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The Last Remaining Wonder in the World
part 2
by Feech
The house on Joaquin in Hollywood is a
two-story, hardly any carpeting but decently new
tile, with old-style screen doors of white-painted
pine and an echoing kitchen and living room. I
came over to visit just Gordon once, and once for
an evening of television and cards with a few
other guys, and enjoyed myself. Gordy had stopped
looking at me over his coffee by then; he knew it
was a given. I managed to hold out for those two
visits, and almost two months of hallway meetings.
But I was snared in the end, and I found it rather
appropriate, when I thought about it, the man
setting traps for me in the one narrow way I
walked nearly every day.
The bed is white; it always looks white, even
though the linens are pale tan or grey. It's the
upstairs light that does it, the way the house is
positioned here on the hill. I like to wander
around and feel the space, especially when Gordon
might come around a corner on some student-at-home
errand and bump into me, and give me a kiss for
appearing out of nowhere. "That was a nice
surprise," he says, balancing his
dance-illustration book, reading glasses and
spiral-bound pad. "I love you. Don't you have
anything to do?"
I beam up at him, dreamily, knowing what I
have to do but liking to leave him with the
sensation that somehow all I have to do in life is
laze around his house and get underfoot.
He chuckles at me. "I wish I was as fast at
my written work as you. All this time dancing and
I gotta _read_, too."
I hug him, and glance at the book. "Why,
Gordy, Hon, there are hardly any _words_ in this
book."
"I know, but it's not like this is the only
required text. Well, off to slave in front of the
'feed."
"What's on?"
"'Slick Oiled Hot Gay Men Cook Italian.'"
"Hah!" I mock-punch him. "Is not!"
"'Lassie four-hundred and eighty-seven,
_Lassie Watches a Lassie Movie_?"
"That I'll believe."
"Join me down there if you wanna, Handsome.
Otherwise I'll talk to you later."
"Okay." I let go of him. His glasses slide
off the top of his book, and he catches them in
the opposite hand and from there puts them between
his teeth. "I love you," he tells me indistinctly
around the frames.
"Okay. Gordy..."
He watches me, waiting, never really
appearing impatient even though he's standing here
waiting to get to his work. I fold my hands
behind my back. His knees make him look like he's
dancing when he's standing still. He just waits,
until finally I say, "Well, you got me." I've
said that every day, practically, since we moved
me in here.
"I got you." He grins around the glasses.
He says he never wears them except when he's
sitting down to read because otherwise he's not
used to his vision with them on. "I don't think I
got too bad a deal."
"You were fooled. It's the mascara."
"Well, in that case, your secret worked even
when you revealed it. I gotta go downstairs.
Love you, Man."
"I know. Thanks. Gordon, thank you."
"Sure. Thank you, Francis."
He goes downstairs. I wander in to the white
bed, and step around it like it couldn't hold me
if I lay on it. Then I sit on it and stare at the
wall. I want to soak up this place, maybe because
it's so different from the formality of a lot of
California in the way I see it and critique it.
My folks laughed a lot more when they visited
here, compared to when we spent time mostly in my
apartment, nice as it was. I found myself almost
saying things to them when Gordy was around, as if
nothing could worry anyone when he was standing
there with a beer or a coffee. He has that kind
of presence. Still, it's best not to worry loved
ones who live far away, in this case my native
Canada. I still haven't had another seizure, and
the firm would love to have me for as long as I'll
stay. I promised them some time after I get my
degree, as well.
Art. It's good for you. I recommend it.
That's why I like people to tell me to buy them
some. I know I can please them. They know I can
please them, somehow, too, because they let me do
it before they even know me, some of them. Maybe
that's why I'm so easily taken with Gordon. He
could do with me what I do with clients; tell them
what would brighten or dignify their homes, and
they listen to me. I listened to him, and I think
I'm as glad as some of those folks have been with
the results.
The usual people are here. I immediately
glance at the chairs my most anticipated
acquaintances occupy each time, and pause in the
doorway. With them is a familiar face, but he's
never attended a meeting before. I've seen him
once, and I remember his name because I tend to
remember names. But he wasn't in this country
when I met him, although of course I knew he was
American.
"Larry?"
Larry looks at me. He stands, and brightens,
and then comes the expression that inevitably
follows, for even as he waits to take my hands and
smile and ask how I'm doing, he must know there is
only one reason I would be here, and I know it of
him, too. And then it makes sense-- I just never
made the names have anything to do with each other
in my head before-- because of course Juliet would
be his niece. This is her uncle, and it never
even registered when I met him. Bethuel smiles,
sitting in his usual place on Juliet's right side,
and nods to me. "I didn't know you knew
Lawrence," he says quietly from where he's
sitting.
"We met in Egypt." I cross to Larry now and
we do grip each other's hands, and I feel suddenly
shy. You don't expect to meet people here that
come from other parts of your life. "I just never
even thought he was the same Kelly."
"This is my uncle," Juliet tells me shyly,
seeing my shyness and tilting her head the way I
do when someone gets me off guard.
"I-- I know, yes, well, good to see you
again..." I sit down next to Larry and he keeps
smiling, but still I do feel awkward saying that.
Good to see you. Yes, it is, but it's not like I
mean it's good to see that he's a part of all
this. I know what happened with him. I know
Juliet's story.
"It is good to see you, Mr. Marchiose,
Francis," he offers, telling me I'm okay, it's
okay that I've seen him in some other setting than
an art exhibition.
"Thank you." I feel deeply grateful, I don't
know why.
Larry pats my hand, something he never would
have done in any other setting, but here he knows
I wouldn't be sitting in these chairs without a
reason for needing to be sympathetically touched.
I look at him. He doesn't seem to mind if I
scrutinize him, so I do. I remember that he was
pleasant in Egypt, and interesting. The state of
Art since the rise of SCABS has interested him,
become a sort of crusade of his. I, of course,
was there Buying Art. We talked a lot, but he
never mentioned his family, and neither did I.
It's easier when you know it's all mundane. There
are some things you just don't subject business
acquaintances to. That's why my parents made me
come here, to ensure that I would talk, to make me
emotionally safe so I could stay in Hollywood.
They wouldn't have let me otherwise.
Gordy leans in at the screen door by the
kitchen. "Come out and see the moon, Francis."
He sounds so serious, I go out solemnly and
look with him. He stands with a bluntly awed
expression on the hill in back of our house,
gaping at the full moon. "People have been there.
But then I wonder how many moons like this they've
missed, looking at it from the other side."
"Yes." I take hold of his hand. It's
sweaty, and he pulls away and wipes it on his tank
shirt, then gives it back to me. I pull his arm
around my waist and touch my opposite fingers to
his hand.
"Nothing going on, I guess, I just wanted you
to see it."
"Anything wrong?"
"No. Just-- some moon."
"It is." It is, indeed, some moon, and Gordy
watches me looking at it and seems pleased. I
stand taking it in for some time, then reach up
and push a few hairs back behind his ear, where
he's sweating and the hair is dampening into
little tendrils; the air out here isn't very warm,
and in fact Gordy feels fairly cool to the touch,
but sometimes I swear all his energy just has to
go somewhere and it is as if he is perpetually
dancing. I've witnessed him onstage and he
radiates something like a smile even when he's
only expressing with his arms or his feet. He
pats my hand with the arm I haven't taken around
my waist, and finally says, "Well, let's go in."
"Yes. Well, I hope I saw what you wanted me
to see."
"It was just... Really pretty. I don't know
about Art, like you do, you know. But I didn't
see how you could critique the moon and find that
it's in bad taste or something. So I thought I'd
show you this."
"Gordy, you know you can show me anything
that you like. I like what you like to see."
"Yeah, but I'm no expert. But I thought this
was a very nice moon."
"Thank you. Okay, we can go inside."
"Let's." He leans in and kisses me, and the
air changes when I feel it after his mouth has
made mine a little moist. It makes everything
seem cooler, instead of the rest of us warmer. We
go inside, where it is plain and comfortable; we
actually have room-temperature rooms.
"I love you." He puts his arms around me
from behind as soon as I turn my back to him.
"I love you, too."
"I'm glad you're not a dance critic."
I stay with my back against his torso, and
angle my head to look at him. "Oh?"
He nods. "Yeah. That way you don't have to
let professionalism get in the way of letting me
just dance for you, on stage, you know, or the
other way around-- I won't make you be
unprofessional just because you like me and
wouldn't want to say anything bad about me."
"If there was something I felt critical of,
I'd probably say it anyway, Gordy." I grin and
reach back to touch his chin. He kisses my
finger.
"Well, you know, you're probably right.
Okay, you can be a dance critic if you want to."
"Oh dear. Well, if I have my way, you'll
shoot straight to the top. Maybe I'm not so
professional nor critical as I thought. I'd
better keep my deal with the employers I've got
and let someone else nit-pick your every move."
"I've got some moves you might like to
nit-pick."
"Nit-pick? Or enjoy? Anyway, I'm getting
tired of the words 'nit-pick.'"
"Okay. Just enjoy." He pulls me around to
face him and kisses me. "When you going to turn
into that rabbit?"
"Does it worry you?"
"Not... really... but I hope that if it
happens, that's all that happens. I don't want
SCABS to be any worse to you than it has to. One
seizure, maybe one more to make me worry about you
and appreciate you, you know, nothing too
overboard. You're such a good guy."
"Thank you, Gordon."
"Francis, did I tell you about being in love
with you? It's kind of something I've been
pondering a lot lately."
I laugh a little. "I think maybe you
mentioned something along those lines."
He growls at me, gives me a long kiss and
then stops to look at me for a moment. "Yeah, I
guess we've been over that."
"Doesn't hurt to reiterate."
"I love you."
"I know."
He takes my arm up as if we are in the middle
of a spin in a dance, and steps back one step.
"Bewitched," he sings, and singing is not his
strong point, "bothered and bewildered..."
"I can't dance, Gordy. You know that."
"You could always learn."
I shake my head.
"You--" he pulls me into the next position,
although by the time I reach it I'm not quite sure
how I got there-- "could always learn..." he puts
the words into some approximation of the tune he
was already singing.
"Maybe," I say, but then I start giggling and
can't stop, and as usual he dances me around the
kitchen and I finally stand still with my hands
behind my back and fix him with stern glances, and
his expression is fiercely glad because there is
not one thing he suggests that I really can
resist. I may not be a good dancer, but he could
make me _want_ to be one, if he desired to.
There's a dance at a party for some producer
of the movie Juliet Kelly is acting in, and
Bethuel, Larry and Juliet get me invited along
with them. It's very forties, with some modern
music and white lights as well, and in a large
space; I'm not quite sure where to stand to take
it in without feeling directionless. I'm used to
webs of pathways across what appear to be blank
floors, for every person at an art exhibit has
designs on each of the pieces and a dance, or
other non-gallery reception, has a completely
different pattern of interactions.
Larry comes finally and stands near me,
sliding out of the drift of conversation and
introductions he seemed to be in; I have shaken
several hands, professionally, but somehow no
current caught me up. I'm relieved to have him
close to me.
"It seems I have as little in common with
these people as I do with most of the guests at
most of the parties in Hollywood," he says, to see
if I will agree with him.
"It's not the same," I answer, and he knows
I'm talking about purposeful gatherings as for the
sharing of Art.
"Definitely not."
Suddenly I feel terribly afraid. The music
is sweet, old stuff, and there's nowhere for me to
go. It's here or leave the room, and I nearly
leave the room. I feel my palms begin sweating.
"Francis?"
I glance nervously around, but there just
isn't any change. Larry knows who I am, knows all
about me. I thought it was nice to know someone
with whom I had more than one thing in common, the
art and then the meetings. I thought it was nice,
but I have come upon the frightening thing: how do
I behave when he knows what I've felt and might
not approve of anything other than abject sorrow?
I find, here, too suddenly, that coming out of it
even the slightest bit can be as muddling and
terrifying as falling into it in the first place.
"I need to--"
"Come with me." He takes hold of my arm and
guides me to an arch off to the side of the main
floor. "May I get you anything?"
"No. Nothing." I look at him, and I feel my
fingers tighten up into a fist, as if I'm defying
something. His blue eyes are concerned, and his
moustache black, which it always is, but he uses
the color like an expression.
"Francis, I want to talk to you."
"And I to you." I am pleased with the
steadiness of my voice.
"I wondered... You know about my theatre in
Pennsylvania. I wondered... if you would want to
come out there with me next time I go. Have a
visit, meet some friends... I travel back here
often enough, returning could easily be
arranged..."
"I'd like that," I reply without hesitation.
I get home before Gordy does, since I left
after congratulating and praising him on his show,
and he has to stay after to organize his costumes,
clean off his stage make-up and speak to a few
people.
I get out of my theatre clothes and comb my
hair, shave and put on the nightgown he bought for
me. He was right about it: I do look good in it.
It's white and, because I'm not too tall, comes
down to above my ankles. I glance once in the
mirror, critically, considering, but really it
doesn't look out of place on me. I like the short
sleeves.
I go barefoot down to the kitchen and turn on
some music, my own, Alanis Morisette; Gordy has
about two hundred different artists represented in
this house and only three of them had I ever heard
of before. But we get along all right about what
to listen to and when.
"Francis! Take 'er in your arms, and tell
'er-- you there?" Gordon, as usual after a show,
is opening and slamming the door, getting out of
his shoes, hollering a greeting to me, and singing
some number from the show he was just in all at
the same time. This time it was a representation
of Irish music from ancient history to the year
two thousand, and I began calling Gordon "Danny
Boy" because he ripped up the stage and has been
bombarding me with bad Irish accents and any
rolicking song that happens to be the last one he
danced to. Now, with the show up, he pulls one
from anywhere in the work and flies in the door
singing, and takes me, as he does now, out to the
barest spot on the floor and makes me dance a step
with him before he quiets down.
"You look good, Handsome man, you," he tells
me, holding me still by my hands and appraising
the nightgown. "I told you so."
"I didn't argue."
"I love you. What did you think of the
show?"
"You know. I told you. I thought you were
energetic, and charming, and I liked the
choreography, and I thought it looked like you
took direction well."
"The choreographer's a genius. Well, I'm
beat. Tired. Wiped out. Want to have sex?"
I laugh. "That doesn't sound too promising."
"It'll be the time of your life."
I sigh, not out of frustration, but just to
take a long breath.
"Come here, Francis."
I line up next to him, arms against arms and
faces together.
His breath goes into my mouth when he's
talking, since our heights are nearly alike.
"Thank you for coming to the show. I was proud to
have you there tonight."
"I was proud to meet you after, and be seen
with you."
"You really were."
"Yes."
He closes up his arms around me and turns his
cheek to my lips, looking a bit dazed as usual
after such a show. "I'm going to get myself
showered, meet me in bed."
"Lovely. See you there."
Larry is older; it's like the world went
twenty years ahead while I, Francis, spent that
much time in one single night. I aged a hundred
years, and I missed all the physical time the rest
of the world engaged in, and they still haven't
caught up to me. I glance around the room from
behind the pillar of the arch and know that many
here must have lost someone, at one time or
another, but I still feel as if I never shared
that night with anybody else. I feel like an
impossibility, as if I can never fit in physically
with anyone again, as if my age has been folded
back on itself and I am ancient in a very young
body, and to interact with me would open up
paradoxes no one could unravel or control.
It's the funny things you can never get over;
'Slick Oiled Hot Gay Men Cook Italian' and "I
Really Like You" by Melissa Etheridge and dancing
the entire routine to "One" from _A Chorus Line_
by himself in the living room, with all the lyrics
changed to fit your gender and his mood and the
fact that he's actually forgotten some of the
original lines. If you become immune to those, if
they can't make you curl up and cry, then you
can't make any more such experiences with anybody
else. You can be braced, ready, prepared against
the dark and the bad and the senselessness and all
the reminders, except the funny ones. Those get
you every time, and there's no escape you can take
except from the possibility of any more, and if
you don't want to smile at anything then what are
you living for anyway.
Larry touches me, and I feel his hand, and
move my wrist so his skin will touch my skin. He
meant to touch only my cuff, to express some
concern, to show he knows what I'm thinking of.
But I don't want him to be polite. I want to
prove that I'm not some impossibility in the ages
we are and the fact that I'm touching anyone at
all.
You don't expect to do this more than once,
in your life. At least, I didn't. Hope is
welling up now, and I almost want it to go away.
It feels like the most terrific, terrible emotion
that could possibly force its way up within me.
Larry says, "I'm sorry."
I cannot thank him, or I risk tears and
ruining my mascara. Don't ever let anyone try to
sell you tearproof kinds. They don't work. I
just look up at him tightly and say nothing. It's
the same damn things you just can't get over.