The Lost Language of Cranes (29 page)

In the oncoming dark, around five-thirty, she wandered by Nick's office and fingered outside, looking at the framed book jackets that lined the wall. She did this sometimes, curious, she supposed, to see what he looked like. He was standing by die window, watching night settle like a fine, hovering mist over midtown. He was a tall, soft man who should have been dark, who should have bronzed on islands, but who had instead chosen the pale life (and acquired the pale skin) of the bookworm, the perpetual library-dweller, white skin at odds with his black hair and eyes. Languorously he turned, saw her, smiled. "How's it going, Rose?"

"Fine," she said. "I hadn't seen you for a while, so I just—thought I'd drop by."

They went out for a drink. He told her how one of his sons had won a major award in graphic design at college, how another was starting medical school at Downstate in the fall. There was a daughter somewhere in the background, but she was a problem: drugs, obesity, abortion. He laid out the woes like an agenda for a meeting. The daughter was living in Seattle, in a house so filthy her mother had felt obliged to go out and buy Pine-Sol and Lysol and Ajax—but he didn't want to go into it all here, and poured some more Perrier into his glass.

"How's Nadia's health?" Rose asked.

"Fine, fine. No problems since that first surgery. She asks about you sometimes, by the way." They had met only once, at an office party. Nadia was a kind, smiling woman who had aged faster than Nick, had had to suffer for years looking too old for him.

"And your family?" Nick asked.

Rose shrugged. "Not much to tell," she said. "Philip's still working at the same job. Owen—well, he's depressed a lot of the time. There are some hard things going on."

"Do you want to talk about them?"

Rose smiled tightly, shook her head no.

Afterwards, on the streetcorner outside the bar where they could not have gotten a cab if their lives depended on it, Rose said, "Nick, I just wanted to let you know, I think about you these days. Often. More often than I'd have guessed I would."

He smiled. "I think about you, too," he said. But she knew it for a lie.

Finally they found a cab. She climbed in, gave the driver the address. A triptych of little girls' faces stared at her from above the rearview mirror. Siren, witch, hag, Rose thought, and had a vague recollection of having ridden in this very same cab only a few months before.

At the corner she got out, overtipped the driver, and hurrying back toward where the doorman rubbed his hands together and whistled, caught a glimpse of her face in a store window—the face of a worried, older woman, someone she might pass on the street and feel sorry for, someone, at an easier time in her life, she might have felt grateful not to be.

F
ROM THE DEPTHS
of his office, at five o'clock, Owen dialed, listened to ringing.

"Hello, Macho Man, can I help you?"

"I saw your ad in Honcho. I—well—I—I'm interested—"

"Which of the men do you want to talk to?"

He paused.

"Bruce," he said.

"Okay, let me just check—yes, Brace is available. Now, have you used Macho Man before?"

"No."

"Okay, then I'll just explain how it works. Our rates are thirty-five dollars for the first half-hour, thirty for the second half-hour. You can pay with MasterCard, Visa, or American Express. After you give your card number and your phone number,
I'll call Bruce and he'll call you. We pay for all phone charges that way."

Owen took a gulp of bourbon. "Okay," he said. He read out his office phone number. He read out his American Express number.

"Okay, Mr. Benjamin, now I'll just get an approval code on that card number and Bruce will call you back. Is there anything special you want me to tell him?"

"No," Owen said.

"All right, you'll be hearing from him shortly."

Owen hung up, poured more bourbon into his glass. After a few minutes the phone rang.

"Yeah, this is Bruce."

Owen laughed involuntarily. "Hi, Bruce."

"What's your name, cocksucker?"

"Bowen."

"Asslicker. You want to suck my cock?" Bruce said.

Owen took another gulp of bourbon. "Sure," he said.

"You better do better than 'Sure,'" Bruce said. "'Cause I want it bad." He growled. "I'm sitting here in my hardhat, I just got off an asskicking day at the site. I've got on my oldest pair of jeans, my cock is aching, it's so hard inside my jock. My wife won't go near me. I ain't had a piece of ass for weeks. You know how that makes your cock feel?"

"Uh-huh."

"I know you know. So you'll help me out, buddy, won't you?" Brace said. "You gonna take it out for me?"

"Uh-huh."

"Yeah, that's right. You're taking it out, you're licking it—oh yeah, that feels good, you fairy cocksucker. Better than my wife can do, let me tell you. Yeah, that's right. Suck my thick rod. Suck your hardhat daddy's thick rod."

Owen started to cry.

"Hey," Bruce said, after a moment. "Hey, easy there. What's wrong?"

Owen cried. "Hey, man, chill out," Brace said. "Are you okay?"

Owen tried to control the sobs heaving through him. He blew his nose, noticed his wedding ring, burst into tears again.

"Are you okay?" Bruce said. "What's going on? Did I do something wrong?"

Owen cried. "I'm sorry," he managed to say. "Go on."

"Hey, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you," Bruce said, and Owen cried.

"Bowen? Bowen?" Brace said. "Is that your name? Listen, do you want something more vanilla? Do you want me to hang up or what?"

No answer.

"Bowen?" Bruce asked. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Owen hung up.

Philip had just come back from work and was in the shower when the phone started ringing. He leapt out, nearly slipping on the wet floor, terrified in case it was Eliot.

"Philip, it's your father," Owen said, surprising him with the familiarity of his voice. It had been a long time since they had spoken on the phone.

"Dad," Philip said, pulling a towel around himself, "how are you?"

"Fine, fine," Owen said. "I was just sitting here in my office after a day's work and I started thinking—it certainly has been a long time since I called my son. So I thought I'd give you a ring."

"Well, that's great," Philip said, "just great. I'm very happy you decided to." He settled himself uncomfortably into a chair. "So—are you well?" he asked.

"Let's not talk about me," Owen said briskly. "I called to tell you—well, I just wanted you to know, your being gay—is okay by me. I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, is there?"

Was he drunk? Philip sank farther into the chair. He could not be sure if he was drunk. His father never drank much—at least not as far as he knew.

Soapy water dripped from him, like cold sweat, and he realized he had to give an answer. "Well," he said, "as far as I'm concerned, the only thing that's wrong is hiding the truth. That's what I feel."

"Exactly," Owen said. "So I say, bravo."

"Bravo?"

"Yes. Bravo."

He
was
drunk. "Dad," Philip said, "this is a real surprise to me. I mean, it just never occurred to me you might call me like this. I'm very touched, very happy."

"I'm glad," Owen said. "Because that's why I did it."

"It's very important to me to have your approval. It always has been. But do you know—is Mom feeling any better about all of this?"

"Oh, your mother," Owen said, and Philip closed his eyes. "You know your mother. Creature of moods. I'm sure she'll be fine soon."

Philip was quiet a moment. "Yes," he said. "I suppose."

Then there was some sort of confusion on Owen's end of the line—a wet crashing, a gasp. "Dad?" Philip said. "Dad? Are you there? Are you okay?"

"What? Oh, fine, son. Just fine. I just dropped the phone for a second. Now listen—I want you to tell me something. Can you always tell when someone is gay, just right off?"

Philip gulped again. "Well," he said, "I mean—it's hard to say. Sometimes, I guess—"

"How can you tell?"

"Because gay people give off signals to other gay people, I guess—little signals that individually, maybe, aren't noticeable, or aren't noticeable to someone who isn't attuned to picking them up. I mean, it's like they give off a little sexual buzz around men but not around women. Do you see what I mean?" He himself hardly knew what he meant.

"The reason I'm asking," Owen said, "is because there's a young English teacher here—well, to be blunt, I can't tell
what
he is." He laughed strangely. "But he's very charming, very nice, and—well, if he is, you know—gay—I think you might like him."

Philip didn't answer.

"Philip?" Owen said. "Philip? Are you all right? Is that a bad thing of me to say?" His voice suddenly grew much softer. "Oh, I knew it was a mistake," he said. "Forget it, just forget I called."

"No, no," Philip said. "It's just—well, it's just a little bit of a surprise to find myself being fixed up by my father. I'm just a little taken off guard, Dad." He laughed, actually pronouncing the syllables: "Ha-ha."

"I knew it was a mistake," Owen said. "Just forget about it."

"No, Dad, I don't want to forget about it, really," Philip said. "I—I appreciate your thinking of me." He tried to steady his breathing. "What more can you tell me about him?"

"Not much. His name is Winston Penn. He's Southern, I think. Very handsome, charming—that is, at least he seems thai way to me. I mean, the women here, they're all crazy about him, but he doesn't seem to have a girlfriend, which is why I wondered—"

"Well, you never can tell."

"No," Owen agreed. "You never can tell."

Again, there was some sort of catastrophe on Owen's end of the line. "Listen, Dad," Philip said, "I really appreciate your thinking of me—but if he isn't gay, it could be embarrassing, very embarrassing, for you as well as me—and anyway, even if he is, if he's so handsome and wonderful, I'm sure he has a boyfriend already."

"You're right," Owen said, still sniffling a little. "Which is why I wouldn't think of doing anything too deliberate. But it doesn't have to be an official date. I was just thinking—maybe I'd invite him to dinner one Sunday, when you come over—well, who knows. I'd like to do this for you. I very much like this young man, and—well, I'd be happy if you like him too. But I'll think about it. We'll see."

"I do appreciate your concern, Dad, even if it may not sound that way." Philip paused. "I mean, it's very special having a father who would do something like this—so special it's even a little surprising for me. But I feel very lucky to know my father cares so much. To be honest, it's more than I ever expected."

He smiled, as if Owen could see him.

"It's nothing," Owen said.

A beep sounded. "Just a second," Philip said, and pushed down the receiver buttons. Brad was on the other line. "Hold on a second," Philip said. "Have I got a story for you."

He clicked back to his father. "Dad," he said. "I have to take this call. Can I call you back tomorrow?"

"What's happening?" Owen said. "Where did you go? Why did you cut me off?"

"I didn't, it's just my call waiting."

"I don't understand," Owen said. "You were there and then you were gone. Did you cut me off? I don't understand."

"It's nothing, Dad," Philip said. "It just means I have another call. Listen, I'll talk to you soon, okay?"

"Okay. Goodbye, son."

"Goodbye."

He pushed down the buttons on the top of the phone, and Brad returned. "My God," Philip said.

"What's wrong?" asked Brad.

"I just had the strangest conversation with my father."

"What about?"

"Well, he was asking me a whole lot of questions—things like, 'how can you tell if someone's gay.' And then he suddenly announces there's this young teacher at the school he thinks is gay, and he wants to fix me up with him."

"You're kidding."

"No I'm not kidding. I mean, what should I think? I want to run away from him. I know that's terrible. Isn't this a good thing—doesn't it mean he's really taking my being gay seriously?"

"I guess it does," Brad said.

"You sound doubtful."

"I've just never heard of a parent doing anything like that."

"It's not something you could imagine your parents doing?" Brad spoke often and lovingly about his parents.

"I would die of embarrassment if they ever tried to fix me up," Brad said. "I think they would die of embarrassment, too. Which simply means, they have their limits, and they're happy to take advantage of my embarrassment since it means they can stick to them."

"There
is
something a little weird about it."

"Maybe your father's secretly gay and has a wild homosexual life," Brad said, and laughed.

"Brad!" Philip laughed. "He's my
father.
He's married to my mother."

"It's probably one of those mid-life things," Brad said. "Maybe he's just fascinated by homosexuality because he's bored, because it's something different that he doesn't know anything about."

"Yes," Philip said. "That's probably what it is."