Shadows, page 6
Impressions.
LIFE Goes to a Village Party, she thought. I should have brought my camera. A camera and a notebook.
“Have a beer,” someone said. Janet started. She turned around and took a can of beer from a short boy with red hair and a slight growth of red beard, who disappeared again as soon as she had the can in her hand. The beer was good and cold and she took a deep drink of it, spilling a little down her chin.
The night was still warm although the sun had set a while ago. Thirty-odd people in one room made the night even warmer and beer taste even better. She sat back and drank again, no longer caring that she didn’t know anyone. It was a nice party.
What’s that smells like fish, Mama?
Tell you if you really want to know.
Yeah, what’s that smells like fish, Mama?
I’ll tell you if you really want to know . . . .
She didn’t have to look up to know that it was Mike singing. There was something very distinctive about his voice, about the way he picked the strings of the guitar and sang with it. And there was an intangible quality, too—someone else could play the same chords and sing the same notes and it would come out weak and pale by comparison.
She liked the way he sang.
She liked his name, too. Mike was blunt and strong and honest and rugged, and Michael was music and poetry and something tranquil. It suited him, matched the odd and intense combination of tough and tender which she could feel in him.
Well, it smells like fish and it tastes like fish
But you better not serve it in a chafing dish
Keep on trucking, Mama, trucking my blues away . . . .
The beer was gone suddenly and she was drinking wine from a bottle and passing the bottle to a thin young man with a shock of black hair that hung limp over his forehead. The young man looked a little like Hitler, and he was trying to talk to her but she liked being all alone in the group, all alone with herself, and she didn’t answer him.
There were more people in the room. There were at least fifty by now, and others kept arriving. Everybody who came seemed to have a bottle, and the bottles kept passing back and forth around the room. And she kept sampling them.
Smoking a cigarette, she realized abruptly that she was drunk. It was nice. It was very nice being drunk, especially when it didn’t cost anything. She felt the side of her face and it was numb to her touch, her skin feeling even cooler and smoother than usual. She was a little bit dizzy, and she drew more deeply on the cigarette as if that would stop the dizziness. She smiled quickly at no one in particular and her face felt funny. She let the muscles in her face relax slowly.
There were more guitars going now and she didn’t hear Mike singing any more, but heard instead a deep-voiced boy singing about a bad man named Stackolee. Another boy passed her another bottle and she put it to her mouth and drank. It was wine, but she couldn’t tell what kind of wine it was or even whether it was good or bad. It was wet and her mouth was dry so she kept on drinking until the young man shook his head strangely and took the bottle away from her.
You’re drunk, she whispered to herself. LIFE Goes to a Village Party and Gets Smashed. Poor little Life gets tight as a kite. Or was it high as a kite? Tight as something, but she couldn’t remember.
A hand touched her shoulder and she turned, ready to take another drink from another nice young man’s bottle. Mike was standing beside her.
She saw that he was sober, and that was funny because she was drunk now, and when she had come in he had been drunk and she had been sober. It was funny.
She started to giggle.
“How long have you been here?”
It was a silly question, because she had been there so long. It was so silly that she started to giggle again.
“I guess you’ve been here awhile, huh?”
“Uh-huh.”
He smiled. “Why didn’t you say hello? I didn’t even see you come in. I just got up to take a break and saw you sitting here, so I came over. Having fun?”
“Uh-huh.”
She thought that he was nice, very nice, and very funny because she was drunk and he wasn’t.
“You’re drunk.” It wasn’t an accusation but a simple statement of fact. “I was for awhile but I sang myself sober. Do you like the party?”
“Uh-huh. It’s a beautiful party.”
“It’s a terrible party. I suppose you like the apartment?”
She made a face.
“Good. It’s a terrible apartment, too, and I’m glad you don’t like it. I’d introduce you to some people, but they’re pretty awful, too.”
“They are?”
“Yeah. Miserable people.”
“What’s wrong with them?”
“They’re not like us. We’re alike—did you know that?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Mike and Ike—we think alike. Except it’s Mike and Jan, isn’t it?”
“Uh-huh.”
“I like the way you say that. You say it with a giggle even when you keep your face straight. You’re pretty drunk.”
“Uh-huh.” She giggled aloud, thinking that he wasn’t quite as sober as she had thought. “You’re silly.”
“I am?”
“Uh-huh.”
More people came in. The boy playing Mike’s guitar was singing a song that everybody seemed to know and the party was getting progressively noisier. The girl with the eye makeup and the long black hair who had been sitting with Mike was alone in a corner drinking from a dark brown bottle. Another boy had passed out silently with his head in a girl’s lap. The girl didn’t seem aware of him and went on talking earnestly to another couple, absently running her fingers through the boy’s hair while she talked.
“Let’s get out of here.”
“No.”
“Come on. It’s too damn noisy here.”
“Where can we go?”
“Some place quiet.”
She shook her head. “You can’t leave now. It’s your party.”
“So what?”
“Well, you can’t leave your own party, can you?”
“Sure I can.”
“No.” She shook her head solemnly. “Besides, you have a girl here.”
“No, I don’t.”
“Yes, you do. The girl in the corner with the blue stuff on her eyes. I think she’s drunk.”
“I think you’re drunk, too.”
“I think she’s drunker. I think she wants you to go over and talk to her.”
“Is that what you want?”
“I’m not sure. She’s your girl, isn’t she?”
“Not really. I . . . oh, the hell with it. Let’s get out of this hole.”
She put a cigarette between her lips and let him light it for her. It was tasteless, and she wondered whether it was the wine she had drunk that made the cigarette tasteless or whether it was because she had been smoking too many cigarettes.
“Let’s stay right here. It’s a nice party.”
“The hell it is.”
“It’s a beautiful party. And you can’t leave your own party in your own apartment, and you can’t leave Saundra.”
His eyes widened. “How did you know her name?”
“You introduced me, sort of. At the coffee shop.”
He nodded, remembering.
“Besides, she’s pretty.”
“Do you think so?”
“Uh-huh.”
“Honestly?”
She lowered her head and regarded the cigarette thoughtfully. “I think,” she said, “that she looks as though she’s made out of cardboard.”
He laughed. She like the way he laughed, the way he let his whole body relax in laughter.
“She is,” he said. “Cardboard and library paste.”
“With stuff on her eyes.”
“Definitely. Look, let’s get the hell out of here.”
He stood up and reached down for her hand, and it was very natural to stand up and slip her hand into his. Her hand seemed very small when he held it, small and soft in his, and she felt the tips of his fingers close around the back of her hand. They were rough and callused from the guitar.
They were at the doorway when she asked, “Where are we going?”
“Anywhere. It doesn’t really matter, does it?”
“I suppose not.”
“As long as it’s quiet.”
They were on the stairway and she had to lean against him just a little. Too much wine, she thought. She was just a little dizzy, with just a little too much wine in her, and it was just a little bit difficult for her to keep up with everything that was happening.
“Too much of that lousy vino,” he said.
“Uh-huh. Beer, too.”
“The beer wasn’t too bad. Hang on until you get outside. The air’ll help.”
“I guess so. Where’re we going?”
“I don’t know. Where it’s quiet, that’s all. What’s the difference?”
Slowly, she said, “I think I’m a little afraid of you.”
“Afraid?”
She squeezed his hand. “Uh-huh. I like being with you and it scares me too.”
“You don’t have to be afraid.”
“Maybe not.”
“You don’t. I’m harmless.”
“Sure.”
“Honest. We’ll just walk around for awhile. The air will do you good and it won’t hurt me either. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“No passes. I promise.”
“Okay.”
“And there’s nothing to be afraid of.”
“I guess not.”
“There really isn’t. I like you too much to chance spoiling things.”
She looked up at him, searching his eyes, hoping that he was telling the truth and that he really did like her, that he liked her very much. It seemed important to her. She wasn’t sure why.
“Do you? Don’t say that unless you mean it.”
“I mean it.”
“That’s good,” she said. “It really is.”
Outside the cold air hit her in the head like a sledgehammer. She was sober all at once, still a bit light in the head but no longer dizzy. She breathed deeply. The air in New York was so different at night. The heat was gone from it and the smoke and grime of the city were not so noticeable.
It was quiet as only New York can be late at night. She heard the late sounds: staccato footsteps that can be heard when only a few people are on the sidewalks, sharp car noises that in the daytime are only part of the blended rumble of the city. When a car passed them on Cornelia Street it seemed out of place, as if all the cars should have been locked up for the night hours ago.
They didn’t speak. It wasn’t necessary, for there was a certain rapport already established between them. The closeness induced by the wine had vanished with the shock of the cold air, but it had been replaced by a clearer emotion.
She felt as though she were standing on the top of a narrow ridge. On one side was the sunlit world, a world of husband and children and the home she wanted. On the other side was the shadow world, the gay world, the lesbian world.
One little push. That was all it would take—one little push and she would topple from her perch. It wasn’t an easy perch to hold; the ridge grew narrower every day, and every day she thought she was about to fall. She wanted so much to reach out her fingers and grab at the sunshine.
If she tried to jump it would be too easy to slip and fall back into the shadows. Once she had tried to jump. She had been lucky then; she was still on the ridge.
And every day the ridge narrowed.
They were on Bleecker Street walking toward Sixth Avenue. Her hand still felt soft and small and comfortable in his, and she still leaned a little against him although she wasn’t drunk any longer.
“What time is it?”
Her voice shattered the silence just as the cold air had shattered the drunkenness. As soon as she had spoken the question she found herself leaning less upon him. She almost wanted to remove her hand from his, but she left it where it was.
“Around three.”
“Three? How did it get to be three?”
“Closer to two, maybe.”
“That’s still a good five hours. What did I do for five hours?”
“Most of the time you were drinking, I guess. I didn’t even see you come in, so it’s hard to say what you were doing before I saw you.”
“I didn’t do anything silly, did I?”
He laughed. “I don’t think you talked to anyone all night long.”
She shook her head, unable to believe that the time had passed that quickly and that she had done nothing for so many hours.
“What were you doing? Did you sing all that time?”
“Most of the time. A few of us swapped songs, so I wasn’t singing straight through.”
“That’s a long time to sing.”
“Not so long. I went for seven hours once without stopping, and that was all by myself.”
“When was that?”
“A few years back. But I was younger then.”
“Uh-huh.”
“You’re still saying ‘uh-huh’. Do you say that all the time?”
“Sometimes I say ‘no’.”
“You do?”
“Uh-huh.”
It was easy. Talking to him was very easy, and he was very tall and very strong and kissing him might be easy, too, and it might be easy to let him touch her with his big rough hands.
He wouldn’t hurt her. His hands frightened her a little because they could hurt her so easily, could bruise the soft skin of her body. But they could be gentle, too. She knew that.
“Where are we?”
“Bleecker and Sixth.”
“Oh. Where are we going?”
“Nowhere special. There’s a street here you ought to see. Have you seen Minetta yet?”
“No. What is it?”
“It’s right around the corner. It looks the way the Village is supposed to look—too narrow for two cars at the same time and it bends in the middle and the buildings are painted different colors. Want to see it?”
She nodded. They crossed Sixth Avenue and turned left into the crooked little street. Minetta was exactly as he had described it. It was narrow, with just enough room for one lane of traffic down the middle of the street. The lamps were old-fashioned and at first glance she thought they were gaslights until he explained that the only gaslights were on MacDougal Alley.
And the buildings looked ridiculous at first, robin’s-egg blue and pink and muted scarlet and dove grey under the dim lights. She looked at them a second time and they looked pretty, and the third glance had them looking quite lovely and almost beautiful.
It was a make-believe street. She knew now that it didn’t really exist and that people didn’t actually live in the funny little buildings. He pointed out the little shops in some of the buildings—carpenters, leatherworkers, silversmiths and even a Chinese laundry. But it was all make-believe, and she thought what fun it would be to have a pretend apartment on the make-believe street and not worry about anything except what color to paint the building next spring.
“Woo-woo,” she said.
“What?”
“Woo-woo. Like in that book by John O’Hara, where the girl is a little bit drunk and everything is pretty and she says woo-woo. Don’t you remember?”
“Now I do, I guess. Was it Hope of Heaven?”
“I think so. I don’t remember much about it except that it was in California and the girl was a little drunk. I feel very woo-woo now.”
“How does it feel?”
“It feels good.” She rested her head against his shoulder and gave his hand a squeeze. “It feels wonderful.”
“Woo-woo.”
“That’s it exactly. That’s just how I feel.”
“You’re nuts,” he said. “Do you know that?”
“Not nuts. Just a little woo-woo.”
“Nuts. Nuts in a nice way, and pretty and drunk and even woo-woo, but still nuts.”
“Maybe.”
“You are. C’mon, I want to show you the courtyard. It’s the best part of Minetta.”
She followed him through the gateway of the building on the corner and into the courtyard. It looked even more unreal than the rest of the street, more make-believe than anything she had ever seen, and she decided that she must have walked through a looking-glass instead of through a gateway, because this couldn’t possibly be in New York.
There was a garden, first of all. In the middle of New York there was a street with a building with a courtyard with a garden. It was a real garden, with rose bushes and zinnias and delphiniums and something that looked like a grape vine. In the center of the largest flower bed there was a terra-cotta cat with water flowing and bubbling from its mouth.
The balconies overlooking the garden seemed to come straight from Mexico. All the windows had heavy iron grillwork. She felt as though she were standing in a patio in Guadalajara.
She said, “You should have brought your guitar.”
“Why?”
“So you could sing Spanish songs to me. I wish I could live here. Barrow Street is nice, but this is magical. Can you feel the magic?”
“I think so. I’ve been here a million times, but you haven’t and that makes it new for me. Does that sound corny?”
“Uh-huh.”
“It’s true, though.”
“Then it’s not corny, but I still wish I had an apartment here. I wonder what kind of people live here, Mike?”
“I don’t know. The rent must be pretty steep.”
“It would be worth it. And at night I could sit by my window and you could serenade me through the iron grille. Do you know Spanish?”
“Just a few Spanish songs. That’s all.”
“That’s enough, because we couldn’t talk, you know. You could only sing to me, and if you were very good I might throw you a rose.”
She turned to face him and he took her arms in his hands, looking down into her eyes. She returned his look. For several seconds nothing happened. There was total silence in the small courtyard, total lack of sound or motion. She was conscious only of herself and him.
In a moment he will kiss me, she thought. Do I want to be kissed?
A moment passed. He was about to kiss her. His head was ready to come down to hers, his arms ready to close around her body and press her against him.
