The First Warm Evening of the Year (10 page)

“And Marian was one of them?”

Alex tossed the rest of the mail aside, and looked over at me. “Simon was feeling nothing but miserable.” He sounded miserable when he said this, but there was more in his voice than unhappiness. I suppose if I'd been alone, or if Alex had stopped talking for a moment, I might have been able to remember some other time when he spoke to me about someone the way he was talking about Simon, except there had been no other time.

He leaned back in his chair. “Okay, comes his senior year in high school, Simon passes his Juilliard auditions, most of his friends would have traded places with him in an instant, and the ones who wouldn't were part of the competition and envious—and oh, let's not forget he was hitting his sexual stride and realizing he liked boys instead of girls, which may have been acceptable among the young dancers he was around, but it had to remain unmentioned and under wraps with the family and the rest of little old Shady Grove.”

The telephone rang, Alex lifted his finger and picked up the receiver. He stopped talking to me long enough to reschedule one of his patients. When he put down the phone, he said, “So now . . .” He folded his hands behind his head. “Simon was not only conflicted and scared, he had his very own secret life to deal with and there was no Laura to talk to, she was already at Juilliard, and he did what any panicked teenager would do. He ran away. Got on a bus and went to see his sister. It was her sophomore year—isn't that the year you met her? He says Laura tried to get him to talk to her, but he felt so ashamed of himself, and knew he was disappointing her, so all he did was self-destruct, slowly, and right before her eyes. And when she offered to help, he was sure it meant getting him to change his mind and go back to dancing. There seemed to be no way out for him, and that scared him even more.” Alex's voice never seemed to relax, and I was having a hard time identifying just what he was working toward.

He stood up, came over to the couch, sat, leaned back against the cushions, but he got up again to open the shutters, then sat in the chair facing mine.

He said, “You see, Geoffrey, as far as his parents were concerned, his friends, his teachers, even Laura, Simon's talent was a given, and therefore his love for dance must have also been a given. If Simon wanted anything less than artistic success, well, it was just plain negligent. At least that's what he was hearing from his parents. How could he do that to himself? Simon's fear that he might not be good enough was a
real
fear. But it was beyond his parents' comprehension. They told him that he may not be as good as he wanted to be
now
, but in time he would be, by the sheer will of his desire.” Alex raised his voice, “He really does believe that you and he have that in common. That you left the theater because you had real fears about your talent. I think it's good that he thinks that. It makes you less intimidating to him.”

“Why do I intimidate him?” I didn't wait for an answer. “I still don't get it.”

When he looked at me I could see that Alex was not pleased with what I'd said.

“What it really came down to is something you can understand and what you two
do
have in common: Simon didn't love it enough. Laura dearly loved playing the violin. I don't think she could understand how anyone could not love the thing they were most talented in. And I don't think she appreciated that Simon was convinced that he wasn't as talented as people thought he was, or she thought he was, and eventually everyone would realize that. He had real fears of failure and humiliation. And he felt trapped by a plan, a course, set out for him by other people. And when he came to New York and saw his sister, he felt that he'd let
her
down. Then that passed and what he had left was his anger.”

“Are you speaking professionally?”

He laughed at that. “I'm not so sure I'm totally objective. I don't—”

There was another phone call that Alex said he wanted to take. I thought he looked relieved to catch the break, and I didn't mind the interruption, but when I started to leave the room he put his hand over the mouthpiece and asked me where I was going, as though I might be running out on him. I mouthed the word
coffee
and went into the kitchen.

I stayed there for another minute or so. I was thinking about the way Alex was acting, and if I'd never heard my brother speak to me the way he was speaking to me today, I wondered why. What was Alex trying to tell me? What was I hearing? That he was defending Simon? Was it even more simple than that? Was he showing me how attracted he was to Simon? Was that supposed to be reason enough to consider why I was so uncomfortable around Simon? Was everything he'd been saying a preamble?

Alex came in before the coffee finished brewing. He gave both me and the carafe a glance, opened the refrigerator, pulled out a bottle of water, and stood there while the coffee dripped, not saying anything, doing nothing but making me nervous with his silence, and impatient with him.

“Where is this leading?” I wanted to know.

“I'm in the middle of telling you.” He watched me fill my cup and waited for me to walk out, go back to the office, and sit in my chair. He sat on the edge of the couch.

“Keep in mind that he was stuck at home, dealing with nothing but disapproval, feeling incredibly lonely, and when his parents weren't badgering him, Simon had to listen to them rant about Laura's romance with Steve. He was angry at Laura. With himself. With his parents. And, with all the wisdom of a seventeen-year-old, decided that the only way out was to do something so terrible that it would wreck not only the plans his parents were making, but also the perception they and everyone else had of him. It seemed to be a more palatable humiliation.”

“That's why he forged the checks?”

“It left him feeling depressed and ashamed of himself. There was a
lot
of shame attached to all of this. He'd not only disappointed his family and embarrassed them, he'd shamed himself; but I'd say the underlying feeling, what propelled him, was his anger.”

I was watching Alex more than listening to him. His face had lost that pink smooth look, and the softness of a night's sleep. And when he started to speak again, as he told me more about Simon, the more hurried his words became. The timbre rose and fell, as though he were anxious, unsure of what he was saying. I'd never heard Alex sound like that.

“Remember when he said that he went off to Bennington? Well, he was just trying to get away from his parents and feeling like a screwup, and all he did was behave like an even bigger screwup. He flunked out, came back, lived at home, and went to the local community college. He lasted all of two weeks before he ran away again. Simon admits that Shady Grove may not be anyone's idea of heaven-on-earth, but it was a very pleasant sort of place to live, and it was, after all, home. The home he exiled himself from.”

A discomforting thought occurred to me while Alex said this.

“What year was this?” I asked him.

“Your junior year. Isn't that what you want to know? Laura had already been to Paris with Steve. She was well on her way and having a great time. The two of you were. Simon wandered around, living by his wits, or lack thereof, first in Amherst, crashing with friends at UMass. Sleeping on dormitory floors, just as he said. Earning money delivering pizzas to some of the same kids who once envied him. Then Boston, crashing with friends at Berklee, B.U., Cambridge, for a while. He realized that he didn't know how to do anything. He worked as a busboy. A ‘coffee jockey' as he called it. Telemarketing. Even did some phone sex—straight and gay. You'd be surprised how many women are into that.”

I stopped him. “What you said before? Our having a great time? You're not saying that
I
had anything to do with Simon fucking up his life? Just because I didn't let him go to a wedding?”

“Do you think you did?”

“Come on, Alex—”

“New Hampshire . . . Boston. On his eighteenth birthday, he was clearing tables in a coffee shop on Brattle Street in Cambridge. That summer, he worked as a busboy on the Cape. Provincetown, at least until he found other means of support.”

“If you're trying to accuse me of—”

“It was 1986, the AIDS epidemic was quite real, and Simon was being really careful, and scared out of his mind because he's this beautiful boy, and everybody's pet. Plenty of parties, plenty of houses with soft comfortable beds to sleep in, until the end of summer and everyone's going home. Now, he hadn't seen his parents or Laura or slept in his own bed for more than a year. For all intents and purposes he was homeless. His parents were distraught. They only knew that he was alive by rumor. Some of the parents of Simon's friends would let them know the little they'd heard. Meanwhile, he kept wandering around, barely making enough money to keep from starving. This went on for about another year, when he decided to go to New York and see Laura for the first time in over a year. Maybe he thought that enough time had passed for a rapprochement. Most likely, he was just tired of running away, and was hoping he'd be able to muster a little comfort and forgiveness from his sister.”

I waited for him to go on, but he didn't speak. He sat back with his arms behind his head, looking self-satisfied.

I said, “Do you want me to say that Laura was too involved with Steve to attend to Simon's problems, and to understand that Simon was coming to her for help?”

“She was too involved with more than just Steve.”

It took me a moment or two to work out what Alex was getting at. “Laura was too busy with her own life, her own success to do anything to help Simon? That we were both being mean and self-absorbed? Is that what you're saying?”

“You were there. Is that what you remember?”

I was less concerned with what I remembered than looking for a clearer understanding of what Alex was doing. Was I being taken to task for being Laura's friend? Which was what I asked him.

He waved away the question with the back of his hand.

“I know Laura tried to help him, as much as she could. And Simon is well aware how deeply he hurt her. He was aware of it at the time. He'd embarrassed her in front of Steve and their friends. He was verbally abusive. He
stole
from her. And she was afraid of him.” Alex sat forward, rested his arms on his knees. But even when he spoke about Laura, it seemed to me he was talking about the kid in rumpled clothes, staring at his sister's apartment door.

“And Laura had her own problems to contend with,” he said. “Her parents forbade her to squander her talents playing jazz. They were both saddened and worried about her living with Steve in France. They were not reserved in their disapproval at the prospect. They said Laura was demeaning herself. They actually used the word
demeaning,
if you can imagine that. They played all of this out in front of Simon, and he'd alienated Laura so completely that it wasn't even a matter of her choosing to stay and help him. Simon had made that decision for her. And her parents, well, she must have felt that she was getting out from under her own family pressures. You'd know about that better than I. And that's where you came in: You did what Laura wanted you to do. How much thought you put into it, only you know, or knew at the time.”

“Look,” I said, “this was between the two of them. Brother and sister. It still is. I was never involved and don't try to get me involved in it now.”

Alex shook his head. His lips went taut for an instant before he said, “You're too smart for that kind of crap, so please, shut up and listen.” He adjusted a pillow behind his head and sat back. “You may not have thought what you did to Simon was cruel. You may have thought there was even something noble about it. But when he came to the city that morning, he needed to see his sister, he needed to connect with whatever was left between them, and you prevented that. And so did Laura.”

“How could either of us have known that?”

Alex shrugged his shoulders.

“You really think it would have made a difference in the way things have turned out for Simon?”

“He does.”

I started to speak again. Alex raised his finger to silence me.

He said, “After that weekend, thinking he'd missed Laura's wedding, Simon was more restless than ever. He simply drifted. He was fed up with all the menial work and started finding people willing to take care of him, and whenever that became too entangling, or became too tiring, he just walked out. No matter how much he tried, Simon just couldn't wrap his mind around being the son his parents expected him to be and how he embarrassed Laura and let her and everyone else down. And maybe there really was nothing much to him. Living a vagrant's life. And for all he knew, or could hope for, that was what he would be for the rest of his life. His parents died, two years apart, two other funerals he missed.”

Alex looked at his watch, closed his eyes for a moment, and let out a deep sigh.

He said, “One time, he came to New York and happened to see Laura and Steve playing a gig in the Village. He didn't try talking to her, only sat at the bar and got drunk. The same thing happened a few years later in San Francisco. Meanwhile, ten years passed, and Simon went from being a beautiful boy to just another man pushing thirty, trying to survive, charming people, conning them, living on borrowed money, sleeping in borrowed beds, wearing borrowed clothes, driving borrowed cars . . . Ten more years, and he's a grown man with no prospects, and nothing to show for his life, except the same charming and conniving self, only now with more effort and fewer results, barely keeping his head above water, leaving a trail of roommates in his wake. He kept up with Laura. Read all the reviews of their American dates.”

“Where
would
we be without Google.”