What Binds Us (9 page)

“What do you mean?” he demanded angrily, turning completely around in his seat.

“You’re driving the wrong way.”

“Oh.” He twisted the wheel hard. We careened across three lanes of traffic, jumped the median and melted into the flow of traffic. This was executed while Pat screamed, “Oh God.
Oh
God!
Oh God!
” with his face buried in his lap.

“Relax, Miss Coward. We made it,” Dondi counseled, settling in the middle lane and speeding. He soon tired of the monotony of the middle lane and switched to the left, then back to the right.

“Dondi, you can’t just change lanes without signaling!”

Dondi turned around and threw Matthew a dirty look.

“Will you please stop giving him advice,” Pat snapped. “Every time you talk to him, he turns around. He really needs to keep his eyes on the road.”

Dondi rolled down his window and leaned out. “Hey Grandpa,” he shouted. “Move! I’m coming over.” That said, he twisted the wheel to the left.

“That’s it!” Pat yelled. “Pull over. I’m driving.”

Dondi blew the horn and pulled across three lanes of turnpike traffic and onto the right shoulder. He got out without saying a word.

Pat slid behind the wheel and said, “I need my driving shoes.” He reached into his bag and pulled out a pair of red satin high heels. They had rhinestones running down the back.

“Dorothy,” Dondi commented wryly, “we’re not going to Oz.”

“Shut up, you no-driving queen.” Pat pulled smoothly into traffic and settled in the fast lane.

***

Once we arrived, we parked and walked down Pennsylvania Avenue to the White House. We were horrified to see people living in tents and boxes and teepees in the park across the street, on the sidewalk in front.

“Maybe they’re secret service agents,” Matthew offered.

Walking up to one of the apparent homeless, Dondi demanded, “Are you a secret service agent?”

“Gimme a dollar.” The demand issued from a toothless mouth like a black hole in a blank face.

Dondi jumped back and rejoined us. “Guess not,” he muttered.

***

We had lunch at the Watergate Hotel. We marveled at its sinuous architecture, its balconies like jagged serpent’s teeth, its scandalous history. After lunch we went to the zoo.

“Is that a cow?” Pat asked, incredulously staring at the heifer, one of a herd.

“Yes,” Matthew said matter-of-factly, a slight amused edge in his voice. “That’s a cow.”

“A cow? At the
zoo
?”

“Well, it makes sense,” Matthew responded.

“Yeah, in a governmental sort of way.”

“Most kids who live in the city probably have never seen an actual cow,” Matthew continued.

“When I was in the first grade,” I put in, “we took a trip to the petting zoo in Flushing, New York. We got to pet sheep and goats. I don’t remember seeing any cows, though.”

We moved on to the giant Panda exhibit.

“What are they doing?” Dondi asked.

“Sleeping,” Matthew suggested. “I think.”

“No, their eyes are open,” Pat observed.

“But they’re not doing anything,” Dondi complained. “Why are they here if they’re not going to do anything?”

“Maybe it’s the heat,” I said.

Matthew warned, “Don’t start.”

***

After dinner we went to the Washington monument, determined to climb to the top. The crowd and the smell of old urine dissuaded us. We settled for climbing the steps of the Lincoln memorial in the falling night. We stared across at the Washington monument.

“Why do they call it Cleopatra’s needle?” Pat wanted to know. “It looks like a big old dick to me.”

“Only you would think that,” Matthew said.

I said, “No, it occurred to me too.”

***

Matthew drove back to Long Island. I rode in the front beside him. There was a lot of furtive movement and suppressed giggles behind us. Every few minutes Matthew would glance in the rearview mirror and then look at me. I wanted to tell Dondi and Pat to cut it out but couldn’t muster the energy. Instead, I rolled my eyes at Matthew and made him laugh.

“You live in the fucking Taj Mahal?” Pat asked, stepping out of the car and looking up at Aurora.

“It’s not the Taj Mahal,” Dondi said with irritated embarrassment. “It’s just a house.”

“Yeah, well, they don’t have houses like this in Kansas. So forgive my awe.”

In the front hall Matthew and I stopped to debate whether we should have a drink before bed. Dondi and Pat went down the hall and downstairs to Dondi’s rooms. As they started to descend the steps, Dondi slipped his hand around Pat’s waist and down to his butt, squeezing a cheek. Pat giggled and swatted at his hand, then catching it in his own, squeezed it.

Matthew looked at me and raised an eyebrow.

I just shrugged and headed for the stairs.

“Guess you won’t be sneaking off to the cellar tonight,” he said from behind me.

“What? I’ve never snuck off to the cellar.”

“Huh? Oh, I thought you and Dondi were still
involved
.”

“That ended a long time ago. Dondi wanted to be friends and I wanted…”

“What? What did you want?” He touched my shoulder and I turned to look at him. In his pure silver eyes was a look of such longing that my breath caught in my throat. I closed my eyes.

You
, I wanted to say,
I want you
. Instead I said, “Nothing.” When I opened my eyes, his longing look had lost some of its clarity. I’d been afraid to say what I felt, had let the moment, and the opportunity it presented, to pass and now I cursed myself for my cowardice.

“Do you mind?” he asked. “I mean about Dondi and Pat.”

Once, at school, I’d walked in on them unexpectedly. Pat had been hastily arranged on the bed; in a silk robe, his elegant legs crossed at the ankle, he’d brought a cigarette to his lips. As his eyes slid across mine he released a mouthful of smoke and a smile. His movement had caused his robe to fall open, and I was disconcerted to discover hair on his chest. I wondered if he had hair on his ass.

Dondi had sat in a bedside chair, staring at his entwined fingers. Beneath his jeans I knew he was naked, his tender skin pale with winter, his sexuality violent as a ripped page.

Seeing them, I’d felt grotesque. Like a monster. Horribly formed. In my stomach I’d felt a faint sickness, fluttery and vague, like a handful of butterflies.

“No,” I said. “I don’t. I did at first but now I don’t care.”

“Good night.” I walked down the hall and into my room.

***

“Do you suppose that horrible Pat has left by now?” Matthew asked me as we walked up to the house after our morning swim.

“We can only hope.”

“Hope may not be enough. You know, there’s a chapel on the grounds. Do you think we should go and light a candle?”

“That won’t help. Pat’s the antichrist.”

He laughed, a little bark of surprise. I felt inexplicably pleased I’d made him laugh.

***

As we glanced up now at the terrace, we could see that our hope had been in vain. Two figures sat under the umbrella of the table at the edge of the terrace. When we got close we discovered that while one figure was Pat, the other was not Dondi. It was a bikini-clad woman in eye shadow and a diamond tiara. At nine o’clock in the morning.

“This is Bridget,” Pat told us, crossing his legs and leaving us to introduce ourselves.

“Charmed, I’m sure,” she said. She popped her gum, and when she mentioned her joy at being on Long Island, her
g
’s were hard.

“Who are you supposed to be?” Dondi asked her, walking out of the house. “Miss Fucking America? Why are you wearing a crown at breakfast?”

“It’s not a crown,” she said, sitting up straighter and pushing out her chest. “It’s a
tiara
.”

“What it
is
is nine o’clock in the morning,” Dondi responded, dropping heavily into a chair and massaging his temples; he had a hangover, I knew. “Too early for fucking diamonds. Besides you look like a cast off from an Imperial margarine commercial.”

“Fine.” She pulled the tiara from the tangle of her hair.

“Wait,” Pat cried. “Let me try it on.”

She handed it to him and he moved the cigarette to the corner of his mouth, where it bobbed and discharged smoke into his left eye. He placed the tiara on his head. “Ooh, Sistawoman! I feel too fierce!” The diamonds flashed in his slicked platinum hair.

“Sistagirl!” Bridget cried, pulling a Chanel compact from the satchel she used as a combination purse and makeup bag. She teased her hair with her fingers. “What are we doing today?”

A maid brought Dondi a martini. “Bless you, child.”

“A little hair of the dog?” Matthew asked.

I took the glass from Dondi’s fingers and drank from it. Passing it back, I commented, “A little of the dog’s hair, his bones and his blood. Hell, it’s the whole damned dog!”

“What are we doing today?” Bridget asked again, snapping her compact shut, evidently satisfied with her teased hair.

“Let’s go to the movies,” Matthew said.

“I want to see
The Empire Strikes Back
,” we said at the same time.

Dondi rolled his eyes.

“I want to go to the Fire Island,” Pat said.

Matthew and I went to see
The Empire Strikes Back
; the others went to Fire Island.

***

One night at dinner, Mr. Whyte suddenly leaned over to me and, though I’m sure he thought he was whispering, asked rather loudly, “Thomas-Edward, who are these people at my table?”

I was startled by the question. Thinking he was teasing, I put down my fork and whispered back, “They’re your family.”

“They are?” He looked around the table curiously. “No,” he said, “I don’t think so. I’d recognize them if they were my family, wouldn’t I?”

Everyone at the table stiffened. Mrs. Whyte was visibly pale under her careful makeup. Matthew nodded vague encouragement.

“Who’s that pretty woman?”

I coughed. “That’s Mrs. Whyte, um, your wife?”

“My wife?” He guffawed. “As if Reggie would allow such a thing!”

Mrs. Whyte grew paler still, a vein pulsing at her temple. She put her fork down loudly. “Where’s Marquis?” she asked.

Mr. Whyte seized on the familiar name. “Yes,” he asked, “where’s Marquis?”

“In the kitchen, probably,” Matthew answered.

“Would you like to go find Marquis?” I asked Mr. Whyte.

“Yes. Please.”

As we left the dining room he turned and waved. “Goodnight family,” he shouted.

I took his arm. “I thought you didn’t recognize them.”

“I don’t, but clearly they’re my guests and think we’re family. I was trying to be polite. Imagine claiming a stranger as a relative just because you’re sitting at his table.”

We found Marquis in the kitchen and I quickly explained what happened. When I returned to the dining room, only Matthew was there.

Without saying anything we walked out to the beach. “Thanks,” he said after a while.

“No thanks necessary,” I told him. Then, “C’mon I’ll race you.”

“You won’t win,” he called as I sprinted off.

I was dreaming of blood when the familiar roar of Colin’s car coming up the drive tugged me awake, told me I was almost late for tea. I leaped out of bed, pulled off my shirt and slipped on a fresh one.

I was the last to arrive in the drawing room. When I walked in I found Matthew and Dondi flanking the fireplace. I was struck by their resemblance, faint though it was. Matthew was like the afterimage from staring at the sun too long. If Dondi was the sun, Matthew was cool water or the dark side of the moon. Many years hence I would again look at the two of them standing beside a different mantel in a different house and realize once more how different they were.

Mrs. Whyte, in a pale yellow sundress, stood beside Colin, who was pouring a drink from a crystal decanter. He brought the drink to his lips and over the rim of the glass, his eyes, like Matthew’s, swung back and forth between Dondi and Mrs. Whyte, who seemed engaged in an intricate dance. Dondi stared balefully at his mother, a cigarette dangling insolently from his succulent mouth.

Mrs. Whyte stood as if poised on a precipice, as rigid as the caryatid that held the mantelpiece. “I asked you a question. Answer me!” she demanded.

“Oh, for God’s sake,
Mother!
” he drawled, running his hands through that incredible mane of strawberry-blond hair. He paused. Then, in his usual voice, which had been absent all summer, with all its effeminate insinuation, he said, “We were
fucking
.”

Mrs. Whyte winced, whether from his prurient description of what he had been doing or his intimate address, I couldn’t tell.

I sat on a white chair and waited.

“You’re a faggot?”

Dondi hurled a hateful glance in her direction.

She neatly sidestepped it, launched a counter-attack. “Well, I suppose the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”

Dondi’s mouth gaped open, his teeth bared. He and Mrs. Whyte stared at each other in furious silence. They seemed to share a lost language. Arguing in silent glances and hateful stares, they performed a silent opera. Dondi, with slow deliberation, drew the cigarette from his lips and dropped it. With a spiteful toe, he ground it carefully into the priceless Persian carpet beneath his feet.

Mrs. Whyte rang down the curtain: “Get out of my house.”

With a graceful toss of his leonine head, without a word or a backward glance, Dondi stormed out of the room. The front doors echoed heavily as they crashed open. A second later, we heard the sound of the powerful Corvette’s engine turning over then roaring down the drive.

***

“I’m gay too,” Matthew said, suddenly pushing forward. “Are you going to kick me out as well?”

Her rigid posture softened and she seemed to melt, forming a faintly yellow puddle on the arm of Colin’s chair as she sat. She stopped being a glamorous stranger and was quite simply someone’s mother. “Are you? I suppose I’ve always known that. You were always so…
graceful
.” She waved him away, lifted fear-tinted eyes to Colin. “What about you? Tell me, are
all
my men faggots?”

“No, Mrs. Whyte.”

She nodded. “No, of course not,” she mumbled half to herself, then patted his hand. “I don’t suppose you would have the imagination for that sort of thing.” She turned to me, seemed surprised to see me sitting in her living room. “You’re one too?”

I nodded.

She sighed. “Why don’t you both go join Dondi wherever he went?”

I stood and walked toward the door, Matthew just in front of me.

“Thomas-Edward,” she called in her icy patrician tones.

I stopped in my tracks but refused to turn around.

“I won’t ask you which of my sons you’re sleeping with.”

Now I turned around. “I’ve slept with one,” I spat. “I’m in love with the other.” I turned and walked out of that room, out of that fantastic house on the beach. It would be many years before I set foot in it again.