It was tempting to take the house — that way Guy would never have to worry again about money. He could rent it out every summer. And who knew how much Andrés’s defense would set him back?
At twelve-thirty the next day when Guy was brushing his teeth and spraying his hair, Andrés seemed moody and childish about the prospect of even a half an hour’s separation.
“The poor man’s dying,” Guy said. “He’s already blind. You might as well be jealous of the parakeet.”
Andrés said sullenly, “We don’t have a parakeet.” Then he laughed charmingly in spite of himself, the laugh cracking the marble of his face, and said, “And if you did, I’d be jealous of it.”
Guy ruffled his hair and hurried out before Andrés could become desperate again. When Guy arrived on the seventh floor he could see Fred was propped up in bed. He looked shaved and washed for the occasion, his hair combed. That man Marty was sitting in the only chair, his little soft hands folded over his belly.
As he entered the room, Guy said hi. He didn’t want to startle Fred by surprising him with a touch — Guy was good at imagining things from another person’s point of view. Marty gave his hand to be shaken — he seemed to be unfamiliar with the custom of shaking hands. Guy felt Marty was disapproving — maybe he was friends with the seal. Or maybe it was Jewish tribal thing — why enrich the pretty goy? Or maybe Guy was just being paranoid.
“I brought you a Discman — and a dozen CDs. I’ll bring you some more tomorrow — just tell me what you want.”
“Bernard Herrmann. Dimitri Tiomkin. Classy music composers.”
“What about Michel Legrand?”
“Who?”
“He did ‘The Umbrellas of Cherbourg.’”
“French, right? Forget it. Well, let’s get started.”
Marty had drawn up the papers and now he sat beside Fred on the edge of the bed. “Do you want me to read it to you?”
“Just summarize it in ordinary language.”
“Well, it leaves the Bel Air house to Ceil and twenty thousand to each of the boys and the Fire Island house to Guy. If anyone contests the will their bequest will be canceled. It’s called the ‘in terrorem’ clause.”
“Do you think that will stick?”
“I guess they could claim you were demented.”
“I probably will be if the CMV goes into my head. That’s why I want to get this over now.”
“Only twenty thousand for each of the boys?” Guy asked, trying to sound fair.
“Fuck ’em! They stood by their mother. Anyway, that’s all I have if I pay off the Fire Island house. I’m not made of money; I told you I am a very minor millionaire, unless I get my AIDS movie going. I live from film to film.”
Marty had to guide Fred’s hand for the will but also for the transfer of the deed to Guy. A nurse was called in as a witness.
“Ceil and the boys are going to be spittin’ mad,” Fred said with a big grin.
“You’re right there,” Marty muttered. “I can hear the schreiing already. So long, Fred.”
“So long, Marty, don’t be a stranger. Come back and see me.”
“Will do. What about all your actors? They ever come to see you?”
“Those schwartzes? They’re mostly ashamed to have been in all those Super Fly movies. They want to forget about it. That was a different period, Marty. Do you have Guy’s address? For sending him the deed?”
“You wrote it down for me.”
The minute Marty and the nurse were gone, Fred said, “Are we alone? Good. Kiss me.”
Fred was chewing some of the gum Guy had brought him, so his lips were fresh and moist. But it all felt too much like a transaction to Guy — I’ll give you the house if you give me a kiss. Of course the house was worth millions of kisses. It was just Fred’s assumption he now had the right to a kiss that saddened Guy — everything in America was transactional!
Of course, Guy was the villain stealing the bread out of Fred’s sons’ well-fed jowls. There was more shrieking in the hallway — probably another surprise birthday complete with balloons and candles. But neither Guy nor Fred was curious.
Out of deference, since Fred was blind, Guy left the lights off as the night swept in; Guy felt he should share Fred’s darkness.
It was strange how content they were just holding hands, after all the agony of his love-grappling with Andrés, the constant anguish of trying to get another millimeter inside each other’s holes; it was kind, it was peaceful, it was companionable to just sit together like this. After all, Fred had come to the end and his last thought had been for Guy. He was a rough woodcut of a man, but the portrait was of a kind man even so.
Guy felt that his life was under assault and that Fred was doing something crucial to help him. Guy had a superstition that he could preserve his youth only so long as nothing touched him, so long as he remained immune to any intensity of feeling. But now his father’s death, Andrés’s looming plight, Fred’s blindness and imminent death — all these events were threatening to engrave marks on Guy’s face. Something (or maybe it was Nothing) had stunned him into eternal youth, into immobility and imperviousness, but now the ice was cracking, great glacier shelves were collapsing into the sea, a disaster was warming up — and soon he’d be just a shrinking iceberg, another weathered face, he would come to life only to die. He ran to the mirror to look at himself. Nothing had changed.
Another hour went by. By the last glimmer of daylight seeping down an airshaft and through the dirty window, Guy read a few articles out of Variety for Fred about the movie business. The slang and abbreviations were mostly unfamiliar to Guy. (“Is this English?” he asked, and Fred chuckled.)
Apropos of nothing, Fred said, “Remember that line: ‘I grow old, I shall wear the bottom of my trousers rolled’? I always wondered what that meant. But now I know — you shrink as you get old and your pants are too long. And remember how gays are always supposed to be licking their eyebrows down, like this?” and he mimed licking his finger and pressing it down on his eyebrow. “That was always shorthand for saying someone was gay. But your eyebrows do grow long with age and a gay senior would worry about that.”
Suddenly two men came into the room, wearing cream-colored masks and gloves and blue hospital gowns and shower caps. They switched the lights on and one of them said, “Dad?” and he came to sit beside his father, who touched him and said, “Howie? What are you wearing?”
“Who’s this man, Dad?” To Guy he said, “Excuse me, but would you leave? This is a family moment.”
“Stay right where you are, Guy. This putz is my son. Why are you wearing all that junk, Howie?”
“For self-protection, Dad. You’re highly contagious, in case you forgot. A tear, a mosquito bite, a lick of saliva could infect us, then it’s curtains. Guy, is that your name? Scram!”
“How dare you, Howie? Guy’s my lover.”
“Lover?” the other man said, and laughed. He was shorter and rounder than Howie. “Some lover! So you’re the frog scumbag who infected our father, right? What’s he doing here, Dad — how did he get permission to visit? Family only. Nurse! Nurse!”
Fred said, “Don’t budge. These schmucks ignore me for months, then come rushing in for the money shot.”
The one called Howie, his black eyes flashing with rage over his mask, said, “He has no right to be here. Lover? The law doesn’t recognize same-sex lovers.”