“You know, of course, that this entire area of the city was once part of the harbor, a swampy tidal basin they started dredging in the late nineteenth century. Imported a lot of Dutch engineers who were used to this kind of project—dikes and so on. Most people don’t realize it, but the ground here is still spongy. It’s sinking. Residents are trying to save on water bills by drilling wells on their tiny plots, undermining their own foundations. Shortsighted, to say the least. They’ll see how much they’ve saved when the supporting structures of their buildings start to collapse.”
Desmond nodded. He and Brian Cody were standing on the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Dartmouth Street, surveying the wide, tree-lined boulevard as a dusty breeze blew around them. They’d been together for over an hour, and so far, the tour of Boston had gone very much like this: Brian pointed out some of the historical and architectural features of a particular neighborhood and then gave a quick excoriating summary that emphasized an architect or developer’s poor judgment, lack of taste or professional expertise: the hideous concrete mistake of City Hall Plaza; the technical oversight that resulted in windows falling out of the Hancock Building; the ill-conceived, inelegant renovations owners had done on town houses in the South End. The message in every case was that if he’d been hired or consulted for the job, it would have been done with more taste, expertise, and professionalism. The tour had been a show of narcissistic self-confidence, but underneath that, Desmond sensed a foundation as spongy and suspect as the ground they were now standing on. Which was—not that anyone was mentioning it yet—a few short blocks from Desmond’s room.
“Still,” Desmond said, “it is a beautiful street.”
“It has its moments. This Beaux Arts birthday cake here is one, discounting the new windows, of course.”
“Where do you and Joyce live?”
“A Cambridge apartment. I started renting it when I was in design school, gutted it completely and redesigned the entire floor plan. It’s perfect for my needs.”
“And big enough for the three of you, once the baby’s born?”
He tipped his head doubtfully from side to side. “I may have to give up a corner of my study for a nursery, as long as I can soundproof it. Alternately, I’ll try to do something interesting with the walk-in closet in the entryway. It would be nice to have more rooms, but I’m not moving out to the suburbs to get them.”
Although Desmond agreed with most of Brian’s aesthetic opinions, he wanted to challenge him and counter the snobbery and self-aggrandizement in much of what he said. Giving up a corner of his study was an act of spectacular generosity? And what kind of person sticks his baby in a closet, walk-in or not? “I can’t imagine you fitting into suburban life,” Desmond said, hoping there was an insult buried in the comment somewhere.
“That building over there,” Brian said, “was once a finishing school for proper Bostonian girls. Now it’s a finishing school of a different sort: a plastic surgery center. They completely destroyed the interior—ironic when you think about it, making something ugly for the sake of beauty.”
The warm wind and bright sun stung Desmond’s face. He was beginning to feel sandblasted. Brian still looked dashingly pale, unaffected by the elements the way many architects, Desmond had noted, tended to be. He had on a snug green suit, and was wearing a pair of tiny, dark green sunglasses that made him look like an actor going incognito so he’d be recognized.
“Wouldn’t it make more financial sense for you and Joyce to own?” Desmond asked.
“Some people are renters and some are buyers. It’s in my nature to be a renter.”
Thus far, Brian hadn’t mentioned Joyce’s name once. If Desmond hadn’t met his wife, he’d find it hard to believe Brian wasn’t a bachelor. When they were touring the Italian neighborhood in the North End of the city, Brian had spoken at length about the trip “he” had taken to Italy and the hotel “he” had stayed in in Rome and the way “his” time in Bologna had influenced his own work. It wasn’t until Desmond pressed him for details, asking specifically if he’d gone alone, that it became apparent the trip under discussion was his and Joyce’s honeymoon.
When Desmond returned from New York, he’d called Brian’s office and left a message, thinking it would be good for his ego to arrange a distraction, especially one that involved ambivalent flirtation. Brian had returned the call promptly and here they were, four days later. But throughout this boring tour business—on the whole, Desmond probably would have preferred one of those gossipy, inaccurate spins around the city in a retired amphibious military vehicle—Brian had been cold and evasive, so much so that Desmond had begun to wonder if he’d been mistaken about his intentions all along. It didn’t matter that much to him; merely placing the call had made Desmond feel marginally better about whatever it was Russell was or wasn’t doing.
They circled a few more blocks and eventually wound their way back to the commotion on Boylston Street. From the corner where they were standing, Desmond could see the front of the Boylston Hotel; Jane had pointed it out to him one day and said it was a good place to get drunk, should the urge hit him. What a miserable betrayal of Jane, to be spending the afternoon with her brother under these circumstances. What a deeper betrayal of Joyce, but after all, he didn’t know her, not really, even though he was firmly convinced that he would be a better, happier, and more interesting person if his allegiance were to her and not her narcissistic, pansexual husband. At least Desmond was doing his best to wedge her name into the conversation every once in a while. That must count for something. Brian, too, seemed to be gazing at the Boylston Hotel. Perhaps he’d had a nefarious encounter there, or maybe he was about to launch into another one of his disparaging rants. Just to discourage him, Desmond said, in a tone of voice he hoped wasn’t overly friendly, “Do you give this Welcome Wagon tour to every new arrival?”
“No,” Brian said. “Not unless the new arrival interests me.”
Since Brian had shown absolutely no interest in Desmond’s writing, teaching, life in New York, opinions of what they were looking at, or general impressions of the city, there was only one way to interpret the comment. But even that was a stretch considering that Brian had rarely looked in his direction throughout this long, opinionated excursion. Sooner or later Desmond was going to have to make a move, if for no other reason than because he was tired of looking at buildings, and wanted to get off the street. “You know,” Desmond said, “I live only a few blocks from here.”
“Yes,” Brian said. He brushed dust off the sleeves of his jacket, finally acknowledging the existence of the outer world. “I do know.”
“You asked Jane?”
He seemed offended by the suggestion. “I don’t ask anything of Jane. If I did, she’d come back with a mile-long list of favors.”
“There’s a great view of the river from my window. You can see Bunker Hill Monument, too, if you get just the right angle. Shall we head back there?”
“That’s fine with me. I could use a cup of coffee.”
Desmond had run out of coffee a few days ago, but hopefully it wouldn’t come to that anyway.
As they were crossing Newbury Street, he heard someone call out Brian’s name in a weary singsong, and looked up to see Rosemary Boyle coming toward them. Her hair was pulled back in its tight bun and her eyes were carefully hidden behind a pair of round sunglasses. She looked from Brian to Desmond and back again, seemed to make the obvious assumption, and said, “Out for a stroll?”
“Brian’s taking me on a tour of the city,” Desmond said. “The low points of all the architectural highlights.”
She turned her mouth down slightly. “Thank you for not inviting me,” she said. “If I was forced to read one more plaque about the historical significance of a bronze duck, I’d lose my mind.”
“You’d better watch out,” Desmond said. “You’re next on the list; he gives the tour to all newcomers.”
“In that case, I’m off the hook. Brian and I are yesterday’s news.” A gust of wind cut down the street and ruffled her gray cashmere sweater. “Right, Brian?”
“I know better than to disagree with you, Rosemary.”
“Yes, you do. That’s because I trained you when you were young.” Brian was still young, Desmond decided, possibly seven or more years younger than his sister. Rosemary lifted a black leather briefcase she had in her right hand. Unlike everything else about her, this was untidy; there was a clump of frayed newspapers and Xerox sheets sticking out of the top and the plastic handle of a portable umbrella. “Student papers,” she said. “A ream of scintillating analyses of poetry in America. Compare and contrast Wallace Stevens and . . . I forget who else. I was supposed to ‘correct’ them weeks ago. I’m headed over to one of Boston’s many romantic little boîtes where I’ll plant myself at a corner table until I’ve read every page.”
“Do you have to grade them?” Desmond asked.
“They’re interested in psychoanalysis, not grades. I figure out exactly what everyone wants to hear about themselves, then I tell them the opposite. They love it.”
“I’ll have to try it with my students.”
“It wouldn’t work for you. You’ve crafted a nice-guy persona for yourself, so you have to give them what they want. Otherwise, they’d storm the dean’s office and demand your resignation. I’m considered a cold, spiteful bitch, so they want to be scolded and dominated by me. They’d be happiest if I came to class in spike heels and black leather pants.”
“I’m surprised you don’t,” Brian said.
“The pants are at the cleaner. Well, I’d invite you to join me for a drink, but it looks to me as if you two have a few more sites to see.”
They said their goodbyes, but as they were turning to leave, Rosemary put her hand on Desmond’s arm and told him that she’d read his Lewis Westerly biography and had found it fascinating. Desmond was stunned, both by the fact that she’d read the book and by the tone of sincerity in her voice, a complete shift from her usual ironic sniping. “Thank you,” he said. “Thank you for reading it.”
“Much to my surprise, it was a pleasure. Of course, it’s always a pleasure to read about the torment of someone’s hidden sex life. You feel as if you’ve caught them red-handed.”
Miraculously, Loretta and Henry, installed in their recliners, merely nodded when Desmond and Brian climbed the staircase. (“A potential fall hazard,” Brian said, hand shaking the banister, “but at least they haven’t destroyed the place with a shoddy renovation.”) In Desmond’s room, Brian went to the round window and stared out at the windswept river, evidently contemplating something, possibly the sight of Cambridge just across the water. Desmond wondered if he was suddenly plagued by guilt, although that seemed doubtful. Surely you had to acknowledge the existence of other people in order to experience guilt, and a man who referred to his honeymoon as “my trip to Italy” wasn’t a likely candidate for that.
When he finally turned from the window, he glanced around the room slowly, taking in every detail with a blank expression that did little to hide his disapproval. He looked down at himself and then met Desmond’s gaze; it was the first time he’d looked at him directly since they’d been together, and his pale eyes were softer than he expected. Desmond was shocked to realize that he’d missed an essential fact about Brian: he was shy. “What do you think Rosemary meant,” he asked, “when she talked about . . . catching someone red-handed?”
There was a rueful tone in his voice that Desmond found almost touching. It didn’t make sense to try to demonize Brian. A lot of gay men he knew complained about the scruples of married men they’d had affairs with, as if cheating with someone of the same gender as your spouse put you in a morally superior position.
“Rosemary was talking about the subject of a biography I wrote. He had a private life that was very different from his public persona.”
Brian sat on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his jacket. “How so?”
“Most strikingly, he had a reputation as a compulsive womanizer, but in his journals, he wrote almost exclusively about ‘playing gin,’ code, I discovered, for picking up young men on the street. There were at least two gin games recounted every week for the last couple decades of his life: ‘Disappointing game,’ ‘Big win,’ ‘Dealt a marvelous hand this afternoon,’ and so on. I asked one of his ex-wives about his card playing and she scoffed at the idea, said he hated to play and usually cheated when he did. These secret pickups were the center of his life.”
“Maybe his marriages were the center of his life and these were simply outlets.”
“That’s what he tried to tell himself, but looking at it objectively, you wouldn’t draw that conclusion.”
Brian crossed his legs. “It sounds as if he was confused.”
“I don’t think he was. He knew what he wanted, he just didn’t want to take responsibility for his desires.” As Desmond looked across the room to where Brian was sitting, he saw clearly that the afternoon was at a crossroads. Brian looked vulnerable and a little lost, sitting on the edge of the bed tucked under the eave, his shirt tightly buttoned and his pants carefully zipped. If Desmond didn’t take decisive action immediately, he’d be presiding over a therapy session that would last until dusk, listening to Brian’s marital problems and wayward desires and possibly, a more horrifying thought, confessing some of his own. “Tell me, Brian,” he said. “Do you play gin?”
This question seemed to catch Brian off guard. He cleared his throat and said, “I’ve been known to, from time to time. Depending on who I’m with.”
“Let’s say you’re with me.”
Brian looked off in the direction of the window, apparently contemplating an honest answer. The last thing Desmond needed at this point was another rejection. He crossed the room and sat on the bed beside Brian. He gripped the back of his neck, pulled him toward him, and gave him a blunt, hard kiss on the lips, partly hoping it would make him uncomfortable. It didn’t. Brian wrapped his arms around Desmond’s shoulders so tightly, their lips were mashed together. Desmond hadn’t done this with anyone other than Russell in five years, and he was struck, as if this were the first time he’d kissed someone, by the shocking intimacy of the act: the shared saliva, the exchange of breath, the brush of skin against skin. Brian’s body had a strong soapy smell with a trace of nervous sweat under it and his mouth tasted like stale mint. Strange smells, reminding Desmond that he was doing this with a stranger, which wouldn’t be bad if he didn’t know the stranger’s name, along with the names of his sister, wife, and assorted relatives. He worked his hands against Brian’s chest, pried himself away from him, and stood up. Brian misunderstood the gesture. He slipped off his jacket and was unbuttoning his shirt as if it were about to burst into flames.
Shit, Desmond thought as he grudgingly took off his own shirt, I should have opted for the therapy session. Brian kicked off his shoes and stepped out of his pants. He had a smooth, pale body, tight and surprisingly muscular. He hesitated for a moment about the underpants, then seemed to decide to leave them on. Well, why not? If you were going to go to the trouble of buying aquamarine bikini briefs, you might as well show them off. He wondered who was going to end up laundering these things. Hopefully not Joyce. Brian sat back down on the bed with his legs spread. Desmond realized, looking down at this attractive and absurdly available body, that there was nothing he wanted to do with it. He felt panicked by the inevitability of what was about to happen, as if he was willingly boarding an airplane he knew was destined to crash.
“Nice abs,” Brian said in a husky voice.
It was a ridiculous attempt at a compliment. Not only that, there was something about the exercise-video nature of the word “abs” that put the last nail in the coffin of Desmond’s desire or whatever it was that had propelled him this far. It was too late to walk away from this, so he walked closer to the bed. Brian drew Desmond toward him and stuck his tongue into his belly button. From where he was standing, Desmond could see a scrap of view out the round window and an unfortunately larger scrap of his own reflection in the mirror over his bureau. If you eliminate all desire and passion from sex, the whole thing begins to look unfortunately similar to playing a slot machine: insert coin, pull lever, numbly hope for the jackpot to spew out. Goddamn Russell. He’d talked Desmond into all those years of monogamy, gotten him used to sex connected to emotion—to love, if you wanted to get specific—and then went out and broke the very vows he’d insisted upon.
Brian was moaning as he buried his face deeper into Desmond’s stomach. Obviously some kind of belly button obsession, which, given Joyce’s delicate condition, Desmond was not going to think about too seriously. Instead, he thought about Russell, about the infuriating possibility that he was engaged in something along these lines at this very minute. Except in his case, he was probably enjoying it. Conjuring up Russell’s name and the image of his face and body helped. Desmond looked at himself in the mirror again. Oh well, he thought, insert coin, pull lever, take your chances. It’s only a quarter.