The whole thing had been arranged just a few hours before. Bobbie got a frantic phone call late in the afternoon, talked quickly, then turned to Rhoda. “It’s Bernie Jaeckel,” she said. “You remember him, don’t you? He’s a gay boy, I think you met him at that big blast at Rita’s.”
She remembered him vaguely. “So?”
“He’s with a boy named Terry Langer now. And Terry got a letter, this morning, that his parents are coming to town. The surprise visit bit, Rho. They want us to front for them. Double up with the boys tonight. Terry’s folks don’t know he’s gay and he doesn’t want them to suspect anything. And you know, two fellows sharing apartment.”
It was funny, she thought. Before she met Megan, before she got herself caught up in the shadow world of homosexuality, she never would have thought twice about two men sharing an apartment. It was cheaper that way, it was less lonely. But once you were on the inside you began looking at things in a different light. If two men lived together, and if their apartment was in Brooklyn Heights or the Village or around Broadway and Seventy-second, and if they didn’t go out much with girls, you began to suspect that they were homosexual.
“Is it okay, Rho?”
She said it was and Bobbie settled the arrangements. The Langers were due around four in the afternoon. At two-thirty, she and Bobbie cabbed over to the boys’ apartment on West 69th Street. For a little over an hour the four of them sat around a bridge table drinking coffee and talking about people they knew, about plans for New Year’s Eve, and, finally, about the best way to handle Mr. and Mrs. Langer. Now and then Bernie Jaeckel would dart around the apartment destroying evidence-picking up a stray male physique magazine and tucking it out of sight, deliberately shoving furniture out of place or overturning an ashtray to disrupt the apartment’s almost feminine neatness.
“We ought to change the furniture,” he said at one point. “If we really wanted to do this in style, we would move out all the furniture and re-do the pad in Early Heterosexual. You know, blonde Danish modern from Grand Rapids. Metallic pole lamps. Long wrap-around sectional couches.”
“Ughhh,” Terry said.
Bobbie suggested hanging a bra in the bathroom. “But we have to walk a thin line,” Terry said. “I have to seem straight, but we don’t want to give them the idea that Rhoda and I are living in sin.”
“Would they mind?”
“My parents would. I’m an only child, you know. I think the moment of my conception was the only time my parents made love.”
“You don’t even want a few stockings tossed over the shower curtain?”
Terry chuckled. “Nothing,” he said. “Just so they see that I have a girl friend. That’s all it should take.”
“Don’t they suspect-”
“They have no idea,” he said.
The Langers arrived a few minutes early. Mr. Langer was short and heavy set, with a prominent nose and a bulldog chin and a perpetual cigar in his mouth. Rhoda had a mental image of Berne and Terry spending the next two weeks trying to air cigar smoke out of the draperies. She could picture them running around frantically and spraying everything with Chanel. Mrs. Langer was a small and slender woman who did not talk much. Terry kissed her on the cheek and shook hands firmly with his father.
After introductions, Terry said, “You should have let me know you were coming. We already had plans with the girls for tonight.”
“Oh, dear,” Mrs. Langer said.
“We’ll get out of your way,” Mr. Langer offered. “We can take in a show tonight and see you tomorrow, Terry.”
But Terry explained things. Bernie and Roberta-he didn’t call her Bobbie-would be having dinner with another couple. But he and Rhoda could beg out and have dinner with Terry’s parents. Then the four of them could spend a few hours together until nine or ten, at which time Terry and Rhoda would have to join a party some friends of theirs were having.
“At least we’ll have some time together,” he said. “And you’ll get a chance to know Rhoda. She’s been wanting to meet you.”
The Langers were delighted-they did enjoy meeting Terry’s friends, Mrs. Langer explained. And Terry’s plan was satisfactory all around. It gave Bernie a chance to get out from under in a hurry, hustling Bobbie off to a phony dinner date. And, with the mock party serving as an out around nine or ten, it kept the evening from dragging on too long.
Things went smoothly enough. Bernie brought out a bottle of bourbon and the six of them sat nursing drinks until five-thirty. Then Bernie and Bobbie made their excuses and got out of there. Terry called a good East Side restaurant and reserved a table for four. The Langers went back to their hotel to dress for dinner, and Terry poured Rhoda a fresh drink and collapsed into a chair.
“It’s such a trial,” he said. “Just dropping in to surprise me! You would think they’d know better.”
“It’s not so bad.”
“Well, you’re a sweetheart,” he told her. “They’ll have a good time in New York now, and they won’t suspect anything. And they’ll go home sure that I’m living the ideal bachelor life, and starting to get a little bit serious about you. They’ll ask about in their letters, of course. I’ll let our mythical romance bubble along for a few months and then write a sad letter saying that you went and married someone else. Then I’ll pretend to nurse a broken heart for awhile before it’s time to find some other girl to front for me.”
There was a brittle quality to his voice, that special sort of forced cheerfulness one heard so often at gay bars and gay parties. She studied him. He was about thirty, she knew, a moderately successful furniture designer. Bernie was a commercial photographer. She thought of the special lie the boys lived and wondered how long they could carry it off.
“Any time I can return the favor-”
“What?” She hadn’t been listening.
“Any time your parents or relatives make the Grand Tour I’ll be glad to return the favor. That’s all.”
“Oh,” she said, “No, my parents are dead.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.”
“It happened a long time ago,” she said. There was an awkward pause. “So don’t worry about returning the favor. I’ll settle for another drink.”
Dinner was a relaxed affair at a very good and very expensive French restaurant on East Sixty-second Street. They had cocktails first, wine with the meals, and cordials with their coffee. The food was excellent and the service crisply professional, and the Langers turned out to be surprisingly good company. She had been afraid that the conversation would be stilted and awkward, but it worked out better than she had expected.
“I couldn’t stand living in New York,” Mr. Langer said. “I’d put on twenty pounds a year with food like this.”
“But you do anyway, Dad.”
“Wise guy.” Mr. Langer grinned. “Just watch your own self in a couple of years. But you’re in good shape, Terry. Do you work out at a gym?”
“Sometimes.”
“I used to, years ago. It’s a good habit to stay in.”
They wound up drinking coffee again at Terry’s apartment. Around eight-thirty, Mr. Langer led Terry into the kitchen. “Private men’s talk,” he explained-and Rhoda sat alone on the couch. Mrs. Langer smiled oddly, then crossed the room and sat next to her. Here it comes, Rhoda thought. How serious is it between you two? And isn’t Terry a fine young man? But Mrs. Langer said, “It’s sweet of you to do this for him, Rhoda.”
She stared.
“Terry doesn’t know that I know. And Fred doesn’t know anything about it, and I’m glad, because it would hurt him horribly. His son, you see. But I know about Terry.”
“I-”
“I’ve known for years.” The woman lowered her eyes. “I’ve wanted to talk to him now and then. It’s hard not to want to. He’s my son and I love him, of course. But he wouldn’t want me to know. It would bother him, and so I’ve never let him find out.” She nibbled her lower lip. “Of course I’d love to believe that you and Terry are lovers-but I’m afraid I know better. He’s with that boy Bernie, of course. Thank you for being such a good friend to Terry.”