Everything Good and True
Salinas Valley, California-January, 1919
The afternoon train was
running late. I paced up and down the platform, pulling my
wool scarf up over my mouth and nose, making sure my collar
was up far enough to keep the chill from poking an insistent
finger down my neck. A month ago I would have barely felt the
cold. I 'd barely felt anything other than my heart aching
with loneliness and diminishing hope. I’d been close to being
a broken man, but now that was fading into dim memory. Cal
was coming home.
They called it the Great War, the war to end all wars. It was
the end of innocence for my generation. It was the end of an
era for most of the world. And for me, it was very nearly the
end of everything good and true in my life.
I was twenty-five years old when I was drafted in the spring
of 1918, not long after US declared war against Germany. Cal
was barely twenty-one. He hadn’t even had time to register
with the Selective Service when he decided to enlist – so
that neither of us need go off to war alone, he said. We’d
lived together for nearly four years, and hadn’t spent a
night apart in all that time.
Our life together up to that
point had been happy and full. Leaving management of the
ranch in capable hands, we spent a year or so traveling the
country, spending time in San Francisco, Chicago and various
other places before finally settling in New York. We moved
into a brownstone on the Upper West Side and I enrolled at
Columbia, while Cal took up his piano studies with a crusty,
exacting Russian gentleman who, despite his irascible
demeanor, was impressed with Cal’s talent, and thought he had
a real chance at a concert career. I was barely two months
away from completing my degree when the declaration of war
came.
We’d done everything we could to make sure we were both
assigned to the same unit, and we were shipped to France
together in the first wave of American troops. I remembered
my last few moments with Cal before our first battle, at the
Marne in mid-July. I wanted so badly to take him in my arms,
but all we could do was clasp hands for a few seconds, and
beg one another to be careful. That was seven months ago.
I remembered the rotten, fetid stench of the trenches, the
eardrum-shattering screech of incessant shelling, a searing
pain in my right arm, and then nothing. I awoke on a pallet
in a makeshift medic’s tent, delirious with fever, drifting
in and out of consciousness. The next thing I recalled was
the clean, antiseptic smell of a proper hospital, and trying
to reach for a glass of water on the bedside table with a
hand that was no longer there.
They’d amputated my arm halfway between the shoulder and
elbow. But that loss was nothing compared to my utter panic
at not knowing what had happened to Cal. The Army was no
help, since I couldn’t prove that I was immediate family. I
asked every man in the hospital if they’d seen him, but no
one had. I checked the casualty bulletins for his name, to no
avail. By the time I was well enough to be shipped home, I
was frantic with worry. I protested mightily, but the Army
would brook no opposition. I was going home whether I wanted
to or not.
I stayed in New York for the next two months, using every
contact at my disposal to try and get word about Cal. Then,
near the end of September, I was paid a visit from another
man in our unit, who, like myself, had been sent home due to
injuries. He told me he’d seen Cal a week before he himself
had been shipped home, and that he was alive and well.
I wrote Cal a letter every week, hoping against hope that
somehow they’d find their way to him. I never received a
single reply. And so, reluctantly, in the first week of
October I left New York and returned to California. Jenkins,
my estate manager, had been drafted not long after I was, and
the ranch was in sore need of my attention. So I wrote Cal a
letter telling him where I’d gone, left it on the dining room
table, and caught the train west.
The ranch needed a good deal of work, which, luckily, kept me
busy most of the time, but worrying about Cal was never far
from my mind. I rode into town every day to pick up my mail,
in the vain hope that I’d find a letter from him. I scanned
the newspapers for his name among the lists of dead and
wounded, though its absence afforded me little comfort.
The war was finally over come November, but still I received
no word. And then, two days before Christmas, a telegram
arrived. My hand shook as I opened it, fearing the worst. It
was from Cal. He’d arrived in New York a few days before, and
was staying at the brownstone until he could get a train to
California. With the holidays, not to mention thousands of
men trying to get home, every seat was booked for the next
few weeks. I sank onto a nearby chair, stunned and relieved.
I didn’t care how long it took him to get home. Cal was
alive. Nothing else mattered.
I spied the telltale plumes of gray smoke in the distance,
and stood there watching as the tiny black speck grew slowly
larger, and finally puffed and chugged its way into the
station. There weren’t very many people disembarking, but I
was still taken aback at the dark-haired young man who caught
my eye and started walking toward me, smiling wanly. He
looked pale and exhausted, and wore the dark wool suit I’d
bought him last winter, though he’d lost so much weight it
now appeared half a size too big for him. When he threw his
arms around me, I nearly forgot how to breathe.
He must have felt that there was nothing below my right elbow
but an empty sleeve, because he pulled back abruptly, a
puzzled, questioning look on his face.
“It happened at the Marne,” I
explained. “I wrote you about it, but―“
“I never got any of your letters,
except for the one you left me in New York. God, I’m sorry,
Alex. I didn’t know.”
“Don't worry about it. Let’s get you home,” I said softly,
giving his hand a quick squeeze. “I’ve got dinner waiting.”
Cal had missed Thanksgiving
and Christmas, so I’d had my cook prepare a turkey dinner
with all the trimmings – mashed potatoes, stuffing, cranberry
sauce, salad, and Cal’s favorite apple pie instead of the
traditional pumpkin. He ate like a ravenous lumberjack,
devouring one helping, then seconds, then two slices of pie,
and then thirds of the turkey and dressing. By the time he
pushed his plate back, there was very little left for
leftovers.
We sat in the parlor late into
the evening, sipping coffee and filling each other in on the
last few months of our respective lives. The stories Cal told
me chilled my blood and made me all the more grateful that
he’d come back to me in one piece. What I’d experienced in my
short time in France, terrible as it was, was no comparison
to the misery and horror of endless months in the trenches,
watching other men die by slow degrees, or by being blown to
bits. I’d indulged in my fair share of maudlin self-pity over
the past several months, but at least I’d returned home
relatively sound and able to resume my life. I hadn’t been
stripped of my sight, or my legs, or my manhood, like so many
others had been. I had no cause for complaint. I was one of
the lucky ones.
Droopy eyelids finally got the better of both of us. Cal took
a well-deserved hot bath while I got ready for bed, turning
my back toward the full-length mirror in the far corner of
the bedroom. I still hadn’t become used to the sight of my
ruined arm, and perhaps I never would. Either way, what was
done was done, and there was no point in dwelling on it. I
didn’t need to stare my infirmity in the face to know it was
there.
Certain things had become more of a challenge, but I seemed
to have adapted fairly well. Getting dressed and undressed
was tricky, until I’d puzzled out how to wrestle buttons
through buttonholes one-handed. They’d shaved my head in the
hospital due to an infestation of lice, and I’d kept it
cropped short ever since, seeing as it was much easier to
keep tidy that way. Learning to write all over again with my
non-dominant hand had proven the most difficult hurdle, but
after long, frustrating hours of practice, my penmanship not
only no longer looked like a child’s, but was actually quite
legible.
I propped myself up in our old four-poster bed and read for
awhile, until so much time had passed I feared Cal had fallen
asleep in the bathtub. I was just about to get up to check on
him when in he came, wearing his favorite old flannel robe
belted loosely around him.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and reached for me,
kissing me tentatively, almost shyly at first, then deeply
and hungrily. I felt a sudden, overwhelming surge of lust,
and thanked God for it. I’d thought I’d become dead to desire
over the past few months; I hadn’t even felt the urge to
touch myself. It had seemed sacrilegious to think of physical
pleasure when I didn’t even know if Cal was alive or dead.
But now, ironically, he was the one coaxing me back to life.
“I-I need to tell you
something,” he whispered, gently but firmly resisting my
not-so-subtle attempts to get him to lie down beside me.
“Tell me tomorrow.”
“I’d rather tell you now, and get it out of the way.”
The urgency that had crept
into his tone was starting to concern me. I settled back on
my pillows, studying him intently. “I-Is it serious?”
“That depends on how you feel about it.” He stared down at
the bedspread as if he’d suddenly discovered how fascinating
the perfectly ordinary floral pattern was, and rubbed a hand
over his mouth. “I-I was with someone else a few months ago,
another guy from my unit. We had a twenty-four hour pass one
weekend, and we ended up spending the night together.” He
sucked in a breath, then forged on. “We didn’t plan for it to
happen, we were both just… lonely and scared, I guess. It
didn’t mean anything.”
I wasn’t sure what I’d been expecting him to say, but when he
was done saying it, all I felt was relief. “It’s all right,”
I said, reaching for his hand, clasping it tightly. “I
probably would’ve done the same thing in your situation.”
“Y-You mean, you’re not…”
“Angry?” I prompted. “Would it
make you feel any better if I was? Cal, I don’t care what you
did months ago in far-off country with someone you’re never
going to see again. We all have our weak moments. The fact
that you came home to me means more than anything else.”
His smile lit up my heart, and
his kisses rekindled the fire inside me. I let him ease me
down beneath him on the soft mattress, and reached up to
brush my fingers through his hair, still military-short, his
beautiful unruly curls long since shorn off. It was
intoxicating, being with him again like this, and yet
frustrating at the same time. I wanted both my arms to wrap
around him. I didn’t want to have to choose between stroking
his cheek and reaching down to grasp his stiffening flesh,
which was now grazing my belly in a most tantalizing,
maddening way.
But when Cal reached down to
unbutton my nightshirt, I put my hand over his to stop him.
“Don’t,” I whispered.
“It won’t bother me, Alex.
I’ve seen a lot worse.”
“I-I know, I’m just… I’m not
ready for you to see it yet.”
“All right,” he said, and smiled, and kissed me again.
It was slow and sweet and
passionate, like our last time together back in New York
before we’d gone off to war. Less than a year ago, and yet it
felt like decades since we’d loved like this, shattering with
ecstasy in each other’s arms.
We tried to stay awake afterwards
and talk, but it was no use. I drifted off with Cal curled
protectively beside me, and slept the night through for the
first time in seven months, deeply and dreamlessly.
***
The next few weeks fell into a
familiar routine. Cal spent most of his first week at home
sleeping and eating, but soon the inevitable restlessness set
in, and he begged me to let him help out on the ranch. Long
hours in the sun and fresh air did him a world of good, and
before long he looked like his old self again, as tanned and
fit as he’d been before we’d left for France.
He hadn’t touched the piano since
he’d come home, which was beginning to concern me; Cal had
never spent more than a few hours away from his precious
music if he could help it. Still, I wasn’t inclined to push;
picking up the frayed ends of one’s life after such a
traumatic interruption took time. I certainly knew that
better than most.
And so, when we were sitting in the parlor one night after
dinner, I was both surprised and pleased when Cal finally
rose from his chair and sat down at the piano bench. He
stared down at the keys for the longest time, then slowly
began to pick out the opening notes of a Brahms sonata. It
was one of my favorite pieces.
He played the first movement straight through, cursing and
muttering under his breath at his frequent mistakes. When he
finished, he let the cover drop back over the keyboard,
staring balefully down at his hands.
I went over and perched on the bench beside him, rubbing his
shoulder gently. “It sounded fine.”
“It sounded like I’ve got a
pair of hams strapped to my wrists.”
“What did you expect? You haven’t
played in months.”
“I-I know, I just… I knew which notes to hit, but my fingers
just didn’t want to follow along.”
“Well, you’ve got all the time in the world to practice. And
to be honest, you’re nowhere near as rusty as you think. Do
you realize you played that entire first movement without
even looking at the music?” I leaned over to give him a soft
kiss, then whispered, “Play the Beethoven. You know the one I
like.”
So he did, slowly and sensuously and with great care. He
still made mistakes, but it didn’t matter; the sensitivity of
his playing shone through nonetheless. I remembered the first
time I’d heard him play this piece, the night we met nearly
five years ago. The way he played it now was even more
haunting, the notes fairly aching with longing and
melancholy.
He started practicing again in
earnest, in between his regular chores and then helping out
with the spring harvest. Within a few weeks, he’d regained
most of his technical proficiency, and even began studying
some new pieces. He played for me every evening after dinner,
long into the night sometimes, and it was a joy to see the
peace and happiness it brought him. My Cal was truly home at
last.
We celebrated his twenty-second birthday at the end of May.
The weather had turned warm, so we took dinner in the garden
with paper lanterns hanging overhead, shining a distinctly
festive light. We sat there in companionable silence after we
were through eating, watching the sky turn to deep azure
velvet, the stars tiny white pinpricks in its rich fabric.
Cal actually looked surprised when I drew a gaily-wrapped
package from under the table and pushed it toward him.
His eyes widened as he opened his gift – the piano score for
Beethoven’s Diabelli Variations. “Alex, this is… thank you!
I’ve been wanting to study this for a long time.” He leaned
over to give me a hug, then flipped open the front cover of
the score. I’d inscribed it to him, but that wasn’t what I’d
hoped would catch his eye – the envelope now fluttering to
the ground was.
Cal picked it up, and opened it. Inside were two train
tickets, San Francisco to New York. He looked at them, then
slid them back into the envelope, tucked them inside the
score, and closed the cover. “That’s not what I was
expecting,” he said softly.
“Don’t you want to go back?”
“I guess I just assumed that we
were done with traveling for awhile.”
“There’s no real reason for us to stay here indefinitely,
Cal. The harvest is in, and with Jenkins and a few of the
other hands coming back next month, there’s not going to be
much left for either of us to do around the ranch. And
frankly, I was looking forward to finally finishing my
degree.”
Cal nodded slowly, worrying
the bottom right hand edge of the score with his thumb. “Of
course you were. I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking.”
“I would’ve thought you’d be itching to get back to your own
studies.”
“I am, but... it’s just been so
nice, spending all this time together here these last few
months. I don’t want it to end.”
“You talk like we’re never coming back.”
“I know,” he said, standing up, then pulling me up from my
chair and into his arms. “I’m being ridiculous. It’s a
wonderful idea. Of course we should go.”
He played my favorite
Beethoven for me again that night, along with some Schubert
and Chopin. He missed nary a note, yet there was something
strangely detached about his playing, as if his mind were a
thousand miles away.
We decided to retire early, and I
waited for him in bed, reading while he took his bath, as I
usually did. It was much warmer here at the back of the house
than in the garden or the parlor, and it was starting to make
me irritable. I wished Cal would hurry up, so I could turn
off the lamp.
Cal finally came to bed with just a towel wrapped around his
waist, and flopped onto the mattress beside me with a
contented sigh. His nose wrinkled when he saw my nightshirt.
“C’mon, Alex, take this thing off,” he said, plucking at it,
trying in vain to tug it over my head. “I don’t see how you
can stand to wear it anyway, it’s so damn hot.”
Usually I found Cal’s horseplay endearing, but not tonight.
“Stop it,” I replied tightly, pushing his hands away. “I’m
fine. I don’t want to take it off.”
He stopped, momentarily stung by my sharp tone, then rolled
onto his side, studying me for a few moments. “Alex, please,”
he said softly. “I promise I’m not going to run away
screaming when I see your arm. I just want to hold you again,
and feel you, all of you. It’s been months.”
“I said no, Cal.”
“I don’t understand why you’re
being so stubborn about this. It can’t be as bad as you
think.”
“Y-You don’t know what it looks like.”
“Do you?” he countered. “More than once I’ve walked in here
and noticed you’ve thrown your robe over the mirror. Seems to
me you’re a lot more scared of seeing it than you are of me
seeing it.”
“You’ve got no room to talk,” I snapped, sliding to the edge
of the bed, swinging my legs over. “You came home without a
scratch on you, and you’ve got the nerve to sit there passing
judgment on me?”
“I’m not passing judgment on you, I just wish you’d--“
Grabbing my robe, I headed for
the door. “I’ll sleep in the guest room tonight.”
“Alex, don’t, please!” Cal cried, springing up to block my
way. “Look, I’m sorry I said anything. I should’ve known
better. I don’t want us to fight. Especially not on my
birthday,” he added with a smile.
My anger melted away at that, as he no doubt knew it would. I
let him put his arms around me, and kiss me, and lead me back
to bed. We made love, and Cal drifted off beside me, snoring
softly into my ear. I lay there until dawn poked its chill
gray fingers through the curtains, before sleep finally
claimed me.
***
We left for New York in
mid-July, arriving in the city exactly a year to the day
since I’d been wounded. The brownstone was somewhat dusty and
stale-smelling from so many months of standing vacant, so my
first order of business was hiring some household help. I
engaged a kindly, middle-aged woman who apparently didn’t
find caring for two slovenly single men too much of a
hardship, and soon the place was filled with the soothing
aromas of lemon, beeswax, and Mrs. Lefferts’ hearty meals,
and shone like a freshly-minted dime.
Cal and I walked everywhere –
museums, restaurants, the occasional picture show. We enjoyed
the freedom and the exercise, though we weren’t averse to
catching a bus or the subway when distances loomed too large
or the weather took an unexpected turn. However, I drew the
line at buying -- or even riding in -- a motorcar; they were
far too noisy and noxious-smelling for my taste.
I re-enrolled at Columbia for the fall term, and started back
to classes in September. I was glad to be so close to
finishing my degree, but once the initial excitement of the
first few weeks of classes wore off, I found my attention
wandering. Most of the material I’d already covered in my
last term here, before I’d been drafted. All I really needed
to do was turn in slightly rewritten versions of my old
papers, and put in a token appearance in each class once a
week, just to make sure I kept abreast of the reading and lab
work. The rest of the time I spent taking long walks around
the university grounds or, if it was raining, hiding out in
the library, even though I could barely make it through two
pages of a book before losing interest.
Cal, on the other hand, had thrown himself into his studies,
and if what he played for me every evening was any
indication, he was making remarkable progress. Sadly, the
irascible Russian gentleman with whom he’d been studying
before the war had passed away the previous winter, but one
of the man’s former students agreed to take Cal on, with the
goal of preparing him for his first solo recital the
following spring.
Most days I got home before Cal. I’d sit by the window in the
front parlor waiting for him to come walking down the street,
then we’d sit and talk about our respective days until dinner
was ready. It did my heart good to see him so happy and
excited about his studies; I only wished I could summon up
the same enthusiasm for mine.
Weeks flew by in this same easy routine, until one day I
spied Cal coming down the street accompanied by someone else.
As they drew closer, I saw that it was another man,
dark-haired and thirty-ish, carrying the same kind of large
bag slung over his shoulder that Cal used to carry his sheet
music. His coat collar was turned up against the November
chill, so I only caught a brief glance of his face. He was
relatively good-looking, in an intense, swarthily-complected
way, with dark eyes and a straight, rather large nose. They
stood there on the sidewalk talking for a few minutes, then
Cal started up the steps and his companion continued on his
way down the street.
I couldn’t help wondering why Cal had never said anything
about this man before, but I decided there was no point in
making an issue out of it. However, by the time we sat down
to dinner my preoccupation must have been painfully obvious,
because Cal put down his fork and refused to continue eating
until I told him what was bothering me.
“I saw someone walking down
the street with you this afternoon,” I said. “I don’t recall
ever seeing him before.”
“That’s because you haven’t,” Cal
replied. “I keep meaning to invite you over to the studio so
I can introduce you. That was Leonetti.” My expression must
have been sufficiently blank for him to clarify, “He’s my
piano tutor, Alex. I’ve only mentioned him, oh, two or three
hundred times over the last couple of months.”
I knew he meant it as a gentle
barb, but it got under my skin nevertheless. “You never said
anything about him being so young and good-looking.”
“Why, does it matter?”
“Well, you are spending eight to
ten hours a day with him, so I have to wonder.”
Cal started to laugh. “If you
heard the way he yells at me every time I make a mistake, you
wouldn’t say that.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really,” he said, reaching
over to clasp my hand. “He’s a slave driver. Most of the time
I want to throw the damn piano at him. So stop wondering, all
right? Besides, who cares if I spend all day with him, when
it’s you I come home to?” He pressed a soft kiss to my palm,
then closed my fingers over it. “Believe me, I wouldn’t have
it any other way.”
The next month blew by in a
whirlwind of activity for both of us. I forced myself to
apply nose to grindstone with regard to my final
examinations, and received my degree with honors in December.
Cal, on the other hand, was frantically trying to learn new
pieces for his recital, which had been set for mid-March.
Much of the German late-Romantic repertoire that he and I
both loved was no longer in vogue, so he was trying to
concentrate on Beethoven and Chopin, with sonatas by
Scarlatti and Scriabin rounding out the program. I didn’t
particularly care for either of the latter two composers – I
found Scarlatti mannered and precious, and Scriabin more than
a bit excessive – but Cal played them both brilliantly, and
in the end that was all that mattered.
We spent a quiet Christmas
together, exchanging gifts and having a leisurely dinner,
then wrapping up in blankets while making love before the
fire in the front parlor. It was the last truly happy moment
we would have together for some time.
***
As it happened, I didn’t have
to wait long to formally meet Cal’s tutor; he invited us to a
New Year’s Eve gathering at his apartment. I didn’t
particularly want to go, but Cal seemed excited about it, and
I knew how important socializing with fellow artists and
musicians would be to his future career. I couldn’t deny
feeling a bit guilty for keeping him from doing so up till
now, but even before the war I’d always been a homebody, and
Cal had never seemed terribly interested in cultivating
outside friendships. We’d lived in our own little world for
far too long.
Cal assured me that it would be a
small gathering, though twenty people crammed into a tiny
artist’s loft made for a rather claustrophobic atmosphere. We
had to make our way to the kitchen before we found Leonetti,
and Cal finally introduced us.
I disliked him practically on sight. I’d thought him
good-looking from a distance, but he was even more so in
person, with a full, sensual mouth to go along with his dark
eyes and prominent Roman nose. His English was fluent, his
accent virtually imperceptible. He wore a somewhat dour,
sardonic expression, as if he were laughing inwardly at a
joke the rest of the world was far too stupid to comprehend.
His glance raked me from head to toe and back again, and when
he extended his right hand, I grasped it briefly with my
left, looking him squarely in the eye.
He gave me a wry smile, as if to say “touche´,” poured me a
glass of wine and then excused himself, taking Cal by the arm
and leading him over to a distinguished-looking middle-aged
man sitting on the couch. After a few minutes it became
apparent that neither Cal nor my host was coming back anytime
soon, so I took it upon myself to circulate.
I surreptitiously stuffed my right sleeve in my jacket
pocket, hoping I wouldn’t be asked to shake hands again. I
hovered on the periphery of one or two deadly dull political
discussions, then spent a few minutes conversing with another
one of Leonetti’s pupils, a young woman who’d also attended
Columbia a few years earlier. She listened politely while I
bored her with inane prattle about my own experiences there,
then made her excuses and headed back to the kitchen to
refill her glass. I spent the next hour or so perched on a
chair in a corner, heaving an inward sigh of relief when Cal
finally came to claim me, and we took our leave.
Outside, the winter air stung my skin with the promise of
snow, and I could feel its frigid grip closing around my
heart. Cal was brimming with excitement – apparently the man
Leonetti had introduced him to was one of the city’s most
prominent classical music critics – but I all I could do was
nod absently, barely paying attention to him. If this was
going to be Cal’s world from now on, it was readily apparent
that I would have a very limited role in it. I didn’t care
for, nor did I have a thing in common with, any of the people
at that party. In their circle, I was an interloper. I
wondered how long it would be before Cal came to a similar
realization.
The days grew darker and longer. Now that I’d completed my
degree, I had very little left to occupy my time. I took long
walks around the neighborhood when the weather permitted,
oftentimes ending up in the park, sitting by the pond feeding
the ducks. I’d thought of enrolling in the master’s program,
but now that idea held no appeal. What was the point, really?
I was never going to actually use the degree. I had all the
money in the world I needed, and more besides. I didn’t need
to work, or go to school, or do anything except occupy space
-- which, apparently, seemed to be all I was good at.
I hardly saw Cal anymore. He was practicing feverishly for
his recital, and needed as much time with the Steinway at
Leonetti’s studio as possible; for this, our sturdy but
workaday spinet simply would not do, and squeezing a concert
grand through the narrow front door of the brownstone was
patently impossible. He’d taken to coming home and falling
into bed near midnight most nights; we barely had time to say
hello and goodnight before he was fast asleep.
The night before the dress rehearsal he managed to come home
early enough to have dinner with me, and we sat and talked
long into the evening. He rarely drank wine, but I poured him
a glass and urged him to drink it, hoping it would help him
relax. We went to bed early and lay there for a long time,
kissing and caressing by the dim light of the lamp on the
bedside table. But when Cal’s hand inadvertently brushed my
arm through my nightshirt, I froze. He apologized, but it was
too late; the mood had been broken. I gave him a goodnight
kiss, turned to face the wall, and flicked off the light.
***
The dress rehearsal was a
revelation. I didn’t want to make Cal more nervous than he
already was, so I didn’t tell him I was coming. I waited out
in the lobby until he’d started playing, then slipped in and
sat in the last row of the recital hall. Leonetti and the
critic Cal met at the New Year’s Eve party were sitting up
front, heads bowed, whispering to each other.
I, on the other hand, couldn’t
have spoken a word if my life depended on it. I was
enthralled. Cal played with a level of mastery unlike
anything I’d witnessed before in all his hours of playing for
me at home. Every piece shone with technical brilliance and
deep sensitivity. His Beethoven was heartbreaking, his Chopin
by turns sweeping and weighted with melancholy. I even
admired the Scarlatti and Scriabin. And his encore, a Chopin
etude, would have brought the audience thundering to its feet
if there had actually been an audience in the house.
I walked home most of the way, a spring in my step for the
first time in weeks. I’d been home for barely half an hour
when the front doorbell rang. Mrs. Lefferts had the afternoon
off, so I answered it myself.
It was Leonetti, standing there holding a sheaf of sheet
music. “Ah, I beg your pardon,” he said, “but Cal left this
at the recital hall. And, since he will no doubt be needing
it tomorrow…”
“Thank you,” I replied, taking
it from him, turning to place it on the small table in the
foyer. I couldn’t help noticing how his eyes followed my
movements, studying me like a curiosity in a museum. “Cal’s
not home yet, if you were looking for him.”
“No, he wouldn’t be. He’s having
dinner with Clive right now.” My look must have been suitably
confused, because he added, “The gentleman he met at my
party, the music critic. He was most impressed with Cal’s
recital.”
“Well, I'm sure Cal was pleased,” I replied dryly. “Did he
send you to tell me he’ll be home directly?”
“Yes and no,” he replied. “Actually, there is something I
would like to discuss with you, if I may. Something that
might take a few minutes.”
Against my better judgment, I
invited him in. We went to the kitchen and I poured us some
coffee from the pot Mrs. Lefferts always kept hot for me, and
we sat there staring across the table at each other.
Finally Leonetti eased himself
back in his chair, pushing his cup away. “It might be best if
you did not attend the recital tomorrow.”
“And why, pray tell, would
that be best?”
“Let me be honest with you, Mr.
Trask. Cal is a great talent, and he could have a long,
successful career, providing the public and certain critics
are behind him. But this is a very puritanical, backwards
country, and if certain details of Cal’s personal life were
to be made public…” He shrugged, his expression appearing,
for once, genuinely sympathetic. “In Europe they are much
more pragmatic about these things, but there will not be much
of an opportunity for Cal to tour there for several more
years. Believe me, I don't say this because I wish to be
cruel. I know what I speak of from first-hand experience, and
that experience was not pleasant. I would not wish it on
anyone else.”
It would have been a blessing
to have not expected this. At least that way perhaps I
wouldn’t have felt like such a complete and utter fool. But I
had expected it. I’d expected it and dreaded it ever since
the New Year’s Eve party.
`“So, what exactly would you suggest?” My tone dripped with
bitterness, brittle and ugly-sounding even to my own ears.
“That Cal and I move into separate living quarters? Or maybe
I should just go back to California, and remove myself from
the picture entirely?”
“That might not be such a bad
idea, for a few months, at least. Cal is going to be very
busy for the foreseeable future, and… well, you’ll excuse me
for saying so, Mr. Trask, but you are something of a
distraction for him.” He pushed back his chair and stood.
“And now I fear I’ve imposed on your hospitality long enough.
Thank you for the coffee, Mr. Trask. You need not see me
out.”
I sat there for a very long
time, holding my coffee cup, feeling its contents grow as
cold as I felt inside. I went upstairs, put on my nightshirt,
crawled into bed and turned out the light. I wasn’t asleep
when Cal got home, but I lay there pretending I was until I
heard him start snoring softly. I finally did sleep, so
fitfully it felt like no sleep at all, and woke with a hammer
pounding dully behind my eyes, and a hollow sensation in the
pit of my stomach. Like it or not, I knew what I had to do.
Or rather, what I had to refrain
from doing. But that still didn’t stop me from walking to the
recital hall, and lingering outside while the audience
straggled in. More than once I almost gave in to the impulse
to steal inside and sit in the back as I’d done yesterday,
listen to one or two selections, then duck out again. But I
didn’t. I couldn’t. This was Cal’s day. I wasn’t about to
ruin it for him.
I took the roundabout way home, through the park, and
lingered at the pond, staring off into nowhere. The overcast
sky was a perfect complement to my mood, gray and bleak.
Finally, it began to grow dark, and I headed back to the
brownstone.
Cal was already there when I arrived. He threw his arms
around me the second I came through the door, and held me so
tightly I had to struggle to get him to let me go, so that I
could slip off my coat.
“God, Alex, where were you? I
thought you’d been hit by a bus or something.”
“I’m fine,” I said, heading for
the kitchen. I wanted some coffee to help me shake the
afternoon’s lingering chill. “I just went for a walk.”
“I looked for you in the audience, but I couldn’t find you.
And then when you didn’t show up at the reception…” He stood
there looking at me, his expression so sad and confused it
nearly shattered my heart. “Why didn’t you come, Alex? You
knew I wanted you there.”
“I-I wasn’t feeling well, and… it’s not like I haven’t heard
you play all those pieces at least a dozen times.” I sipped
my coffee, and leaned against the counter. It was the only
thing holding me steady. “To be honest, with everything else
going on for you today, I didn’t think you’d miss me.”
“H-How can you say that? Of course I missed you! None of it
meant anything without you there.”
“I’m sorry, Cal,” I said softly. “There’ll be other
concerts.”
He stared at me, then reached
over and cupped my face, forcing me to look at him. “What’s
wrong, Alex? And I don’t just mean today. Ever since we came
back to New York, things haven’t been the same between us.
You don’t talk to me anymore, not unless I practically force
you to. You go on those long walks all by yourself, and when
you get home, you’re not fit company to be with. I’m tired of
it, Alex. I’m tired of you shutting me out.”
“If that’s the way you feel, then… maybe I should leave.”
He fell back a step, as if I’d physically pushed him. “I
don’t want that. I can’t believe you do either.”
“I don’t think what either of us wants is particularly
relevant. The important thing is that we do what’s best for
you and your future.”
“What are you talking about?”
I sucked in a deep breath,
then forged on. “Leonetti came to see me yesterday. He sat
right there at the kitchen table and told me that our
relationship was a potential threat to your career.”
Cal’s mouth dropped open. “That
son of a bitch.”
“And now that I’ve had a
chance to think about it, I agree with him.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Alex, stop
being ridiculous! Who the hell cares what he said? I’m not
letting you leave.”
“It’s not your choice to make.” I downed the last of my
coffee, and set the cup in the sink. “I’m going back to
California on the first available train.”
I walked past him and headed
upstairs to our room. I threw a suitcase on the bed, opened
the closet, and started packing my things.
Cal came and stood in the
doorway, watching me, his expression like a blizzard about to
burst forth. “Coward,” he rasped. “Go on, run away and hide,
just like you’ve been hiding from me for the last year. I
don’t know why I ever expected anything different from you.”
“Stop it, Cal. This isn’t
going to change anything.”
“You think I don’t know what this
is, Alex, but I do. This is you pushing me away because you
can’t deal with being crippled.” In three huge steps, he was
right beside me, grabbing the suitcase off the bed, flinging
it against the far wall of the room. “How many times do I
have to tell you, I don’t carewhat happened to your
goddamned arm! I love you, Alex. The rest doesn’t
matter to me.”
“Y-You don’t know what it’s like, or you wouldn’t say that.”
“But I do. I know exactly what it’s like. Because I’m losing
you… and if you don’t think that feels like somebody just cut
off myarm, then I have to wonder if you've ever really
loved me at all.”
I tried to be strong. I tried
not to tremble, or let the stinging behind my eyes get the
better of me. But when Cal put his arms around me, I broke
like a winter storm. He stood there letting me cling to him,
letting nearly two years’ worth of pain and frustration and
fear pour out of me. When he finally eased me back on the
bed, I was so weak I could barely move.
He reached down to unbutton my
shirt, and this time I did not stop him. I didn’t avert my
eyes when he pushed the fine cotton back from my shoulders,
and gently pulled it off me. I held my breath when he looked
at what was left of my arm for the first time, and when he
bent down to kiss it, I would have wept anew if I’d had any
tears left.
“It’s all right,” he
whispered, smiling, kissing me gently on the mouth. “I’ve
seen it now, and I’m still here.”
I looked down at the short, tapered stump of flesh covered in
pale skin, surgical scars now faded to a faint pinkish-white,
and wondered what I’d been so afraid of. I’d built it up in
my mind as something so horrible-looking it would qualify me
for membership in a circus side-show, when in reality it was
perfectly ordinary, a mere postscript to what had taken its
place before, a limb I’d learned to get along perfectly well
without. Nothing to be afraid of -- or ashamed of, either.
Cal kissed my throat, then my shoulder, then all the way down
my chest. It was the first time I’d let him touch me above
the waist in over a year, and I shivered and trembled and
cursed myself for denying this pleasure to both of us for so
long. When he finally took me in his beautiful mouth, I
carded my fingers through his soft curls and promptly flew
into a million scattered pieces, sobbing with joy and
release.
We lay there spooned together after we were done, with Cal
gently kissing and caressing my arm and shoulder. It tingled
a bit, as it did at times, so much so that it gave me a
momentary start. “Sorry,” Cal murmured.
“It’s nothing you did,” I
replied. “It gives me some strange sensations. Most of the
time I ignore them, but…”
“Tell me.”
“Sometimes when I wake up in the morning, in that last few
seconds before I’m really awake, I could swear I still feel
my fingers. It’s so vivid, I can fool myself into believing
I’m actually wiggling them. But it usually only lasts that
few seconds.”
“Does it ever hurt?”
“Not really. I met some men back in the hospital in France
who said they had phantom pains, but I don’t recall ever
having any. Mostly it just tingles. I suppose I’ve inflicted
enough real pain on myself to compensate for the phantom
ones,” I chuckled.
Cal kissed me again and sat
up, his glance falling on my suitcase, and the scattered
trail of rumpled clothing on the floor. “Are you really
serious about going back to California? Because if you go,
I’m going too.”
“B-But… what about your career?”
“I don’t care about that, Alex. I never have. Honestly, I
never wanted to come back to New York in the first place. I
only agreed to it because I knew you had your heart set on
finishing your degree at Columbia.”
“So what was all that practicing
for? You can’t tell me it was just marking time, Cal. You’ve
worked too hard for this to throw it all away now.”
“I thought it was what I wanted,” he said softly. “But when I
stood on that stage this afternoon and realized you weren’t
out there applauding with everyone else, none of it meant
anything to me.”
“Cal, you can’t--“
“Yes, I can. I want to go home, Alex. I want to work with you
on the ranch and have dinner with you in the garden with the
Chinese lanterns while we watch the sunset. I want to play
Brahms and Schubert for you on that old spinet in the parlor,
and fall asleep with you in our four-poster every night.
That’s all I need to make me happy.”
And there it was, so stark and
plain I wondered how I could have overlooked it. I’d thought
our lives had become so complicated, but now I could see how
wrong I’d been. It was all so very, very simple. Or it would
be, once we were back where we belonged.
“All right,” I said. “Let’s go home.”
THE END