Read The Weekend: A Novel Online
Authors: Peter Cameron
Tags: #Gay & Lesbian, #Literature & Fiction, #Fiction, #Gay, #Romance, #Literary, #United States, #Gay Romance, #Genre Fiction, #Lgbt, #Gay Fiction, #Literary Fiction
The Weekend: A Novel (11 page)
“You’d better get your breath back first,” said John.
“I’m fine,” said Robert. “It’s just the cold water that makes me pant.” He began swimming upstream. When he turned around, John and Lyle were swimming toward the house. Robert floated on his back and watched them get out of the water and stand on the dock. They waved at him to return, but he purposefully misinterpreted their gesture and waved back. He waited until they were walking up the lawn before he began slowly swimming back to where he had left his clothes. The sun had sunk behind the trees, and the water, luminous moments ago, was now dark.
IT WAS A LARGE rock—a boulder—on a kind of shoal about a quarter of a mile upstream. Marian reached it first, drew herself up onto it, and lay down in the sun. She sat up when she heard Tony approach. “Come on, come on,” she said.
“It amazes me that I can still do this,” he said, as he hoisted himself beside her. “If I actually exercised regularly, think what a hunk I would be.” He lay beside her, facedown in the hot sun, panting. “Why are you in such good shape?” he asked.
“I’m not, really. But swimming is easy for me, for some reason. I’ve always been a good swimmer. Look: wave to Lyle. He’s waving.”
“Oh, let him wave,” said Tony. “He needs the exercise.”
Marian waved and then lay back down. “It’s worth it, isn’t it? To swim here. To feel like this.”
“Like what?” asked Tony.
“Exhausted,” said Marian. “But happy. And warm, after being cold. I like to be exhausted. I wish I were always exhausted like this. I could fall asleep.”
“It’s all the sex you’ve been having,” said Tony.
“Uhhmm,” said Marian. She swatted a fly that had landed on her stomach.
“Don’t fall asleep,” said Tony. “Talk to me.”
“What about?” asked Marian.
“I don’t know. About all the sex you’ve been having. Is John a good lover?”
“Yes,” said Marian. “But you shouldn’t ask questions like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because what if he weren’t? Besides, it’s none of your business, really.”
“Why do you think people are so reluctant to talk about sex?” asked Tony.
“I suppose because it’s private,” said Marian. “It’s intimate. People like to keep it between themselves.” She smiled a little, her eyes closed, her face angled toward the sun.
“I used to have a crush on John,” said Tony. “When I was about ten, and he was a teenager. My butch half-brother teenager from America. I was obsessed with him. It’s how I realized I was gay.”
“I trust you’ve gotten over it,” said Marian.
“Yes,” said Tony. “It was just a phase. He doesn’t seem sexy to me anymore.”
“He’s sexy to me,” said Marian. “What about Lyle? Is he a good lover?”
Tony turned over and looked toward the dock. Lyle had
draped Marian’s sundress over his head to shield him from the sun. “I don’t think sex is a high priority with Lyle,” he said.
draped Marian’s sundress over his head to shield him from the sun. “I don’t think sex is a high priority with Lyle,” he said.
“It is with you?” asked Marian.
“Yes,” said Tony. “As a matter of fact, I like sex.”
“Lyle doesn’t?”
“Not as much as me.”
“Is that a problem?” asked Marian.
“Not really,” said Tony.
“Are you faithful?”
“How do you mean?” asked Tony.
“You know how I mean. Are you monogamous?”
“No,” said Tony. “When I travel, sometimes, I have … liaisons.”
“Does Lyle know that?”
“Yes,” said Tony, “although we don’t really discuss it.”
“Then how does he know?”
“Because he knows.” Tony lay back down, this time faceup.
“Do you think he sees other men?”
“Lyle?” said Tony. “No.”
“But you’re not sure?” asked Marian.
“No,” said Tony. “Why? Do you know differently?”
“No,” said Marian. “Not that I’d tell you if I did.”
“We’re happy together,” Tony said. “That’s the important part.”
“Yes,” said Marian. “I agree.”
They were quiet a moment and then Marian said, “What’s it like to have liaisons?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, what’s it like? How does it make you feel?”
“I don’t know,” said Tony. “I only do it sometimes. If I happen to meet someone I’m particularly attracted to, who seems interested.”
“That doesn’t happen often?” asked Marian.
“Often enough.”
“Do you see such a person more than once?”
“Not usually. Sometimes.”
“Do you ever think you might fall in love with one of them? Or they with you?”
“No,” said Tony.
“But there’s nothing to stop love from occurring, is there?”
“I suppose not,” said Tony. “But it doesn’t.”
“You’re careful, aren’t you? When you have these liaisons?”
“What do you mean?”
“You know what I mean,” said Marian. “Are you safe?”
“Yes,” said Tony.
“Good,” said Marian. “I worry about you.”
Tony was silent a moment, and then said, “Although it’s a little too late for it to matter.”
“What?” asked Marian. “For what to matter?”
“I’m HIV positive,” said Tony.
Marian sat up. Tony lay still, his eyes closed.
“I’m sorry,” said Marian.
Tony said nothing.
“How long have you known?”
“A while,” said Tony. “About four years.”
“Four years! Why haven’t you told me?”
“I had decided not to tell anyone, until I thought it mattered. Except Lyle, of course.”
“I’m glad you told me. I’m just—I’m shocked. And sad. Although I know—I mean, well, think of Granger. He’s been HIV positive for years and years and he’s the healthiest person I know.”
“Yes,” said Tony. “Granger’s very healthy. Like an ox. Or is it a horse?”
“Are you healthy?” asked Marian.
“As healthy as I ever was,” said Tony. “Let’s drop it for now, though. I don’t know why I brought it up. I don’t like to dwell on it, especially on a day like today.” He sat up.
“O.K.,” said Marian. “Should we go back? Are you ready?”
“I think I’ll stay out here a while,” said Tony. “Tell Lyle to come get me in the punt. I doubt he’ll swim out.”
“All right,” said Marian. “Should I send a beer with him?”
“That would be great,” said Tony. “I’d love a beer.”
“Is there anything else you want?” asked Marian.
“No,” said Tony. “Just Lyle and a beer.”
Marian stood up. For a moment she didn’t move. She was looking toward the dock, and then she looked down at Tony. It appeared to him that she was crying. He put his hand up to shield his eyes, but as he did Marian turned and dove into the water. A little of her splash flung itself back onto his hot skin.
Marian drew herself up onto the dock and said to Lyle, “Tony wants you to go get him in the boat.”
“If he swam out there, he can swim back,” said Lyle.
“No,” said Marian. She pulled her dress off Lyle’s head and slid it over her own. “Go,” she said. “Get the boat. It’s in the shed. I’m going up to get him a beer. You can bring it out to him.”
“What’s this all about?” asked Lyle. “Since when do we cater to Tony?”
Marian looked as if she might hit him. “Since now,” she said. “Go.”
“HOW WAS YOUR SWIM?” Lyle asked, as Robert strode up the lawn. He was sitting in an Adirondack chair carefully placed on the one small ragged patch of sun that remained.
“Good,” said Robert.
“I didn’t know you were such a swimmer. Is that how you keep so fit?”
Robert didn’t know what to say. He was not a swimmer. It had been a miserable swim. He felt for a moment like crying.
“Careful,” said Lyle. “Don’t drip on Marian’s paintings.”
Robert looked down at the sketches that were spread on the lawn. They were good, he realized. “They’re mine,” he said.
“Are they?” said Lyle. “I should have known. I thought they were awfully good for Marian.”
“Marian told you she did them?”
Lyle laughed. “No. I just assumed she did, since she had the paints. May I have one?”
“Do you want one?” asked Robert.
“I don’t ask for things I don’t want,” said Lyle.
“Which one?”
Lyle pointed, with his toe, to the painting of the chair. Then he reached up and touched one of Robert’s nipples, which was shriveled with cold. Robert shivered. “Sit down,” Lyle said. “You’re freezing. I brought a towel out for you. Let me warm you up.” He patted his lap.
Robert hesitated. He was not sure he wanted to sit on Lyle’s lap. But Lyle reached up and pulled him down, and then gathered Robert in his arms, wrapping him in a towel that felt as thick as a blanket. He held him close. “I’m sorry,” Lyle said, “about before. I was awake.”
“I know,” said Robert. His teeth were chattering, from cold but also from some sense of nervousness.
“I was just a little … disoriented,” said Lyle. “But I should have said something. I shouldn’t have pretended to be sleeping. And about the picture. The photograph. I was just looking at it, you know, and … I meant to put it back up. But I fell asleep. I’m sorry.”
“It’s O.K.,” said Robert.
“Is it?” asked Lyle. “Are you?”
“Am I what?”
“O.K.”
“Yes,” said Robert. “Now.”
“Good,” said Lyle. “That’s what I want. Did you go for a walk?”
“Just a little.”
“Where?” Lyle kissed Robert’s bare back.
“Just down the road. There’s a cornfield out there.”
“Maybe we’ll have some corn for dinner. I’d love some corn. Do you like corn?”
“Yes,” said Robert.
“This is my favorite time of day,” said Lyle. “Early evening, midsummer. The world seems very perfect, doesn’t it?”
“How can it be very perfect?” asked Robert. “It’s either perfect or not.”
“No,” said Lyle. “There are many gradations of perfection. God was generous in that way.”
“Do you believe in God?” asked Robert.
“Intermittently,” said Lyle.
“I don’t,” said Robert. “And I think perfection is absolute.”
“You sound like me,” said Lyle. He kissed him again, and then ungently bit the place he had kissed. “Are you warm yet?” he asked.
“No,” said Robert. “Almost.”
Lyle rubbed Robert’s arms and then held him again, tighter. Very tightly. He moved his face so that he could reach his tongue into Robert’s ear, adjusted their positions so that his erection pressed more comfortably against Robert’s ass, and said, “Tell me when you’re nice and warm.”
Upstairs, in the bedroom, Robert shut the door. Lyle sat on the bed. Robert came over and knelt on the floor, placing his face on Lyle’s lap, on his damp bathing suit. It smelled of the river, and, more faintly, of Lyle. He could see Lyle’s hand poised on the peony-patterned bedspread. He picked it up and placed it on top of his own head. Lyle held it still for a moment, and then began to sift his fingers through Robert’s damp hair. “Wait,” Lyle said, standing up. He peeled off his bathing suit and tossed it on the
floor. He watched Robert step out of his shorts and then they both lay down, cool and naked, on the bed.
floor. He watched Robert step out of his shorts and then they both lay down, cool and naked, on the bed.
They lay like that for a moment, parallel, staring up at the ceiling, floating in the infused light of the yellow room, and then they turned toward each other.
“LISTEN,” SAID MARIAN, “CAN I stick him in with you?” She stood in the bathroom door, holding Roland. John was lying in the bathtub, reading the newspaper.
“Why?” he asked.
“I want to go for a walk. I won’t be long.” She began to undress Roland.
“Where are you going?”
“Just out. For a walk.”
“What’s wrong?” asked John.
“Nothing’s wrong. I just feel like getting away for a bit. By myself.”
“Are you all right?”
“Of course I’m all right. I’m fine. I’m just going for a walk.”
“What are Lyle and Robert doing?”
“Resting, I think. They’re behind closed doors.”
“What time is it?”
“About five thirty. I told them we’d have a cocktail about seven. Move your legs.” She picked up the denuded Roland and lowered him into the bath. “Here,” she said to John. “Give me the newspaper.”
John handed her the paper. “I was about to get out,” he said.
“No you weren’t,” said Marian. “But get out if you want. I won’t be long. And will you keep an eye on him this time?”
“What do you mean?” asked John.
“I mean this morning. When I came back from the station he was playing with a croquet wicket. I was furious.”
“I was watching him,” said John.
“No,” said Marian. “You weren’t. If you were watching him properly he wouldn’t have been playing with the wickets.”
“I was watching him. I had my eye on him. You can’t watch him every second.”
“Yes,” said Marian, “you can.”
“What’s made you so ferocious?” asked John.
“Nothing,” said Marian. “I’m not ferocious. That’s an awful thing to call someone. Just watch him for me, will you?”
“Of course,” said John.
Marian walked out the front of the house and partway up the driveway and then entered the woods. They were pleasantly moist. There was a subtle mingling of scents of decay and dryness, and the sun fell to pieces through the dense canopy of leaves. She walked down to the stream and followed it until she came to the little log bridge where she had stood the morning—the moment perhaps—that Tony had died. The bridge was still intact, but the stream had changed. Its roar had been reduced to
a patient flow. Marian knelt and interrupted it with her fingers. The water was cold and clear; it magnified the leaves and ferns pressed to the rocks beneath it. Some animals so small she couldn’t tell if they were insects or fish swam lazily through it. She leaned down closer to the water. She no longer saw her reflection in it—she was so close her breath disturbed its surface. She thought: It’s very difficult to memorialize the dead. To make a remembrance of them that is not an indulgence of your grief is almost impossible. And you will never have them again untainted by your sorrow, never think of them, or see them, with a clean flurry of feeling, but always with this grief, this sorrow, this selfish feeling of abandonment, which is more about you than about them. She hated feeling sorry for herself that Tony was dead.
a patient flow. Marian knelt and interrupted it with her fingers. The water was cold and clear; it magnified the leaves and ferns pressed to the rocks beneath it. Some animals so small she couldn’t tell if they were insects or fish swam lazily through it. She leaned down closer to the water. She no longer saw her reflection in it—she was so close her breath disturbed its surface. She thought: It’s very difficult to memorialize the dead. To make a remembrance of them that is not an indulgence of your grief is almost impossible. And you will never have them again untainted by your sorrow, never think of them, or see them, with a clean flurry of feeling, but always with this grief, this sorrow, this selfish feeling of abandonment, which is more about you than about them. She hated feeling sorry for herself that Tony was dead.
When she had been in the hospital Tony was the only person she could really bear to see. She felt guilty with everyone else. With John, and her mother—with Lyle, even—she had felt guilty, as if she had to explain what had happened, explain her inability to live. But not with Tony. He had spoken to her about God, although he had never mentioned God before and never did again after. He told her that she needed faith. A faith. Some kind of faith. Otherwise, it was too easy to let go of life. You had to make up a God that you could believe in and then believe in it. You had to believe that there was something present in your life that could save you. You did not necessarily need to know what it was but you had to feel that it existed. You had to find what delighted you about life and seize it. You could not let it go, or lose sight of it. You had to grow claws with which to grasp it.
That is what Tony had told her. And she had said, Yes, I know.
And can you do that? Tony had asked.
No, she had said. I understand you, but I can’t. It’s not like—I don’t have the power to do that. I have no control. It’s like I’m
walking along a cliff. A high sheer cliff above the sea, like in a movie. The White Cliffs of Dover, for instance. And the cliff curves in and out. But I have to keep walking straight. I can’t turn or adjust my route to suit the cliff. I have to keep walking straight. And sometimes I come very close to the edge. I come too near the edge. And there is nothing I can do.
walking along a cliff. A high sheer cliff above the sea, like in a movie. The White Cliffs of Dover, for instance. And the cliff curves in and out. But I have to keep walking straight. I can’t turn or adjust my route to suit the cliff. I have to keep walking straight. And sometimes I come very close to the edge. I come too near the edge. And there is nothing I can do.
There is nothing I can do.
A moth floated by, batting its chalky wings on the water’s surface, panicked. Marian leaned forward to rescue it, but the current was too fast. She sat back on the bridge and looked at her watch. It was getting late. The sunlight was fading, withdrawing in long, mote-filled shafts. It was time to go back. To go back and be herself. To be that person she was. To go back and be alive.
Other books
You're Strong Enough by Pontious, Kassi
Supreme Commander by Stephen E. Ambrose
Threat Warning by John Gilstrap
My Seven Enticing Sins by Colani, Leah
Sandlands by Rosy Thornton
Under Wraps by Joanne Rock
B006T5JMRC EBOK by Knight, Aya
If I Loved You, I Would Tell You This by Black, Robin
The Playmaker by J.B. Cheaney
Waiting by Robinson, Frank M.