On the mornings when Dillard awoke before Emilia Mae, he’d go downstairs, pick up the newspaper, settle into one of the chairs on the porch, and read the paper. One morning, he came upon a story about a new cooperative housing project in the Bronx on the site of what used to be Freedomland. The article noted that Freedomland had been built on a former municipal landfill that had never been properly drained, which led to its shuttering a few years earlier. The mosquitoes that had forced Dillard out of Freedomland had been a problem through much of the season and had finally forced everyone else out. He remembered how, in an itchy frenzy, he’d fled that place like a fugitive, telling no one, just throwing all his belongings into his car and taking off.
Looking around at the oak dining room table, the Georg Jensen candlesticks, and the mantelpiece cluttered with family pictures, Dillard thought how out of character that seemed to him now. Anyone who walked into this place would figure that an old married couple had lived here forever. In a sense, they had. Dillard was thirty-seven. He’d been with Emilia Mae for seven years. Alice was twenty and a junior at college. He’d had a hand in successfully raising her, even if she was now singing with what he took to be some puerile rock and roll band. He’d lived this life long enough to believe it would always be this way. But when he thought back to his past before Emilia Mae, staying was the aberration. Fleeing was what he’d always done. He’d left Skyville when the army wouldn’t take him. He’d left the resort in the Catskills when it became too humiliating. He’d left Skyville after Nick. He’d left himself after Nick.
Nick.
Every thought of Nick still stung Dillard anew. He put the paper down and closed his eyes. He could almost feel Nick’s mouth on him, smell his Aqua Velva. He needed a Nick pick-me-up, so he tiptoed down to the basement, where he opened the closet and pulled out the cigar box filled with Nick’s photos and letters. In all these years, he’d never read those letters. The pictures were one thing, but reading Nick’s odd sentence structures and the almost childlike way he expressed his love would be like hearing his voice. That would be unbearable.
He thought about Skyville. He hadn’t been there in nearly ten years, and he missed the smell of it, the light, the mountains, the water. He thought, as he often had, about Sharlene. What had become of her? Had she remarried? Did she still live in the same log house? What were the kids doing? He wondered what Nick wrote in his final note to her. Unfinished business there. He’d often thought to call her or write her a letter and tell her how sorry he was. She’d loved the Nick he’d loved—still did love—and that part of him yearned to see her again. Nick had made it clear in his note that there was no evidence that he’d joined Nick in New York City. The case of Nick Moore had been closed for many years, so he wasn’t worried about any legal complications. Maybe Sharlene wouldn’t mind being in touch with him. Maybe her attitude toward homosexuals had changed. Maybe she saw him as he saw her: as a piece of Nick.
The idea took hold. He stared at the picture of him and Nick by the lake. They both looked so bright and eager, the way lovers do when everything is new. He could drive down there for a few days. Just to see that lake again would be a miracle. He started to talk aloud to Nick’s image. “I’ll write Sharlene, if she’s still in Skyville, to find out if she wants to see me,” and then nodded at the photograph, as if Nick and he had made a pact.
Dillard wrote a brief note to Sharlene’s old address telling her about his marriage, his home, Alice. He asked about her and the kids. He said he was planning a quick trip to Skyville and would love to see her. If she thought it was a good idea would she send some dates that might work for her?
The swiftness of her reply startled Dillard. “I’m still where you last saw me, in the old log house. The kids are coming along nicely, thank you, Eve and Ava are almost ready for college and Zeke is in his second year at Auburn. Sadly, we lost Lucy the dog three years ago. Yikes! It’s been a long time. As I’m still teaching, a weekend visit would work better than during the week. I look forward to hearing from you.” Her handwriting was as unadorned as her face and long straight hair. He could imagine her biting down on the knuckle of her index finger as she wrote her letter, something she did when she was concentrating. In every way, she was a contrast to Nick, but as he’d said of her many times, she was the one who kept their life on track.
Dillard wrote back that he would like to come either the first or second weekend after New Year’s. Sharlene quickly answered: “The second weekend would be fine.”
That Carolyn Whitman was coming home with Alice for Christmas vacation caused a stir in the Wingo/Fox households after Alice sent out a list of instructions to the family.
“Please don’t make anything with a French name or try to speak French in front of her. She is fluent in the language. She doesn’t eat white foods. All meats have to be well done. No liver, bananas, or cantaloupe, please. Even the sight of any of those things will make her gag. Peanut butter is a favorite, but no white bread. She likes wine. Chablis, to be specific. Of course, the Kleppers are always welcome, but it would be good if he didn’t mention God or any of that stuff as Carolyn’s an atheist. She’s allergic to dust. Her sheets must be 100% cotton. Cigarette smoke makes her asthma act up. Can we use cloth napkins at dinner? Also, candlesticks would be nice. Just be yourselves. Carolyn will absolutely adore you.”
“Christ, you’d think the Queen of England was coming to visit,” Geraldine said to Emilia Mae after reading the letter. “I’m sure as hell gonna smoke when I want to. And am I going to tell Alberto he can’t make his crème brûlée because some fancy girl doesn’t like how he pronounces it? Not on my life. I already hate this girl.”
“Mother, she’s Alice’s friend. We have to be nice to her.”
“Oh, I’ll be nice,” said Geraldine. “I just won’t like her.”
“This is going to be a nightmare,” said Emilia Mae. “Dillard hates her, too. Says she’s taking Alice from us, turning her into some sort of snotty college girl. Apparently, she’s the one who convinced Alice to join that rock band. Dillard says that’s a complete waste of her time.”
“Don’t worry. It’ll be fine. Alberto and I will be our usual charming selves, and Dillard’s mostly always a gentleman. If worse comes to worse, we can fob her off on the Kleppers.”
Carolyn’s visit was fine enough. She was polite, asked lots of questions, and made excellent conversation. After all his apprehension, Dillard actually liked her. She got tears in her eyes when she talked about The Confessions of Nat Turner, and knew the words to the newest Jacques Brel songs. The problem was Alice, his sweet, compassionate Alice. He hated how she tossed her hair when she talked, and she reeked of that awful patchouli. “I can’t believe that Nixon is going to be our friggin’ president,” she said the first night at dinner. Coming out of Carolyn’s mouth, that sentence wouldn’t have raised an eyebrow. But from Alice, it sounded pretentious and unnatural. Worse, her taste in music had taken a turn so far from his, he had nothing to say when she talked about her favorite groups: Cream, Steppenwolf, Sly and the Family Stone.
On the second night at dinner, Carolyn mentioned what a beautiful voice Alice had and turned to Dillard. “Alice tells me you play the flute and she sings along. That’s so sweet. What kinds of songs do you sing?”
Dillard brightened. “You know, old standards. After dinner, we can go downstairs and play some for all of you.” He turned to Alice. “What do you think?”
Alice scrunched up her face. “Don’t be a silly. Carolyn doesn’t want to listen to that old stuff.”
Carolyn protested: “I do! I’d love to hear you two together.”
Later that night, a humiliated Alice forced her way through “A Taste of Honey,” as Dillard played the flute. Carolyn drummed her hand against her thigh in time to the music. “That was heaven,” she said when they finished. “Can you do another?”
Alice demurred. “Honestly, we just play around with dopey old songs. We don’t want to bore you with all that.”
“It’s hardly boring,” said Carolyn. “It’s beautiful.”
Alice sang “Someone to Watch over Me,” as Dillard reluctantly played the flute.
“Pretty,” said Carolyn, when they finished. “That’s the one your grandpa taught you, right?”
Alice could hear Grandpa Earle’s thin, girlish voice. She wondered if they would still sound like the Andrews Sisters together. Geraldine must have seen the sadness flicker across Alice’s face, because she suddenly got the same tight look of being caught unawares. Emilia Mae stared at the floor while Dillard placed his flute on the music stand and closed his eyes. Only moments ago, the room had been filled with bright notes but was now heavy with loss.
Geraldine snapped out of whatever she was in and clapped her hands. “Enough with the melancholy music. Time for Alberto’s crème brûlée.” (Was Emilia Mae imagining it, or did Geraldine purposely swallow her rs and stretch the u?)
As they started up the stairs, Dillard saw how Carolyn laughed when Alice rolled her eyes and mouthed the word sorry. He took the stairs two at a time. When he reached the top, he grabbed his hat, threw on his coat, and made for the front door.
“Where are you going?” asked Emilia Mae.
“Out. I need air. Feeling claustrophobic. Must have been those dopey old songs.” Before he slammed the door, he looked at Alice, who was staring inconsolably at Carolyn.
Dillard got into his car, though he had no idea where he was going. Anywhere but here, he thought. He drove into town, up to the high school and down to the Sound, allowing his thoughts to flow. He’d lost Alice. She felt far away. He felt far away. Without Alice, Emilia Mae didn’t work. Home didn’t work. He didn’t work.
He tried telling himself it was a temporary thing, that college kids always turned away from their parents and thought they knew better. But that wasn’t the whole truth. It wasn’t just Alice, he realized. I’m the one turning away. I’m the one who doesn’t fit, never have. I need to get back to Skyville. Finish up the thing with Sharlene. Then what?
It was as if one chunk of the iceberg broke off, and the rest started to melt. I’d be running away again, I know. This time, there’d be consequences. Emilia Mae. How can I do that to her? It’s not her fault; she doesn’t deserve this. What would I tell her?
Dillard remembered that first dinner at the Wingos, how he’d stormed out. No one had known what to say except Reverend Klepper. He’d been very kind to him. Had invited him to walk with him after church, said he’d show him the town. They’d been walking after church for nearly seven years now. He was more comfortable with him than anyone else in New Rochelle. Reverend—Aloysius—was someone he could confide in. He would talk to him about all this on Sunday.
Dillard headed toward home. He wasn’t calm, but he wasn’t bound in fury, either. Sunday was only three days away. He could wait that long. By the time he got home, Alice and Carolyn were in the kitchen finishing the dishes, and the rest of them were sitting in the living room talking while Mantovani played on the record player. No one asked Dillard where he’d gone or why; they all laughed when he picked up the Mantovani album jacket and said, “Oh brother, I can’t wait until Alice has to explain this to Carolyn.”
Following Alice’s orders, no one invited Carolyn to church on Sunday. Dillard went with Emilia Mae. After, as she always did, she went to Geraldine’s house to help her and Alberto prepare Sunday lunch.
Dillard waited in the back pew of the church until the last parishioner had shaken hands with Aloysius. “I hope you’re up for a good walk today, I could really use some advice.”
Both men put on their coats and hats and headed outdoors. The sun was bright, and it was warm for December.
“How about we head to Twin Lakes?” said Aloysius, referring to the lakes in front of New Rochelle High School. “I find it so peaceful there.”
They walked down a long hill. When they got to the bottom, Aloysius spotted an iron bench. “Mind if we sit for a while? Old man, old feet.”
Aloysius pointed to a row of bare bushes in front of them. “It’s amazing how something this nondescript can put on such a show in spring. Rhododendrons, these, as lurid a purple as you’ll ever see. It’s the thing I love most about nature. Nothing is as it seems.”
Dillard nodded. “As a boy, I used to catch tadpoles at Lake Lure. I’d watch them over time as they turned into frogs. I suppose in our own way, we humans are chameleons, too. We just hide it better.”
“Isn’t that the truth,” said Aloysius. “Take us, you and me. How many miles have we walked together in the last seven years, and still I know nothing about who you were before you came to New Rochelle.”
“Funny. I could say the same about you.”
Aloysius pulled off his shoes and massaged his stockinged feet. “Fair enough. I’m game to spill the beans if you are.”
Dillard rubbed his eyes with his thumb and forefinger. He told Aloysius about all that came before Nick. Then he paused and said, “I’m about to tell you things I haven’t told anyone else, things you’re probably not going to want to know. So, tell me now if you’d rather I stop.”
Aloysius slipped on his shoes. “I’m fifty-nine and have been living with my own secrets. If you’re comfortable telling, I’m comfortable listening.”
Dillard pressed his lips together and closed his eyes. Aloysius felt his discomfort. “Tell you what, why don’t I go first? Would that be easier?”
Dillard shook his head yes. Aloysius cracked his knuckles. “Okay, here goes.”
Aloysius told him about his childhood on the farm in Kingston, going to the seminary in Louisville, meeting Marguerite, and the baby, Linden. “When she was eight months old, Linden got diphtheria. This was before penicillin. She died. After that, I lost everything: my will, my faith. Marguerite went back to her family in Toronto, and I went home to Kingston. I was so angry and crazed, I tried to chop down an old linden tree on our farm. After a while, I got a job driving a delivery truck in the Bronx.
“About a year later, I met Cora. She’s the one who urged me back to the church, got me to go to the Union Theological Seminary, and introduced me to the pastor at First Baptist here. My life with Cora has been a blessing except for one thing. We’ve never been able to have a child of our own. Cora knows all about Marguerite, but I’ve never told her about Linden.” He shook his head. “I’ve convinced myself it would be too hurtful for her, but in my heart, I don’t think that’s the real reason. Maybe I’m afraid that by telling Cora, Linden would become part of our lives. I don’t think I could stand that. I pray for the courage to tell her someday. She deserves to know the truth.
“That’s it. That’s my story. Now you know everything. More than anyone else knows about me.”
Dillard put his hand on Aloysius’s shoulder. “Thank you for telling me. You know your secrets are safe with me.”
“And yours with me,” said Aloysius. “You and I are friends. Nothing’s going to change that.”
“I appreciate that,” said Dillard. He took a deep breath.
“I loved a man once.”
He told Aloysius about Nick, Sharlene, and the family, about the fateful visit to New York City. He watched Aloysius’s face for signs of disapproval, and when he saw none, he continued up until the time he came to New Rochelle.
“I married Emilia Mae because I wanted a normal life. A home. I love Alice, and in my own way, I love Emilia Mae. It’s just, now with Alice gone, it doesn’t work for me. I don’t know if I’m one of those men who likes other men, or if I was uniquely attracted to Nick. All I know is I can’t stay here anymore. I want to go down to Skyville for a while. I want to start all over and find out who I really am, if that makes any sense. Emilia Mae’s done nothing wrong, but I can’t stay with her. It all seems very pretend, and I don’t want to keep pretending. I don’t want to hurt her, either. That’s what I wanted to talk to you about. What do I say to her?”
Aloysius put his hands on his thighs, leaned forward, and with some effort, stood up. “That’s a complicated story you have there. I have no idea if you’re one of those men or not, but it hardly matters. Whatever in you is urging you to leave isn’t going to quit until you do something about it. I think you have to tell Emilia Mae exactly what you just told me. She won’t be happy about it, but I think she’d understand. Mind if we walk some more?”
As they headed up the hill, Dillard noticed how slowly Aloysius was walking. He was getting old. All the changes over the past few years must be hard on him. He’d talked often in the past year about the assassinations of Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy. He’d exhorted the congregation to understand that hatred was the disease, love and compassion the cure. Lately, he’d even tried introducing some modern Christian music into the services to make them more contemporary. But really, how was someone Aloysius’s age supposed to understand hippies, or protestors, much less men who liked men? Dillard worried he’d made a mistake dragging him into this and wanted to end the conversation. “Thanks for that advice. I’ll have to think about it.”
Aloysius stopped walking and grabbed Dillard’s arm. “No, you don’t have to think about it. You’ve been thinking about it for years. If it’s men you prefer, then don’t waste any more of Emilia Mae’s life. She deserves to find someone to love her completely, as do you. Whatever you had with this Nick fellow is what you should have with whomever, and so should she. You don’t have time to waste.”
It took all of Dillard’s self-control not to cry. “I don’t want to hurt her.”
“You’re hurting her more by living a lie.”
Dillard wiped the sweat from the back of his neck. “My father used to warn me not to tell people everything at once. Now I’ve blurted out everything, and you’re stuck with my secrets. I’m sorry to burden you.”
Aloysius smiled. “I guess we’re even in the burdening department. In some ways, you and I are in the same boat, keeping secrets from our loved ones. God must have had his reasons for introducing us.”
Dillard started to say something about how they could help each other, but Aloysius interrupted him by looking at his watch and exclaiming, “Good Lord, we’ve been gone so long, they’ve probably finished lunch and are preparing dinner by now.”
They walked the rest of the way in silence. Aloysius seemed sad. Dillard felt exhausted. He wished he didn’t know what he now knew about Aloysius. He thought telling his story to Aloysius would make him less anxious, but it only made him more so. It would take courage for Aloysius to tell Cora about the baby, just as it would take courage for him to tell Emilia Mae why he needed to leave. He wondered if both men confessed to one another so they could bear witness and give each other strength to do what they had to do. He resolved to tell Emilia Mae about Nick and Sharlene and why he needed to go to Skyville. He’d tell her next Sunday.