He had fled homosexuality before meeting her, preferring a sexless existence to a way of life that had grown increasingly uncomfortable and guilt-ridden. She made him aware of himself as a fully heterosexual being. And now, even knowing that he had to leave her, that she was tearing him apart, he realized what he owed her and how much he still seemed to require her.
“Let me get on top. Let Mama do the work.”
“... vacancy coming up at the Shithouse, so if you know anybody looking for a place—”
“Dear dear Sully. Now how could I in all good conscience recommend that establishment to anyone? It should be condemned, you know.”
“It’s a solid building. And it gives people what they need.”
“So do the heroin peddlers.”
“You know the longest I ever had a unit vacant? Ten days, and that was in the depths of winter.”
“The depths of winter. Winter’s gloomy depths. Suleiman, you’re a closet poet.”
Peter looked up. “A vacancy? Who’s moving out? Or are we evicted?”
“I wouldn’t throw you two out. Hell, I love you people.”
“Then who is it?”
“What’s-his-name, Hillary. Top floor.”
“Who told you they were moving?”
“Well, he left town, didn’t he? I guess his girl’s still around the way I heard it, but she won’t be staying.”
Peter shook his head. “She’s staying.”
“Staying in New Hope? Who told you that?”
“She did. A couple of hours ago.”
“And she’s keeping her room?”
“For the time being. I don’t know how she can afford it. She works part time for Olive McIntyre and I don’t think she can be making more than twenty-five or thirty dollars a week.”
“Maybe she’s got money of her own,” Sully suggested.
“Well, maybe, but I have the impression she doesn’t.”
“Which means I haven’t got a vacancy now but probably will in a couple of weeks. Well, that’s something to know. Very interesting. What’s her name again?”
“Linda.”
“That’s right, Linda. Not a bad-looking girl, either. Not bad at all. You wouldn’t know her last name by any chance? He took the place in his name, Hillary, so I never got her last name.”
Peter had to think a moment. “Robshaw,” he said.
“Linda Robshaw. Well, you’ll excuse me, but I just told some other people that I had a vacancy, and now I have to tell them that I don’t.”
When Sully was out of earshot, Warren said, “The great hunter goes off to load his gun.”
Hugh said, “Whoever Linda Robshaw is, it sounds as though she has a good shot at being the next Mrs. Jaeger. If she plays her cards right.”
“If she plays them wrong, you mean. I’m afraid not, though.”
“Isn’t he about due for a change?”
Warren shrugged. “I don’t follow his career all that closely, but I think the current model still has a year or two left on it. He wouldn’t marry Linda, though. She’s too old. She must be around twenty-eight.”
“He did look predatory,” the doctor said.
“Ah, Sully the Magnificent was that, all right. He’ll try to screw her and he may well manage it. He’s sup posed to have a surprisingly good batting average that way.”
The doctor’s wife said she couldn’t imagine why. “He’s not at all attractive. I certainly wouldn’t consider him attractive.”
“Nor would I, my dear. It’s the cocksure masculinity, if you’ll pardon the expression, coupled with the feudal approach. He’s most successful with tenants and employees. Tumbles them three or four times and then never wants them again. According to rumor, he’s been in bed at least once with every girl who ever waited tables here He doesn’t make it a requirement up front, but somehow it always seems to work out that way before long.”
“I don’t think he’ll get Linda,” Peter said.
“I hope not,” said Rita Welsh. “I think he’s a monster. He looks like an ape, anyway.”
“Interesting,” Warren said. “I’ve never noticed it before, but his arms are a shade longer than his legs. Something odd about his thumbs, too. I wonder if he ever had anything going with Fay Wray?”
Hugh was the first to leave. Bryce and the Welshs followed him within a few minutes. Peter took a last sip of his second screwdriver.
“Well,” he said.
“One more round,” Warren said, signaling the waitress.
“I really don’t want another drink, Warren.”
“I do, and I hate drinking alone. One more won’t hurt you, Peterkin.”
“I know it won’t, but I can’t stand the taste. Would it be all right if I had plain orange juice?”
“You’re beyond salvation.” He raised his eyes to the girl. “A double Cognac and a large OJ on the rocks.”
When she brought the drinks she asked Warren if he wanted them mixed. He turned slightly green and shuddered violently. “Thanks just the same,” he said, “but the Cognac is for me, and the orange juice is for my young friend here. He’s driving, you see.”
Peter said, “Maybe it wouldn’t be bad. Cognac and orange juice.”
“Let us take it on faith that it would be bad.”
“I really ought to be getting home, Warren.”
“Nonsense. The night is young. And you’re so beautiful.”
“I wish you’d stop that.”
“You know what Blake said about ungratified desire. Or perhaps you don’t. Briefly, he was against it. You don’t want to go home, lad. You want to come home with me.”
“I suppose I Should feel flattered.”
“No question about it.”
“The thing is, Warren, I couldn’t be less interested. I’m not gay.”
“Of course not. You’ve never been in bed with a man, have you?”
“That was a stage.”
“All the world’s a stage, Peterkin.”
“I grew out of it.”
“Outgrown and discarded like a child’s old shoes. What a sad fate for poor old homosexuality! I’ll tell you a secret, Peterkin. You never outgrow it. Think of the things you used to do in bed and tell me how they wouldn’t be fun anymore.”
“Maybe they would be. I don’t want to find out. I’ve given all of that up.”
“For Gretchen.
“For myself, actually.” He forced a smile. “Besides, I wouldn’t want to come between you and Bert.”
“You wouldn’t want to come between us? I wasn’t suggesting a trio, but it sounds delicious.”
“I mean Bert wouldn’t like it if you brought me home, would he?”
“The only thing that would disturb Bert is if I did something unkind to his piano, and I’ve never been deliberately unkind to a piano in my life. Bert hasn’t a jealous bone in his head. I really think you ought to come home with me, Peterkin.”
“I really think you ought to tone down the camping, Warren. And I really think I ought to go home myself.”
“To Gretchen.”
“Yes, to Gretchen.”
“What an odd medium you selected as salvation from the quagmire of faggotry. She’s just a mother substitute, Peterkin.”
“Leave it alone.”
“Although I have to admit her maternal impulses are sometimes hard to detect.”
“God damn it—”
“I’m sorry. I am sorry. I enjoy baiting people but when I drink too much I carry it too far. It’s primarily self-destructive because now I’ll have to sit around hating myself. You’ll forgive Aunt Warren, won’t you?”
“Of course. You found a sore spot, that’s all.”
“It’s a habit of mine. One of the more regrettable ones. You’re going now? How was the orange juice?”
“Better than the screwdriver.”
“Extraordinary. Well, I think I’ll have one more before I toddle off. I’ll see you tomorrow. And remember what I told you about Tony. Don’t sell yourself any shorter than you absolutely have to.”