you
feel like an absolute shit.”

Toby twisted his face around. His eyes were red, his upper lip slick with mucus.

“You never fall in love?”

“Almost never.” He passed Toby a paper napkin. “I fell in love constantly as a boy. But then I understood that it was useless to be unhappy. Life is short. I refuse to take myself—or anyone else—so seriously that they will cause me pain. Oh, I allow some suffering, for the sake of my work. But nothing too awful and human. It worked for Noël Coward. It worked for Oscar Wilde—well, up to a point. It's worked pretty well so far for Henry Bailey Lewse. Knock on wood.” Which he did.

“You must get real lonely.”

Henry was startled that Toby took his speech literally. Did he not hear the irony and wishful thinking folded into his philosophy?

“Not at all. I have my friends and mates and colleagues.” He laughed, kissed Toby on the temple, and released him. “I'm not nearly as lonely as you, my boy. I'm more self-sufficient. Besides, I get to break my heart playing at love for audiences. An actor does not need to feel a lot, you know, he needs only to feel accurately.”

“Maybe that's why I'm not a better actor. I feel too much.”

“It's possible.” Henry studied Toby, wondering how much of his drama was real, how much was put on, and if the boy could distinguish one from the other yet.

Toby resumed eating, so Henry resumed too. He was surprised the food was still hot. Their little scene had not lasted so long that anything got cold.

“I'd like to spend the night,” said Toby.

“Oh?”

“I don't want to sleep alone tonight. But I won't have sex with you. I'd like to, but I can't. I hope you understand.”

“I understand,” said Henry. “Well, I don't. Not really. But I'll accept your terms. Tonight.”

He glanced at Toby and looked him up and down. The boy's nudity had grown as natural and meaningless as the nudity of a Labrador retriever. But he was pretty. Henry enjoyed looking at him.

“Toby?” he said. “Do you use chemicals?”

“You mean drugs?”

“Nothing unnatural. I was thinking of grass.”

“No way. Not me. I've never done anything like that. I don't see the point. That's not why I am the way I am tonight.”

“I'm not accusing you. I was just—Oh never mind.”

He should've guessed that Toby was so square he wouldn't understand that Henry partook, much less want to join him. It was just as well. There was no telling what kind of demons would slip into Henry's head under the warm muzzy fog of a high while he shared his bed with this big blond Labrador of an American boy.