What Binds Us (5 page)

We met for drinks before dinner. Dondi and I entered the room together and he introduced me to his father.

“Mr. Whyte, it’s a pleasure to meet you,” I said as he handed me a martini.

“My name is George,” Mr. Whyte said affably, “but everyone calls me Geo.”

“Okay. Geo,” I said. Addressing an adult by his first name sounded strange to my ears.

The French doors on both sides of the living room were thrown open to reveal the blue-black water of Long Island Sound on one side and the preternaturally green lawn, now emerald, on the other. It was through these doors that I first saw Colin. He walked across the lush grass with long, determined strides. He moved so swiftly I’d scarcely noticed him before he entered the room. He was tall and much too thin, his posture slightly stooped as if he wished to be shorter or altogether invisible. His short, dark hair clung wetly to his scalp. His eyes were the color of water.

“Colin, darling!” Mrs. Whyte exclaimed, inclining a cheek for him to kiss; his thin bloodless lips skated off the glossy, flawless surface of her face. “Darling, you’re late.” She pushed her slick lips into a tiny attractive moue. “But, never mind. Colin, this is Thomas-Edward—Dondi’s friend. He’s come for the summer. Thomas-Edward, my eldest son, Colin.”

I took the hand he offered. As our eyes met he averted his gaze and shot Dondi an accusatory glance. Dondi only threw back his head and laughed.

“Well, shall we go into dinner?” Mrs. Whyte asked.

Dinner was informal that night and we were allowed to serve ourselves from silver dishes atop the federal sideboard. Across the room on a matching sideboard stood a floral display so vast, so full of exotic blooms I was sure an entire forest had been decimated. Matthew and I were seated opposite each other. We did not speak to each other—no room for words to squeeze between the heavy clanking of antique silver. Our glances tangled amid a forest of crystal and sterling. Once, our eyes met in a look so precise, he lowered his head and blushed. My knees turned to something more pliable than bone and less substantial. Had I not been sitting I would have fallen to the ground.

Dondi asked me something. I managed to squeak out an inappropriate response to the misheard question. Someone laughed.

Colin looked from me to Matthew. Matthew blushed again. His lush lips looked very red against his flushed skin. I brought a piece of steak to my mouth and bit into it, thinking how much more I’d like to bite into his lips instead.

After that, Matthew avoided looking at my face. He scrupulously directed his attention at his father seated at the head of the table and at Colin seated beside him.

“How’s your mom?” Dondi repeated.

“Fine. When I left, she was up to her elbows in casseroles and sympathy.” I was rewarded with blank stares all around. Even Matthew abandoned his boycott of my face. “The car,” I explained. “Limousines are not the standard mode of transportation in Willingboro. The neighbors must have thought we’d been to a funeral. When I left, Mrs. Chang was rushing over with baked goods.”

Dondi threw back his head and roared. Matthew smiled then remembered himself and stared at his plate.

Mrs. Whyte looked flustered. “Oh, dear,” she said. “Oh, dear.”

After that, whenever Phipps picked me up at home, he drove a vintage two-tone Rolls Royce—a 1946 Silver Wraith. That was Mrs. Whyte’s idea of discretion.

After dinner, Mr. Whyte invited me into the library for an after-dinner drink and a smoke; I didn’t smoke then, nor do I now, but as no one objected or made a counteroffer I followed him out of the room. Besides, I’d had Kahlua with my coffee and was feeling quite grown up. And a little tipsy.

Mr. Whyte sat behind a huge oval walnut desk. I perched on the edge of a dark leather chair. A white-coated young man materialized out of the falling night. Wordlessly he handed first me then Mr. Whyte a large crystal snifter half-full of a dark amber liquid.

I took a small experimental sip and immediately gagged. I’d swallowed, expecting the taste of brandy, but had gotten something else.

Mr. Whyte stared at me with benevolent amusement. “You were expecting brandy?”

I nodded, not trusting my singed tongue.

He shook his head. “Bacardi Special Reserve. I prefer it in the summer. Would you rather have a brandy?”

“No, sir. This is fine. I just wasn’t expecting it.”

“Life,” he said, “is a surprise. Expect
that
and you’ll do fine.”

“Yes, sir, I will.” I bravely dared another sip, finding now that I expected it, it wasn’t nearly so bad.

“Let’s go outside,” he suggested.

We went out to the terrace overlooking the beach. The great, wet tongue of Long Island Sound lapped at the shore. The coastline of Connecticut was a shadow on the horizon. He leaned over the railing and stared up the beach. I stole the opportunity to study him. He had a craggy face that looked as if it had been mined. He’d been handsome once, I could see. Now he looked like an eroded Mount Rushmore. He was short and compactly built with salt-and-pepper hair as thick and lush as Dondi’s strawberry tresses.

“You think me ugly,” he said suddenly, draining his glass and straightening up.

I started to protest as he turned his back to the beach and lit a cigarette. The flaming match illuminated his ruined face. “No, I—”

He held up his free hand. “Please,” he said. “I am ugly, although I was not always. Once I was handsome. Very handsome. Even more handsome than my sons. The women—how they adored me! And the
men!
Oh, the men—they could not leave me alone. I couldn’t stand it, so I took a pair of scissors and did this.” He held up his hand, indicating his pockmarked face. “Now,” he said sadly, “they leave me alone. Now they all leave me alone.” He brought the cigarette to his lips.

I gulped the rest of my drink.

“I’ve been watching you,” he continued. “You’re not handsome in the typical sense. But you do have something. A certain ‘
j’ai ne se quoi
’, as it were.”

He was right. I’m not handsome. I have nice eyes and a good mouth but I’m skinny and much too serious behind tortoise shell glasses. Yet that afternoon when Matthew looked at me, I’d
felt
handsome. Special. As if I did, indeed, possess some indefinable something. Some
j’ai ne se quoi
.

“You’re lonely,” he went on. “But you’ll meet someone who will cherish you as you should be cherished—not Dondi. My son is a fool. He only sees with his eyes.” He took my arm and propelled me to face a closed window, black with night. He touched my hair, the color of paprika, brunette in the dark. “Look at yourself,” he instructed. “Shake hands with yourself. Become your own best friend. You are a rarity and that rarity makes you beautiful.”

“Mr. Whyte—Geo—thank you.”

The white-coated young man again materialized out of nothing and whispered to Mr. Whyte, who nodded solemnly, surrendered his glass and turned to bid me goodnight and sweet dreams. Arm in arm, he and the specter shuffled down the veranda and disappeared into an open French door.

I stood alone and looked at my empty glass. I wished I had another drink. The moon was full and cast a hard blue light that pummeled the wicker furniture and the surf. A slight breeze kicked up, carrying the faint scent of cloves and smoke.

“He’s quite mad, you know,” Dondi said from behind me. He leaned against the side of the house, one knee bent behind him with the sole flat against the wall. A cigarette dangled from his sexy mouth. He dragged on it and for a moment the red glow caressed his face. He moved the cigarette from his mouth and his eccentric beauty disappeared from view. He stared at me, mockingly I thought at first, then realized he was studying me as if I were a map or a blueprint. “Quite mad,” he repeated.

“Insanity is no disgrace,” I said, turning away. I could sense his relief.

He stepped behind me so close I could feel his heat. His cigarette, now released, arced up over the balustrade. I leaned back into his lush body. He wrapped his arms around my waist and pulled me tight against him. “I’m so glad you’re here,” he whispered against my ear.

“Hmmm.”

He bit my lobe, pressed his open mouth against my neck. This tickled and I squirmed against him. Slowly he turned me to face him and pressed his mouth against mine; his hot breath seared my throat. I opened to his heat.

“Sleep with me tonight, T.”

***

Dondi’s rooms were below the house in what had once been the wine cellar. We wound down a twisting flight of steps that seemed to be carved out of the surrounding stone walls and entered a narrow brightly lit corridor with vaulted ceilings of old brick. The floor beneath my feet was limestone. Straight ahead a brick hearth stood about the height of a man; inexplicably a fire burned. Off to the left was a set of double doors, on which was painted a rather lively ghost. Carved into the brick arch above the door was the legend “Abandon all hope, you who enter here.”

“Dondi’s inferno?” I questioned lightly.

Inside his rooms, brick arches cartwheeled. Groined vaults soared. In the middle of the room stood a vast white bed like a magic carpet. A Picasso hung over his desk.

The door closed softly behind us. Dondi erupted out of his clothes. Voluptuous tan flesh spilled over me, washing me against soft linen sheets.

***

Dondi lay on his back, a little away from me, smoking a cigarette. I could feel the heat of his flesh. I had been violently, exquisitely sodomized. I reflected that violence was a great deal of Dondi’s allure. It tinged every aspect of his being—his extravagance, his affectation, his elegance. I lay there drowsing, bankrupted by desire.

“I have to catch an early plane in the morning,” Dondi said, casually bringing a black cigarette to his lips.

“Excuse me?” I sat up, trying to shake off the paresis of satiation.

“I’m going away for a few days. I have to catch an early plane.”

“You’re going away?” I asked, incredulous.

He nodded.

I leaped off the bed. “If you knew you were going away, why did you have me come here?” I shouted.

The movement of cigarette to mouth was arrested; the cigarette burned in the dead air. “Because,” he said, “I wanted you here. Look, I know I should have told you. But it’ll only be a few days. Matthew will be here. You can do anything you want. Take one of the cars and go into the village. Or New York. Hell, you can have Phipps take you. Buy yourself a present—” Desperation always made him generous— “Just charge whatever you want to the house. We have accounts
everywhere.
Only, don’t leave. Please.”

“Why,” I demanded, unwilling to yield, “did you have me come?”

“Because I wanted you here. I like knowing where you are. If you’re here, I can visualize you, here, in this house, in these rooms. Or walking on the beach.”

My anger, like the Hindenberg, fell to the ground and burst into flames.

He gracefully stepped around the embers. He put his hands on my shoulders. “Being able to think about you, knowing where you are and that you’re safe comforts me. I know it’s crazy, but it’s true. You’re my best friend.”

“I want to be your lover.”

“I need you to be my friend.”

In that moment, something ended and began again. “Okay. I’ll stay.”

I got up and put on my clothes; he didn’t try to stop me.

In the hall I stared at the carved inscription over the door. Dondi was an inferno, all right. Like the sun, he provided light and warmth. And like the sun, he could burn you to a crisp if you got too close.

I was wandering the corridors of that huge house when I passed by an open door. Light and music splashed onto the hall carpet. Someone was playing the piano. I stopped to listen.

“Don’t just stand out there,” the person said. “Come on in.”

So I did. A rosewood concert grand piano held court in the middle of the room. Its elaborately scrolled legs knelt on a Tabriz carpet the color of dreams. Matthew sat in a lyre-back chair in front of the piano. His legs were stretched out and his bare, pale feet curled around one of the piano’s massively carved legs. His hands rested on the pale ivory keys. He stared at me with his grey eyes.

If Dondi was an epilogue, Matthew was a prologue, a promise waiting to be kept. He seemed about to begin. He seemed to be waiting for something. I asked him once, years later, what he’d been waiting for. He surprised me by answering simply, “You.”

“Hi,” I said. “I was walking by and heard the music.” Then, when I realized he’d stopped playing, I added, “Oh, don’t stop.”

He withdrew his fingers from the keys. “You missed tea.”

I had taken one of their cars and driven into the village. I told him this.

“Oh,” he said. “We missed you.”

“That piano is beautiful.”

“It is, isn’t it? It was built by the Steinway brothers in eighteen eighty-eight.”

I looked around the room. The walls were painted a pale gold, the sofas and chairs covered in a pale gold damask. The late afternoon sun’s bounty piled at the windows like bullion. The only real colors in the room were his pink lips and his red silk pajamas.

Recalling that he’d been wearing that color the afternoon we met and in every picture I’d seen of him (there were dozens of them scattered throughout the house’s public rooms; among Meissen figurines, Matthew in red, framed in sterling), I asked him, “Is red your favorite color?”

He looked at me and those pink lips curled into a smile. “I always wear it when Dondi is around.”

“Really?” I asked, intrigued. He was a mystery, like a dark corner. “Why?”

“To compete. When you grow up with the sun, it’s easy to be lost in shadow. Look at Colin. Poor, colorless Colin, bleached almost out of existence by the blinding light of Dondi.”

“He
is
rather dazzling, isn’t he?”

He looked at me very hard for a moment. “You’re in love with him.”

“Isn’t everyone?”

“So it would seem. You know, when we were kids and our nanny took us out, people would stop her in the street to comment on how handsome Dondi was. They’d ask to rub his head. Colin and I would just stand there, waiting to be noticed. I always wanted someone to rub
my
head.” He shook his head as if to clear it of the memory. “Personally, I don’t think he’s
that
handsome. His nose is too big for his face.”

I laughed, the sound a sudden explosion like a shot in the dark.

“You know,” he said, “you laugh like him. You even talk like him. I’ve heard a lot of people imitate him, but you do it best.”

“You’re right,” I agreed. “His nose
is
too big for his face. But, he
is
handsome.” I reached out with uncharacteristic boldness and rubbed Matthew’s head. The urge to touch him was compelling. “You, however, are perfect.”

“I bet you say that to all the boys.”

“There are no other boys.”

Matthew, blushing, stared at me. I stared back. Having said what I did, I wasn’t sure what to say or do next.

“Why not? Dondi always has bunches.”

That stung. “I’m not Dondi.”

“No,” he said, his eyes the color of ashed-over charcoal still on me, “I can see you’re not.” He stood suddenly and closed the piano. “It’s seven-thirty. We should join the others for a drink.” He put his arm around my shoulder and guided me toward the door.

I looked at him and smiled. He seemed relieved.

We gathered in the living room. It was a vast burnished space. The walls were covered with eighteenth century tempura panels imported from Italy. Venetian Rococo furniture cozied up to tables of carved, painted and gilded wood. Elaborate silk shades guarded lamplight so jealously, the room was bathed in a faint light that seemed bronzed.

“I’m having a gin and tonic,” Matthew said. “Shall I make one for you?”

“Please.” I sat next to Mr. Whyte.

“Dondi tells me you’re a writer,” Mr. Whyte said to me.

“Yes…I mean, I hope to be one day.”

“Now, son, either you are or you aren’t. You don’t choose to write like you choose to be a fireman. It’s something that comes from inside you. It’s a kind of compulsion. It can be a curse or a blessing.”

“I think it’s more of a curse sometimes.” I’d never expressed this to anyone. “Sometimes I want to write. I see things that I
have
to write down. But then later on, I look at it and I wonder why I bothered. I can’t imagine anyone being interested in what I wrote.”

“You mustn’t write for other people. You must write what you feel. If you believe in what you write, others will develop an interest. Don’t cater to an interest. Create an interest.”

“How?”

“Write what you know. Write what you’ve experienced, what you’ve imagined. Write as if you were trying to share your vision with your best friend.”

“That’s another thing. I don’t think I’ve experienced enough to write about. I haven’t really done anything.”

“You’ve lived,” he said. “You’ve
felt
. Start with that. The rest will come with time. Just remember: fear nothing. For a writer, there can be no bad experiences.”

Matthew handed me my glass. “May I join you?”

“We were talking about writing,” I said somewhat self-consciously.

“Ah, a writer in our midst. Are you taking notes? Will you write about us? I must warn you, Colin is an attorney and not at all shy of litigation.”

I laughed. “What about you, Matthew? What are you going to be?”

“I’m not going to
be
anything,” he answered. “I already am. I’ve never understood why people always plan on a future in which they are something other than they are. It’s as if they think there’s this alternate existence and if they study long enough or work hard enough, they can swap existences.”

Matthew had just completed his sophomore year at Bennington College in Vermont, a school reputed to be not only the most expensive university in the United States but the most forward-thinking; students were encouraged to chart their own curriculum without regard to formal discipline.

“Carol Channing is an alumnus,” he told me without a hint of facetiousness. He was going not so much to attain a degree as to learn, for he didn’t foresee himself in a career. He wanted children and he wanted to be home with them, as his father had been home for his brothers and him. He would prefer working with charities, doing volunteer work. Already, in his free time in Vermont, he rocked motherless babies in a city hospital, played cards with the elderly and read to the blind. Before enrolling at Bennington, he’d attended prep school in Switzerland.

Often that summer, I would feel as if I’d stumbled into an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

A maid entered the room. “Dinner,” she pronounced, “is served.”

Colin offered his mother his arm. They preceded us out the door. Mr. Whyte took Matthew’s arm in a parody of his wife, then reached for my arm so I wouldn’t be left out. Matthew laughed with delight. His laughter lifted me and I almost forgot Dondi’s desertion.

***

The next morning I was laying in bed, dreading the day. Already I regretted letting Dondi talk me into staying. What was I to do, alone in a house full of strangers? The phone beside my bed rang. Sure it was Dondi, I let it ring a few times before answering. “Hello?”

“Good morning,” the person on the other end said. “I trust you slept well?”

“Yes. Yes, fine. Matthew?”

“Good guess.” He laughed. “Do you have trunks?”

“Yes.”

“Good. How about if we meet on the beach in ten minutes?”

He was standing at the water’s edge in a pair of brief red Speedos. His skin gleamed. He raised his hand and waved.

“Morning,” I said, feeling suddenly shy.

“Hey! How about a swim?”

“Oh! I can’t.”

“Why? Did you already eat breakfast?”

“No. No, I meant I can’t swim. I don’t know how.”

“You can’t swim?”

“No.” I laughed. I looked around wildly.

“Well, I can teach you if you’d like. You’re not afraid of water, are you?”

“Well…”

“Ah, I can see I have my work cut out for me.”

We fell into a routine. Matthew would call me every morning at eight. We’d meet on the beach and my day’s lesson would begin. Then we’d have breakfast on the terrace. Occasionally Mr. and Mrs. Whyte would join us.

As Dondi’s absence lengthened, Matthew and I spent an increasing amount of time together. We found we were compatible; we laughed at each other’s jokes, liked the same movies. I found I liked his company, liked the boy himself.

We swam, did a lot of nothing together, saw a lot of movies. We saw
Alien
twice. The second time, he reached over and covered my eyes during the scary parts, whispering, “Don’t look. This will give you nightmares. I’m just trying to spare you.” I pretended to be annoyed when in truth I much preferred the feel of his hands on my skin to seeing what was on screen.

We went to see
Rocky 2
. I love Sylvester Stallone, quickly got caught up in the story. Matthew took to throwing popcorn at me every few minutes to get my attention.

“What?” I whispered.

“Nothing,” he whispered back, “You’re so enthralled with Sylvester that you’re ignoring me.”

“I’m not ignoring you. I’m watching the movie.”

“Do you think he’s good-looking? Do you think he’s
perfect?
” he teased. Beneath the teasing I thought I detected tension, jealousy.

“No, only you are perfect,” I answered. “In fact you’re
so
perfect, I want to rub your head.” I reached for his head.

He cried out, swatted at my hand, ducked and hit his head against the back of the seat in front. “Ow! Ow! Shit.”

“Sshhh!” someone behind us snapped.

I ducked down next to him and kissed his forehead where he’d bumped it. “Better?” I asked.

“Better,” he agreed.

“Good. Now be quiet and watch the movie.”

He sat up, slouched down, sprawled out, his leg pressed tight against mine, his arm alongside mine on the narrow armrest. I wanted to hold his hand.

***

“I have to go into the village,” he said one day as we were riding bikes.

“Oh,” I said, climbing off my bike. “Okay. I’ll see you when you come back.”

“You’re not coming?” He looked crestfallen.

“Well, no. I mean, I thought you wanted to be alone.”

“No. I want you to come. I just assumed you’d come with me. But if you don’t want to, you don’t have to.” He sounded disappointed.

“No, I want to go. I mean I’d like to go. I just figured you probably don’t want me tagging along with you everywhere.”

“Just come, okay?”

“Okay.” I climbed back on my bike.

“And for the record,” he said, standing and peddling ahead, “I always want you with me.”

One day we were in the village walking past the record store on our way to get ice cream. Over the door was a set of speakers out of which came the sound of a woman singing. Her voice was soulful, hypnotic. The track ended and another began. The words made us stop: “Where there was darkness you came and now there’s an abundance of light…”

We went in, asked what album was playing. It was Randy Crawford’s
Raw Silk
. The song was “Where There Was Darkness.” We bought the album and listened to it over and over again the entire afternoon. It was a great album, we agreed, but our favorite song remained “Where There Was Darkness.”

Sometimes I felt Matthew and I were a single soul inhabiting separate skins. Other times I felt the boundaries of the flesh disappearing; we became one.

Many nights I lay in bed, waiting for morning and his call. One night, restless, unable to sleep, thinking of him, I stepped onto my balcony facing the beach. I saw him in the distance walking aimlessly at the edge of the water. I dressed quickly and ran down to the beach. “Matthew,” I called.

He turned. Even in the dark I could see his smile, white teeth flashing. He moved from the water’s edge toward me. “Hey,” he said when I caught up.

“Hey. What are you doing out here?”

“Couldn’t sleep.”

“Me neither. I saw you walking and thought maybe you’d like some company.”

We started to walk together, kicking at the dark sand. “I saw your light,” he said. “I didn’t think to ask you if you wanted to come along. I’m used to being by myself. Colin’s so much older and Dondi’s seldom around.”

“I know what you mean. I’m an only child.”

“Yeah? So you’re used to being by yourself.”

“Uh-huh. Are you lonely?”

He sat abruptly, reached for my hand and pulled me down to the sand beside him. He let go of my hand, stared at the sea. Then, turning to me, said, “No. Not now.”

I realized with a start that I was on the verge of falling in love with him. I stood abruptly. “I should go.”

He looked surprised when he glanced at me. “Okay. I think I’ll stay here a while. Good night.” He turned back to the sea.

At that moment more than anything, more than I wanted my next breath, I wanted to wrap him in my arms and never let go.

***

“I have an idea,” Matthew said one morning when I answered the phone on the first ring; I’d abandoned the pretense that I wasn’t waiting for his call each morning. “If you moved into my wing, you’d just be next door and I wouldn’t have to ring you every morning.”

“Sounds like an idea,” I admitted happily.

The next day, when we went upstairs after our swim to change for breakfast, I turned left at the top of the stairs. He walked off to the right. “Hey,” he called after me. “Where are you going?”

“To my room.”

“You moved, remember?”

“Not yet. I didn’t have time to pack before our swim.”

He looked at me quizzically. “You didn’t have to. C’mon, it’s been done for you.”