The Lord Won't Mind (The Peter & Charlie Trilogy) (29 page)

Hughie was wearing a dressing gown when he woke him. He was stroking his bottom. Peter opened his eyes slowly and saw him and smiled.

“Hi,” he said.

“Come on, sweetheart angel. It’s getting late.”

Peter’s smile turned into a little spurt of laughter. “Hey, how about me?”

“That’s just it. How about you. You’re dynamite, angel. You scare me.”

Peter wriggled down in the bed so that his head was in Hughie’s lap, his arms around his hips. “Don’t you want it again?”

“Listen, chéri. Are you awake? I don’t want anything to do with love. Specially with a golden boy like you. You’re just about the whitest white boy I’ve ever seen. You’ve got me headed right over the deep end. I’ve got to stop while I still can. I’m going to give you some breakfast, if we can call it that, and then I’ll take you for drinks at Walter Pitney’s. I’d love it if you’d have supper with me at the club, and then we say good-bye. It’s going to be the old sad story for me, but that’s the way it’s got to be.”

Peter pushed the dressing gown out of the way with the side of his head and kissed the dark sleeping sex. Then he straightened out and lay back with his head on the pillow. “Sure. I understand. Anybody would be nuts to fall in love with me. I’m dead as a doornail. All the same, it was fantastic.”

“Same here, angel. Je t’adore, mon amour. After I’ve cried over you a little while, I hope we see each other a lot. If there’s ever anything I can do for you, you let me know, hear? It’s all yours, angel. Voilà. Un point, c’est tout.”

Peter had heard of Walter Pitney often; it was one of the few major addresses on the homosexual circuit where he hadn’t been. The fact that Pitney was one of the richest men in the city didn’t particularly interest him. The opportunity to add a new meeting place to his list did. Hughie gave him a fresh shirt and a pair of gold cufflinks and they set off just twenty-four hours after Peter had arrived. They held hands in the taxi going downtown.

“Listen, angel,” Hughie said, “when we get there, I’ll go in first. Just give me a few seconds, and then come along.”

“Why?”

“It’s better for Walter. It doesn’t look good for a black boy and white boy to go in together.”

When they stopped on Park Avenue, Hughie handed him a five dollar bill for the taxi and left him. Peter paid and collected the change and followed. A manservant admitted him to Walter Pitney’s apartment. He was confronted by a Renoir as he handed over his coat in the hall. When he saw that it was real and not a print, he gave his tie an extra little tug. The manservant bowed him toward the living room. As he entered, his eyes made a quick survey, doing his usual head count. He had been to bed with all but four or five of the exclusively male, exquisitely tailored group. Two new faces briefly caught his attention and then Hughie was introducing him to his host.

“This is the Growler, Walter. He’s the loveliest boy in New York, bar none.”

“I have eyes, Hughie. Anybody can see that.” Walter Pitney took his hand and gave him an expansive friendly smile. He was wearing very thick horn-rimmed glasses that absorbed all his features except for his smile. He was a solidly built man with gray hair. Peter judged him to be fairly old, surely over forty-five. “I’ve heard so much about you. I’ve asked everybody I know to bring you. Have you stayed away on purpose?”

“Hughie’s the first person that suggested it, and here I am.”

“I’m so glad. What will you have to drink?”

Peter looked at Hughie and laughed. “What’s good for what ails me?”

“Champagne. It’s the only thing this early in the day.” They looked at each other and laughed together.

“So that’s the way it is, is it?” Walter Pitney gave the order to another manservant, who had appeared at his side. “I like to see people having a good time. That’s my philosophy. We’ve had some times together, haven’t we, Hughie?”

“Paris was the place for it. That’s the truth, Walter.”

The champagne was brought. Peter took a glass and drank. He sighed happily. “Golly, that’s good.”

Walter beamed. “What a delightful chappie. Nobody ever tells me anything is good around here. Do you want me to introduce you to everybody?”

“I think I know most of them.”

“Well, don’t let me keep you from your friends. Enjoy yourself. That’s the main thing. Just ask for anything you want.”

Peter glanced at Hughie, who winked at him, and went on into the room.

“Doll! Come here and give your sister a kiss.”

“Look out, girls. Here comes the Growler. Get her—she’s drinking champagne.”

“Hello, beautiful. When are you going to growl at me again?”

“Aren’t you going to speak to your old mother? That’s better. Oh, those lips.”

“Darling. You look divine. How you manage when you lead such a wicked life I’ll never understand.”

“Hello, sweetheart. I’m not about to forget the other night. Call me, damn you.”

It was the conventional exchange of the world he had adopted and although he found it silly, he had learned to accept it. He was introduced to a film star. He was introduced to Meyer Rapper.

“So you’re the bastard. I’ve been waiting to sock you in the nose.”

“Dear me.” Meyer Rapper offered him his charming smile. “Right now? Or will you wait till I’m ready to leave?”

“It doesn’t matter any more. Your play was a flop.”

“One of my many well-wishers, I see. How odd. You’re a most extraordinary-looking creature, and yet you remind me of somebody. Who could it be?”

“Charlie Mills.”

“Charlie Mills? Charles Mills. Ah, yes. You’re quite right. How did you know?”

“Because that’s who I look like.”

“I see. The way you say that, I very much wish I were Charlie Mills.”

“The way
you
say that, I do, too.”

“What an extraordinary young man. Are you interested in the theater?”

“Not remotely.”

“How splendid. I’ve fallen in love with you on the spot. What are you doing for dinner?”

“Busy.”

“I’ll bet you are. Ah, well, life doesn’t distribute its rewards as easily as all that. My psychiatrist is going to have a difficult hour tomorrow.”

The manservant appeared before Peter and filled his glass. He found himself gazing at a Rouault. He shifted his gaze and saw five Matisses in a row. It had never occurred to him that people actually owned such things. A little shiver ran down his spine. Walter Pitney approached and beamed at him.

“You have everything you want?”

“Yes, thank you. This is a fabulous place.”

“You like it?” He looked as pleased as a child. “Ah, there, Meyer. You know this delightful chappie?”

“I’ve had the alloyed pleasure.”

“Come along then,” Walter said to Peter. “There’s a very attractive lad who’s dying to meet you. If nothing more exciting turns up, perhaps you’ll stay and have a quiet dinner with me.”

“Thanks a lot, but I’m supposed to go on with Hughie.”

“I’ve had a word with him. I don’t think he’ll mind. But don’t commit yourself. Somebody else may carry you off. I like to see people enjoying themselves.”

“This is going to sound corny, but I’d love to have a chance to really look at your pictures.”

“Would you? How delightful. Nobody ever pays any attention to them. I’m very fond of them myself. But they’ll be here. I hope you’ll come often. Ah, here you are, Tim. This is Peter.”

Peter found himself looking up into one of the new faces. It was a broad, open, rugged face, a farm boy’s face, topped by a tousle of fair hair. Their eyes met and held. The face broke into a broad grin. Peter growled softly in the back of his throat. Tim laughed, big male laughter.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, his eyes holding Peter’s. His voice was soft and lazy. “I’ve gotta catch a train in an hour. I wanted to meet you before I left. I’ll be back in two days.”

“Does it have to be that long?”

Tim laughed again and put a great paw of a hand on Peter’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “That’s the way I feel.” They stood looking into each other’s eyes. Peter finally took a deep breath that caught in his chest and shook his head.

“Good lord,” he said incredulously. “This wasn’t in the program at all.”

“I knew it the minute you came in.”

“You saw that awful performance? God, I’m going to kill myself. I’m sort of a tramp, you know.”

“I doubt it. I know all about you. I thought you did it kinda cutely.”

Peter’s eyes melted into Tim’s again. They were blue and smiling, not the deep purplish-blue of Charlie’s, but bright and clear, like a sunny lake. After a moment, they both burst out laughing. “Where’s the man with the champagne? An hour, did you say? Who are you, for God’s sake?”

“I’m Timothy Thornton and you’re Peter Martin and I’m a lawyer. Well, I’m a messenger boy, really, but I have the right to call myself a lawyer. I’m going to Washington in fifty minutes and I’ll be back day after tomorrow and, boy, you’re going to be waiting for me.”

“Boy, am I ever. Unless I come to Washington with you. I’ve done stupider things in my life.”

“Don’t think I haven’t thought of that. Except that I’m meeting my boss on the train. There’s no way of working it.”

“Are you old enough to be a lawyer?”

“I’m older than I look, I guess.”

The servant came and filled Peter’s glass. He presented Tim with a fresh drink. Their eyes searched deep into each other as this was taking place. Their faces set with rapt absorption, and their lips parted as their breathing accelerated. Peter made an almost imperceptible negative motion with his head.

“Fifty minutes wouldn’t be enough,” he said.

“Not by a long shot. Anyway, I have to leave here in twenty. Fifteen.” He looked at his watch.

Details began to fix themselves in Peter’s mind. The eyes and hands he knew now: the eyes that accepted and reassured him, the strong grip of the big hands. The mouth was broad and grinned beautifully. He was tall, but his heavy shoulders stooped slightly, which brought him down within reach. His size made him a protective presence. Peter had never felt protected before.

“What am I supposed to do until day after tomorrow?” he asked. “Walter’s asked me for dinner. Does that mean the usual? Do you know him?”

“Know him? Lord, he’s an old friend of the family. He brought me out, as it happens. Walter is—well, you’ll probably find out. Anything you do with Walter is all right with me. He’s got his quirks like everybody, but he’s a nice man. Just remember that.”

“I don’t quite understand. I was only talking about having dinner with him, but it doesn’t matter. How much time?”

Tim looked at his watch. “Not enough to matter a damn. You call me Thursday afternoon, see. After four. We’ll have all Thursday night.” He took out a wallet and gave Peter a card.

“Thursday night and Friday night and any other night you say.”

Tim’s eyes were smiling at him. “I thought you were strictly for one-night stands.”

“You know that? Well, then, you must know that rule is permanently suspended for you.”

“Yeah. I guess I know. Come on.” He put an arm across Peter’s shoulder and gripped the base of his neck. Peter felt a thrill to the soles of his feet. “Let’s get out of here for a minute, and then I’ll have to go.”

Peter moved in close to him, seeking shelter in the big body. They crossed the room together, oblivious of the people they passed. By the time they were in the hall, they were in each other’s arms. Their tongues roamed each other’s mouths. Peter hung on Tim’s neck. Tim’s hands ran down Peter’s back and planted themselves on his buttocks and pulled his hips in hard against his own. A servant coughed discreetly as he passed, but neither heard. Peter felt engulfed and contained. Their mouths parted.

“Oh golly,” Peter murmured, “do I ever want you. Come back, for God’s sake.”

“Don’t you worry. You can count on that.” Tim lifted a hand to Peter’s face and gave his cheek a little pat. His eyes searched from mouth to hair and back to the mouth, his own mouth working, opening and closing, as if he were trying to decide where to sink his teeth. He ran his hand down Peter’s nose and gave it a little tweak. His eyes sought Peter’s. “Unnnh. Talk about growling. Yeah. You’re it.” They laughed softly as their bodies spoke for them.

“You’d better go now,” Peter said. “I’m apt to start tearing your clothes off.” They laughed and broke apart, and Tim strode over to a chair where a hat and coat were laid out beside a small suitcase. He gathered them up. “Tim,” Peter said as a statement of fact. He turned, poised for departure. “Nothing. I just wanted to say your name.” He went to him and put his hand under his arm, and Tim hugged it to him as they went to the door. Peter opened it.

“Thursday.”

“Thursday.” Peter’s eyes held a dazzle of blue as he closed the door. He stood without moving, realizing that he was going to be unfaithful to Charlie at last; he had never allowed the others to count. Tears came to his eyes as he felt Charlie’s hold slipping. He had built his life, such as it was, around this empty commitment; it would be strange to be without it. He was not yet released from the prison to which he had condemned himself, but he was no longer sealed off beyond reach or hope. He felt intimations of freedom. Perhaps Tim would complete the miracle on Thursday. He adjusted his clothes and pushed at his hair, waiting for everything to subside and return to normal. Then he went back to the party and retrieved his glass where he had left it in passing and found the servant to replenish it. Walter Pitney joined him.