The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (28 page)

They walked up a brightly lighted, crowded, derelict Harlem street, Peter’s coat swinging rakishly from his shoulders.

“I’ve never been up here before,” Charlie said, feeling foreign and ill at ease among the milling black faces.

“I’ve been a few times. There’s something about it. There’re some crazy places.”

“Who did you say is giving the party?”

“Hughie Hayes.”

“He’s a Negro?”

“Hughie Hayes? Come on, you dope. The piano player. He’s just opened a place in the Village. He was in Paris for years.”

“You’re making me feel like a hick. I don’t get around in your colorful circles.”

Peter was watching the street numbers. He turned in at a great crumbling pile of blackened masonry. They found themselves in an ill-lighted, malodorous lobby, with cracked and peeling walls. As they mounted sagging stairs, the smell became overpowering.

“What does he live in a dump like this for?” Charlie asked. “You sure you got the address right?”

“I’ve seen some pretty bad places up here. I guess it’s hard to find anything decent.” They mounted two flights and turned down a high, wide, dark corridor.

“God, it stinks. I don’t think I can stand it.”

“Maybe it’s better inside.”

“You know this guy well?”

“No, I’ve just seen him
a couple of times at his club.”

They came to a door at the end of the corridor, and Peter pushed a button. The sound of music came to them faintly. In a moment, the door swung open heavily, the music swelled, and Peter was greeted by a slender, attractive, youngish brown man. He made an impression of great elegance.

“Well, here’s my angel baby.” He drew Peter in, and kissed him lightly on the mouth. “How’s my baby?” For a moment, his eyes were only for Peter, and then the latter drew back and with obvious embarrassment managed to introduce Charlie.

“He knows Sapphire too. I thought it’d be all right to bring him.”

Charlie held himself stiffly, rigid with rage, but Hughie Hayes made no attempt to kiss him. “You can bring all your friends, baby. Especially if they’re young and handsome. She’s here. Throw your things anywhere and come on in.” There were remnants of the South in his speech, overlaid by Paris and London.

He ushered them into a large, immaculate, ornately furnished room filled with people, for the most part seated. They seemed to be conversing seriously; there was none of the high-pitched chatter and laughter Charlie was accustomed to on this sort of occasion. He breathed deeply and realized the smell had been overcome. The gathering was mixed, black and white, men and women, with men in the majority. In the center of one small group was Sapphire, looking very much as she had in C. B.’s kitchen—small and round-faced and shy. She beamed when she saw Peter.

“Hello, Petey honey. I’m glad you came. Why Mr. Charlie! What a nice surprise. Your Granny told me you’re married and all. Congratulations.” She rose as Hughie led Peter away.

“I’m the one who ought to be doing the congratulating. We’ve all been talking about Sapphire. You’re a big success.”

“Well, I can sing, even if your Granny didn’t believe me.” She put her hand over her mouth and giggled. “She is a one, your Granny. She came to my opening, and she sailed into my dressing room and took me in her arms. Right in front of everybody. Lawdy.”

“She says you were wonderful. I’ve got to come see you.”

“You do that. You ought to come with Petey. That’s one lovely boy. He just dotes on you, Mr. Charlie. Of course, he has his ways that some folks don’t understand, but I don’t know. I say, if it’s love, the Lord won’t mind. There’s enough hate in the world. Now you’re married, he’s a pretty lonely boy.”

Charlie was blushing furiously. He had no taste for intimacy with Sapphire; the company made him sufficiently self-conscious. He had come persuaded that he had no racial feelings. Theory was no aid to practice. There was something about these whites and blacks sitting around together that made his skin crawl. The kiss had seared his mind. He heard himself laugh pointlessly. “Oh well, he’ll be getting married himself one day soon.” He was appalled by the idiocy of the remark. “I’d better get myself a drink.”

“Now, you let me get you one, Mr. Charlie.”

“No, you stay here. I’ll be right back.” He escaped and looked around for a bar. He saw Peter sitting on a bench at the piano with Hughie Hayes. Lonely? He’d take anything wearing pants. He spotted a table with bottles on it and made for it. He was pouring himself a stiff whiskey when a strikingly handsome, dark, white youth sauntered up to him.

“Hi. I’m Whit Bailey. You came with the Growler, didn’t you?”

Charlie took a long swallow. His eyes automatically assessed the youth: hands, crotch, mouth. Damned attractive. Once upon a time, he would have been ready and willing, but that phase was finished now, done with, almost forgotten. “Did I?” he asked lowering his glass.

“Sure. I saw you come in together.”

“You mean Peter Martin?”

“Yeah. The Growler. You mean, you haven’t had it?”

“Yes, I’ve had it.”

“Well, then.”

“I don’t get it. Why do you call him the Growler?”

“Well, everybody does. Don’t you get around? When he growls, you know you’re all set. Didn’t he growl at you?”

“Yes, as a matter fact, he did.”

“He’s sensational, isn’t he? I bet you’re pretty sensational yourself. You look sort of like him.”

“So I’ve heard.”

“How about going some place after this?”

“Such as?”

“Well, we can go to my place or yours. Whichever you prefer.”

“Not my place. I have a wife.”

Confusion clouded Whit Bailey’s face. “Oh.” A light dawned in his eyes. “Good lord. Is your name Charlie? Holy mackerel. You mean I’ve hit the jackpot? Well, how about it? We’re wasting our time here. Let’s go to my place.”

Charlie considered throwing his drink in his face and decided against it. He glanced in Peter’s direction just in time to catch his eye on him. Peter turned hastily back to Hughie. Good. Let him sweat this one out. He smiled encouragingly at Whit Bailey. “What makes you think I’d dump the Growler?”

“He never does it more than once with anyone, does he? Oh yes, of course. You’re Charlie. I’m a bit confused.”

“Don’t be. Just carry on from where you left off. Persuade me. I might dump all sorts of people for you.”

“You’re dangerous, aren’t you? It’s exciting. Look at me. I’m beginning to get the shakes.”

Peter turned hastily back to Hughie. He had known it was going to be all wrong from the moment Hughie kissed him. But what could he do? Slap him in the face? A kiss didn’t mean anything. And now Whit. Whit was one of the few of his ex-lovers he remembered. A beauty. He had broken his once-only rule a couple of times—had lived with one guy a week, with another for three—but he had made a particular point of his rule with Whit simply because he had wanted so badly to break it. If he had been enormously attracted to Whit, why wouldn’t Charlie be too? They were practically the same person. Bringing him here had been a gamble; he had known that, but he had thought there was little to lose. He knew better now. Charlie with Hattie was bearable. Charlie with another boy would really finish him off. Maybe it was just as well. The hour he had spent with Charlie had pretty much finished him off anyway, every minute of it telling him how much he had lost.

Hughie ran his hands over the keyboard and worked his way into a blues. “Still carrying the torch, aren’t you, baby?”

“You know about it?”

“I guess everybody in town knows about the Growler. Any chance of me hearing that famous growl? Je t’aime, tu sais.”

“I don’t know, Hughie. It just happens. I’m not in much of a growling mood tonight.”

“Why don’t you go break it up, baby?”

“No use. And I guess you’d better stop calling me baby.”

“Oh. Sorry. Anything you say, sweetheart.”

“I want to talk to Sapphire before she leaves.”

“Stick around, will you, ducks? The squares will be leaving soon, and then we’ll have a ball. The club’s closed tonight. I’ve got a mess of food in the kitchen. We’re ready for a siege.”

Peter went and talked to Sapphire, keeping his back turned to the bar table. He talked to the famous blues singer he hadn’t seen when he came in. He talked to the famous expatriate white novelist, who had been cast up on his native shores by the war. Charlie was suddenly at his side.

“I’m getting out of here. You were right. I can’t take it.” His face was rigid with fury.

“Anything wrong, champ?”

“Wrong? No. I see what you really are, that’s all.”

Peter looked at his feet. “Yeah. Well, I guess that’s the way it is, darling. See you around.” He turned away and crossed the room to a window and stood looking out. He talked to himself under his breath while silent tears slid down his face. When he was able to turn back to the party he saw that Whit Bailey was still there. A good many others had left. The decrease in numbers made the room noisier. Everybody seemed to be laughing. Hughie was letting loose at the piano. Peter went and stood beside him. Hughie looked up and smiled.

“Toujours cafardeux, ducks? Why don’t you have a drink?”

“I’ve had a couple. I don’t drink much. I’m fine.”

Whit joined them. “That’s a charming friend you have, Charlie Whoever. He was making a big play for me, and then all of a sudden he called me a dirty little faggot and walked out. What in God’s name does he think
he
is?”

“He wants to be straight. Did he really make a play for you?”

“That’s what I thought it was. I guess he was just leading me on. He didn’t have to try very hard. He reminded me of you.” Whit lifted a cigarette between thumb and forefinger and, holding his lips apart, inhaled deeply.

“What are you doing that for?”

Whit held his breath a moment before answering. “It’s a reefer. Marijuana. Haven’t you ever smoked it?”

“No, what’s it do to you?”

“Makes you feel great. Sexy, too. Want to try it? Come on.”

Peter followed him over to a group surrounding an ugly, very black little monkey of a man who was sitting on the floor. “Hey Freddy, you got another one of these things for the Growler?” Whit asked.

“I got one all marked and set aside for the Growler.” He handed up a cigarette. “Just take it nice ’n’ easy.”

Peter took it, and Whit gave him a light. “Are you supposed to hold it the way you did?”

“Yeah. Pull it way in and hold it as long as you can.”

Peter experimented. Aside from a slight giddiness from inhaling so much air, he felt nothing. He grew bolder, drawing the smoke deep into his lungs. He had heard only vaguely of marijuana and wondered if it would be habit-forming. A bit late to worry about that.

Whit was watching him closely. He giggled as Peter held his breath. “If it makes you feel sexy, you know who’s waiting for you.”

Peter exhaled. “I don’t feel anything yet.”

“You will. Boy, it’s really getting to me now.” He giggled again.

Peter lifted his hand for another puff. It seemed to take a very long time for the cigarette to reach his mouth. He finally took a puff. The room swayed slightly and then receded. “That’s funny,” he said when he had exhaled. He lifted his free hand and found that he was stroking the back of Whit’s head. “You know something? You’re one of the prettiest guys I’ve ever known.” His voice didn’t sound like his own. He hadn’t even intended to speak. He laughed. He went on laughing. He felt as if he had been laughing forever. Eventually he took another puff of the cigarette. The room seemed very big, the people in it all crowded together on top of him. Everybody was laughing. His hand wasn’t on Whit’s neck. It was on Hughie’s shoulder. Hughie stood in front of him smiling.

“You riding high, duckie? You feel all right?”

“I feel wonderful.”

Hughie’s smile broadened. His teeth were strong and white in the dark honey-brown of his face. His eyes were kind and gentle. They seemed to swim into Peter’s. Peter growled.

“Oh, lordy, chéri angel. Did I hear my ears correctly? I want it. I want it bad. We’ll get rid of these people soon.” His mouth was on Peter’s. His lips were soft and full. They kissed for a long time. Peter wondered if everybody was watching. It didn’t matter. He was lying on the floor. Better this way. His rigid sex felt as if it would burst his trousers. He wriggled about to get it more comfortable. “Man, this white boy is really flying,” an unknown voice said. “Man, he is
built.”
Peter laughed. His head was in somebody’s lap. There was a great crowd of people far above him. They were talking very loud, but the piano drowned out what they were saying. A hand smoothed his trousers, shaping his sex. “Leave that alone, Siddy baby.” Hughie’s voice sounded quite close. “I want that for myself.”

“Boy, you don’t know what you’re getting,” Whit said. “If anybody can do anything with what you’ve got, he is the one who can.” Peter laughed. It felt good to laugh. He laughed some more.

He woke up naked in a wide, elaborate bed. He seemed to be surrounded by a great deal of drapery. He had no idea where he was. He didn’t know what day it was or whether, in fact, it was day or night. His sex was aching with an erection that felt as if it had been there forever. He lay without moving as his eyes explored his surroundings. He was alone on the wide bed with nothing over him. Lights were on. Looking across his feet, he saw an open door and the shine of tile. A bathroom. He reached down and pulled at his sex to ease it. Memory stirred. A party. Charlie. Hughie. Whit. Had he broken his rule and gone home with Whit? No, he had never been in this room before. Then it must be … As he picked through his sluggish brain, Hughie entered soundlessly from the bathroom. Rather, Peter’s vision was filled with a monumental dark phallus with Hughie somewhere in the background. His eyes widened as they measured it. Then he rolled over onto his stomach, a cry of agony already gathering in his throat.