While the rest of the world revives itself each spring, New York’s renaissance occurs in the autumn. The air is usually crisp and clear, the sky a vivid blue and the slow pace of summer is replaced by a burst of energy on the part of natives and visitors alike. Joggers, now as much a part of the landscape as skyscrapers, go from shorts to sweat suits, and their warmer attire and quickened step seem to reflect the mood of the city. Those who had fled the concrete pavement for shore and country return en masse; June graduates arrive to launch careers; aspiring actors come seeking fame and fortune ; even those with no definite goal are swept along by the tide of expectation that permeates the town.
Tom’s tree announced the new season by changing its green cloak to one as colorful as Joseph’s proverbial robe. The image it evoked in the early morning sunlight, still glistening from the chilly night air, was more reminiscent of a country scene than the cityscape it actually was. Tom paused each morning for a moment before going to work to admire the phenomenon and the picture, framed by his living room window, always left him feeling slightly melancholy. Thanksgiving was two weeks away and after it the Christmas season would begin in earnest.
He wondered if Nicky’s strange family celebrated Thanksgiving. He doubted it. He thought about buying a turkey and making a traditional dinner for the two of them but abandoned the idea on the grounds that he had never attempted anything more ambitious than a roast chicken or a broiled steak. He could make reservations at a good restaurant… no, he couldn’t… eating out, or just going out in general, had become a bone of contention between the two young men. “Why don’t we ever go out?” Nicky was beginning to ask with unrelenting regularity.
“Are you tired of me already?”
“You know I’m not, but I’ve never been out on my own and now that I have some freedom and a guide I still don’t get out.”
“Nicky, the only time we have together is when you can get away from Uncle Alexis and I don’t want to waste it.” Tom left no doubt as to what he meant and Nicky would immediately relent. It was a bitchy thing to do and Tom knew it but nonetheless he continued to use the ploy to keep Nicky from straying on his own. The truth of the matter was that Tom didn’t want to take Nicky about because the places Tom frequented were also frequented by Tom’s friends, including some who had known Eric Hall. Tom still didn’t want anyone who had known Eric to see Nicky Three. He made dozens of excuses to himself for wanting to keep Nicky a secret but refused to face the only reason that mattered to him. He thought that if Eric’s friends saw Nicky, and once they had gotten over the shock, they would lionize Eric’s double, even turn him into some sort of minor celebrity, and odd man out Tom would once again be just that: odd man out.
Tom was very sure of himself in places like the West Side Y. M. C. A. or seated on a hotel bar stool, but in the company of his rich friends he was as insecure as the boy who had journeyed by train from Omaha to New Haven some ten years ago. Amy was not the only one who knew Tom Bradshaw was “not one of us.” Tom knew it better than anyone else.
True, Nicky went out on occasion with Aunt Marie and Uncle Alexis, but from what Tom could gather it seemed that Alexis Romaine was now very ill and seldom left the apartment on West End Avenue. But if friends of Eric’s saw Nicky alone it would just be a passing glance which might draw a “he reminds me of Eric Hall” comment. Such things happen very often, especially in a city as large as New York. But if he were with Tom, and they stopped to chat as they most certainly would, and stood face to face with Nicky then the shit would hit the fan as it had never done before.
No, Tom would not risk it.
The ploy Tom used to keep Nicky from pushing the situation was a perfect one because it was, for the most part, true. The only time they spent together was the two or three hours, twice a week, when they ordinarily would have been at the Y. Occasionally Nicky could stay an extra hour or two using lectures at the Y as his excuse for being late, and sometimes on Saturday or Sunday afternoon he stopped by when he was supposedly out for a walk. Nicky, a grown man, felt foolish and not a little guilty about these restrictions and Tom played that for all it was worth. Nicky Three would not stray.
Tom had not changed his mind about how he privately viewed his relationship with Nicky. It was still not going to be any long-term deal, but the more time they spent together the more often he had to remind himself of this conviction. Their sex life went from good to better. It hadn’t worn thin, as such relationships often do, because their interest in each other went beyond the bedroom.
They enjoyed being with each other and they enjoyed getting to know each other which made their intimate moments an extension, not a thing apart, of their relationship. Thanks to Nicky’s age, intelligence and avid reading he was fast becoming not only an apt sex partner but was also teaching Tom the difference between love and sex. Nicky was a true romantic; more importantly his romanticism had never been tainted with the realities of life. While he thoroughly enjoyed hearing about Tom’s previous sexual exploits he never gave a thought to experimenting with anyone but Tom. But if Nicky lacked experience he made up for it with enthusiasm and a desire to please. He gave of himself completely and his giving was infectious.
“Would you understand what I meant if I told you you were the first person I’ve truly had sex with?” Tom asked.
“I’d not only understand, I would agree with you,” Nicky replied.
“You’re a wonder, Nicky, and now tell me why I feel that way.”
“Because I’m the first person you’ve ever had sex with…and loved at the same time.”
“For a beginner you’re very sure of yourself.”
“For an old-timer you’ve got a lot to learn.”
They told each other everything. Not only in the bedroom but more often, and more significantly, seated in Tom’s living room, wearing robes or nothing at all, sipping wine or beer and smoking cigarettes as Nicky now did on occasion. Two souls coming together, naked physically and mentally, nestled in the comfortable room with only their tree as witness. Sometimes one would touch the other intimately while the conversation was as far removed from sex as it possibly could be and the touch said “I understand” more profoundly than the words themselves ever could.
“You’re really a bastard?”
“Let’s put it this way, Nicky, if Mercy married before I was begot, as the good book says, she never bothered telling my grandmother about it.”
“So Bradshaw is —”
“My mother’s name.”
“Did the people you grew up with know it?”
“Are you kidding? According to Grandma my mother didn’t exactly leave town a blushing virgin. Besides, my grandmother’s name is Bradshaw and she had one child, a daughter. Grandma didn’t even have the good common sense to pass me off as Tom Smith or Jones or even Doe.”
“Your mother could have married a man named Bradshaw.”
“Nicky, you’ve read too many novels and watch too many soap operas. No way did Mercy marry a Bradshaw. In fact, no way did Mercy marry. I don’t think she was exactly a one-man woman.”
“Do you think it was the farm worker she ran off with?”
“Who knows? She ran off with a hired hand, as Grandma called him, and came back with yours truly and no sign of the hired hand.”
“If you could have anyone you wanted for a father who would you choose?”
Tom thought about the faceless body and strong arms of his masturbation fantasies. Then he thought about the Lindenhursts and Halls. “I don’t know. Who would you pick?”
“Uncle Alexis.”
Tom almost choked on his beer. “You’re kidding.”
“No. Tom, he’s really a very wonderful person. So is Aunt Marie. You always make it seem as if they treated me like some unwanted stepson, but that’s not true. They’ve always been very good to me, in their own way.”
“You know who Uncle Alexis would pick for a father?” Tom thought aloud.
“Who?”
“The last czar of Russia, that’s who.”
“You’re a bastard, Tommy.”
“So what else is new?”
Nicky wanted to know all about the town Tom grew up in, his school friends, his upbringing at the knee of the God-fearing Emily Bradshaw and especially about his life at Yale and his subsequent existence as a carefree bachelor in New York. To one brought up as Nicky Three was, Tom’s rather unextraordinary life seemed more exciting than any adventure novel Nicky had ever read.
“I sure would like to meet your friends, Tommy.”
“Oh, sure. We’ll have a little cocktail party and at ten minutes to seven you’ll excuse yourself and leave. Then we might get invited to a dinner party and just about the time everyone is sitting down to dine you’ll get up and leave. Even Cinderella had till midnight.”
Nicky looked at his hands which rested placidly on his lap and the conversation was ended.
And Tom learned all about Nicky’s life with Alexis and Marie Romaine. The country house in England, for someone with Tom’s background sounded like a castle. A tennis court, and horses; a pond for skating in the winter and caviar every night. Nicky had been surrounded with everything a young man could want, except people. He had been given everything one could wish for, except his own life.
“What about sex?” Tom asked. “Did he ever mention sex to you?”
“Never.”
“How did you learn to jack off?”
“How did you?”
“Me? I’m the product of the American public school system. You won’t find masturbation on any curriculum but along about the sixth grade it’s the most discussed extracurricular activity on the agenda. I knew all about it long before I could do it and one little bugger even told me where babies came from. He said you quote stick it in her and jack off unquote and you keep doing it until you put enough in there to form a baby.”
Nicky, who was sitting on the floor, began to rock with laughter.
“Then he said the size of the baby that came out — “
“Depended on how much you put in,” Nicky finished, rolling across the room and kicking his legs with glee.
“You think I had it easy? Christ, I wonder what ever happened to that punk.”
“I don’t know, but I bet his wife had the biggest babies ever conceived.”
“Okay, you had your laugh on me, now what about you?”
“I, Mr. Bradshaw, had tutors. And very good ones. They told it like it was.”
“Doesn’t sound like much fun.”
“It wasn’t, but at least it was the truth.”
“Did any of your tutors ever try to put the make on you?”
“No. I think they were afraid of Uncle Alexis. And don’t forget, tutors need references.”
“How did you know you liked guys, Nicky?”
Nicky shrugged his shoulders. “It wasn’t a sudden revelation. Reading, going to the films, looking at magazines…I found myself hung up on the hero or the guy pushing shaving cream all the time.”
“Did you think it was strange?”
“No, did you?”
“I’m not really sure I’m gay.”
“You do one hell of an imitation, Bradshaw. And on that subject, why did you pick me?”
“I didn’t pick you, we just happened to meet.”
“You picked me.”
“I couldn’t resist your beauty and your diving skill.”
“You said I reminded you of someone you knew.”
Tom looked surprised. “You never forget anything, do you?”
“I don’t have very much to remember.”
“It was just an opening line, Nicky…just an opening line.”
Over the weeks that followed, with no conscious effort, the apartment became as much Nicky’s as it was Tom’s. A toothbrush for Nicky appeared, a robe for Nicky to relax in, underpants and t-shirts that Nicky could change into if the need arose and jars of peanuts which he never tired of munching on all became a part of the walk-up off Central Park West. Tom even had a duplicate key made for Nicky and very often when arriving home from work he would find traces that Nicky had been there in his absence. A bottle of champagne chilling in the refrigerator or some item of food that Tom especially liked and occasionally a small gift like a tie or shirt that never failed to be just what Tom would have bought for himself.
Nicky had gone from one gilded cage to another, but the new one contained Tom and that made it as big as the world. The rest, Nicky was sure, would come as soon as he was able to break away from Uncle Alexis and Aunt Marie. But it would be nice to meet some of Tommy’s friends, even if he could only be with them for just a few hours.
Tom wondered why he had been given Eric, but an Eric bereft of family, friends, wealth. He had “Eric” and old Mrs. Lindenhurst had all that money and no grandson and heir. “Why the fuck can’t I have them both?” Those words he had uttered weeks and weeks ago which had acted like an electric shock to his brain had never completely left his fertile mind.
If the gods work in strange ways they had picked the right mortal to entice.
London — 1955
Erica Lindenhurst was not a classical beauty. She could possibly be called pretty but striking would be a more fit adjective for the only child of the American ambassador to the Court of St. James. Erica had red hair, blue eyes, a complexion dotted with freckles when not carefully covered with make-up and a smile an unkind columnist had once labeled predatory. But men seldom noticed the young lady’s flaws when presented to the sole heiress of one of the greatest fortunes in America.
Her father, Eric Lindenhurst, was the scion of an old and well-known Boston clan and the name Lindenhurst had long been synonymous with great wealth in America. He had devoted all of his adult life to the service of his country and he considered his appointment to the Court of St. James the crowning glory to a life filled with unselfish achievements.
The tea dance, sponsored by the British Foreign Office, was everything Erica expected it to be and less. But the girl, substituting for her mother who was ill with a cold, did not show the boredom she felt in any way. She drank the offered punch with relish, smiled when a smile was called for, shook many hands and danced with whoever asked her to dance. She was the center of attention and appeared to be loving every minute of it.
Her father was the most important person in the room and Erica adored standing next to him and basking in his reflected glory. Like most young ladies, and especially only daughters, Erica delighted in taking her mother’s place beside her father. She felt like a little girl at her first grown-up affair except, in this particular instance, there were no “little boys” present for her to charm and no hearts to conquer. Just as Erica was beginning to wonder when she could make a polite exit a soft, male voice whispered in her ear: “There is a small bar at the far end of the room where one can get a proper drink.”
Startled, Erica turned and faced a man with dark hair and deep blue eyes which stared, unblinkingly, directly at her. He was smiling but in spite of that, or maybe because of it, he did not look happy. In fact his manner, immediately noticeable, was that of one in perpetual mourning.
“But I like the punch,” Erica answered in a conspiratorial tone.
“Spoken like a true diplomat which means I don’t believe you.”
Erica laughed. “How right you are.”
The man, who was exactly Erica’s height, offered her his arm and she took it, allowing him to lead her across the crowded room.
She noticed that he walked with a slight limp.
“Is it your job to ply young ladies with booze and extract military secrets from them?”
“Perhaps. Would that make you flee?”
“If I run it will be after I have my drink,” Erica answered.
The man smiled. “I thought so. My name is Alexis Romaine.”
“Alexis. I like that. How do you do, Mr. Romaine. I am Erica Lindenhurst.”
“If I did not know that, Miss Lindenhurst, I would be either a fool or illiterate and I am neither.”
“I’m sure of that, Mr. Romaine.”
“Please call me Alexis.”
“And never Alex.”
“No, never that.”
The bar was as small and as inconspicuous as a bar could possibly be. The fact that it was intended to serve over a hundred people almost made it a joke. “You said scotch?” Alexis asked.
“I didn’t, but I will if you ask.”
“And plenty of ice for Miss Lindenhurst,” Alexis ordered the bartender.
“Thank you,” Erica said when Alexis handed her the ice-filled drink. “You must be a diplomat. Plenty of ice for the American.” Erica tried unsuccessfully to imitate Alexis’s soft but demanding voice.
“Not really,” he answered.
“But you are with the Foreign Office.”
Alexis nodded. “In a minor capacity. I translate Russian and French and spot trends in those two countries, whatever that may mean.”
Erica took a long sip from her drink, “Russian and French, what a strange combination.” She accepted a cigarette from the pack Alexis offered her and appraised the man as he lit it for her. “You look and act very English,” she flirted, “but there is a hint of something foreign and mysterious in your manner.”
“And you are an over-imaginative child. But there is some truth in what you say. I was born and lived for a while in Russia.”
“How did you get out?”
Alexis looked startled for a moment and then, realizing what Erica meant, smiled and said, “I left before the big, bad revolution.”
“But you’re not that old,” Erica blurted in most undiplomatic fashion and then quickly recanted with, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
Alexis shook his head. “I am not offended, Erica, if I may call you that. I am fifty-one years old and why do the young think anything that occurred over thirty years ago is ancient history?”
“Because we believe now is the day we turned eighteen and everything that happened before then is long, long ago.”
“You are as bright as you are pretty. So many young ladies today are good to look at and dismal to listen to.”
“So are a lot of young men.”
The evening was no longer a chore for Erica. She had made a conquest and under no circumstances did she function better or enjoy herself more. And the man who called himself Alexis Romaine was different than any Erica had ever flirted with. It wasn’t only his age — over fifty put him in her father’s generation — that made Alexis Romaine different. It was his calm self-assurance and his masculinity which, paradoxically, was made more pronounced by his slightly effeminate manner. Romaine exuded a confidence in his role as a male which did not need the overt physical characterizations of the gender to make itself known. He was at once as physical and as ethereal as the smoke which rose from the cigarette poised constantly between his fingers.
The young men Erica knew had been greatly influenced by the recent war. Their idea of romantic love was a grim cross between saccharine Hollywood films and latrine conversation. Her current beau, the Honorable Anthony Hall, was a tall, lanky, handsome and somewhat impoverished member of the English gentry.
The young man had managed to take Erica’s heart and virginity six months after her arrival in England. The fact that Hall was well connected but poor greatly excited the ever romantic Erica. They were Cinderella and Prince Charming in reverse.
When Alexis suggested they skip the tea dance buffet supper, “Unless you are mad about Spam,” and suggested a restaurant he particularly liked, Erica happily accepted the offer.
“But I must clear it with my father first,” she told him.
“Has your father ever refused you anything?” Alexis asked.
“No.”
“Then why ask?”
“Because it would be rude not to.”
Alexis nodded his approval. “That is what I was hoping you would say.”