Miles stood just inside the door, leaning against the mirrored side wall, where he figured he could view the action while remaining inconspicuous. He wore a green plaid shirt, and he held a beer in one hand. The other hand was tucked into the back pocket of his jeans, an attempt at jauntiness. He did not look drunk.
Everybody seemed to know everybody, or at least somebody, and there was a lot of touching going on: a hand on the nearest shoulder or massaging the hollow of a back or fingertips falling idly from shoulder to waist to the smooth curve of a buttock. It was all deliberately casual and all intended to arouse.
At midnight men had begun to drift out the door, in couples mostly, but newcomers were arriving every minute: regulars who liked the after-midnight hour, conventioneers looking for a little wildlife, a few late workers from the State House, and one or two single prowlers, like Miles, out for a glance at what's going on, just curiosity, just a moment to see without being seen. And maybe they'd try something new. What the hell. Who would know? Who would care?
Miles was fascinated. He was also frightened and excited and more than a little drunk. But under it all he felt defiant, alive. Here he was in the forbidden city.
Moments earlier a tall, thin guy with a pinched face and a squint had come and stood next to him. He'd been staring at Miles for several minutes and now he stood only a foot away, looking him up and down. Miles pretended not to notice at first, but then he turned to the guy and said, "How you doing?" and the guy gasped and pulled away. "Trash!" he said to Miles. "Don't you be coming on to me, you pervert. I know your kind." And he moved down the line. Miles was shaken by this, but nobody else seemed to notice, and later Miles saw him doing the same thing to some other guy—it was just his little act, campy and crazy.
Miles shrugged. This was exactly why he'd come: for the recklessness and lunacy. And for the aura of forbidden sex.
On the loudspeaker, the Stones gave way to a heavy metal group Miles didn't recognize, but the guy in charge of music somehow left a momentary pause—fifty seconds, maybe less—between the two tapes, and in that pause the sounds of the bar were wildly, unnaturally amplified and exposed. Voices sounded sharp and desperate, and the shrieks of laughter sounded crazed, and Miles—for just one moment—thought of what had really happened that day, and said, "I don't care anymore," and clutched his beer tighter and leaned hard against the mirrored wall. And then the music came up again, this time even louder than the Stones. Miles cleared his mind—forced it to go blank—and tapped his foot to the insistent beat of the drum.
He smiled to himself to keep from laughing out loud. He was Miles Bannon, schoolteacher, responsible citizen, whose only sexual experience in his entire life was with Margaret Cleary, a battered wife and widow, and here he was standing against the wall in the Tom Cat Lounge watching a room full of gay men whose only intention—AIDS or no AIDS—was to get it on, now, hard and slow. It was impossible. It was downright funny. He did laugh out loud then and, to cover his embarrassment, lifted his beer bottle to his lips. He let the beer trickle down his throat, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and smiled to himself at his ridiculous performance. Could it fool anybody?
"We've got to stop meeting this way," someone said.
It was Robert.
"People will talk," Robert said. He was wearing a dark suit and tie, looking as if he'd come straight from work, and in his hand he held a small scotch and rocks. He was smiling.
Miles felt his neck go red, and felt the blush begin to spread over his face. He could think of nothing to say.
"I'm just here … I'm …"
"Of course," Robert said. "To have a drink. To see how the other half lives." There was no trace of irony in his voice. "Curiosity. Why not? Can I get you another beer? A scotch?"
"No! I've got to leave."
"Sure, I understand," Robert said, as Miles continued to stand there. "I liked seeing you at the hospital. You always seemed like a human being and, as you said—or maybe I said it—there's an awful lot of bureaucracy around that place. My name is Robert, by the way."
"I've really got to get going. I'm sorry."
"Sure, sure. And your name is?"
"I'm Bill."
"Bill. Good. Just in case I ever see you again, it would be nice to have a name."
"Right. Well, I'm off."
"Take care, Bill." Robert put his hand on Miles' arm, gripping it lightly. Miles turned and gave him a sharp look. Robert took his hand away at once. "Sorry," he said.
Miles looked around for a place to put his beer bottle, blundered into the mirror, panicked slightly, and by the time he got to the door, Robert was there holding it for him.
"I'm leaving too," Robert said. "It's too noisy in there. It's impossible to talk."
They were out on the street and Miles took a deep breath, as if he had escaped safely.
"Yes," Robert said. "I'm never really comfortable there, either. Do you want to walk a little? Get some air?"
"Why do you go there?" Miles said.
"It's harmless, Bill. It's just a bunch of guys. I usually don't go to bars at all, gay bars, but sometimes I just need a drink—like now, tonight—and at the Tom Cat there's the chance I'll see somebody I know, and we'll have a chat." Miles was listening carefully. "Or somebody I'd like to know, and we'll have a chat."
"I've got to go," Miles said.
Robert laughed out loud. "I knew I should have stopped while I was ahead of the game."
"What?" Miles said. "No."
"Why do you go there?"
"I've been drinking. I shouldn't have."
"You wanted some company, maybe. Maybe talk to somebody. Be a little crazy. Hmm?"
"I am crazy."
"You're very attractive, Bill, and my guess is that you're very nice. I don't think you've ever been to a gay bar in your life, and all I'm asking you for is a little walk. A little talk." He looked at his watch. "There's time. And I promise I won't press myself on you. Look, Ma, no hands." He backed away, his hands in the air. "What do you say?"
This, somehow, seemed wrong. Going to the Tom Cat Lounge was just crazy, but this was serious business because he was using somebody. He wasn't attracted to Robert; he was just after the excitement of the forbidden. Robert's thin lips were turned up in a smile. He would have let his fingers trace the line of that smile if it were Margaret's. But with a man?
"Well?"
"My name's not Bill," Miles said.
"You don't have to tell me your name."
"It's not Bill. It's Miles."
"Let's take a little walk, Miles."
They took a right, and then a left where Miles hadn't seen a left, and then they went through a short dark alley, and in no time they were on Washington Street in front of Filene's. They walked in silence for a while, and then they talked, and then they were silent again.
"We can stroll down through Government Center," Robert said, "or we could stop at my place and have a drink. No strings. I live right here."
Miles had come out tonight with some vague notion of recklessness, of defiance. All his life, he'd been good and dutiful and frustrated, and now he'd had enough, he was breaking out. He, also, had a right to live.
They stood there on the street in front of Robert's apartment—Revere Street, but on the wrong side of Beacon Hill—while Miles, fearing and hopeful, tried to persuade himself not to go inside for a drink.
He had wanted sexual adventure, and here it was before him. Did he want it? Yes or no? On the very night of his mother's death?
His mother was dead: that was the fact he kept trying to obliterate from his mind and to which his mind, nonetheless, continually returned.
Miles stood beside the bed while the nurse closed his dead mother's eyes and then stepped outside to give instructions for removing the body. Alone with her for a moment, Miles bent down and, kissing her forehead, whispered, "I'm afraid."
Margaret arrived then, and they viewed the body together while the orderlies waited with their gurney. Margaret cried a little. They thanked the nurses. And, hand in hand, they left.
They felt lost without an endless series of obligations stretching before them. Funeral arrangements had been made, the obituary was written, and the hospital would take care of everything regarding the body. The funeral parlor had to be notified, and the church, but it was now only a matter of phone calls. No more hiring of Home Help people, no more Tillies, no more dashing from school, or work, to make sure Eleanor was being cared for. No more mixing that ghastly food formula. No more singing "On the road again." No more anguish over suffering you could do nothing to alleviate. And, to be frank, no more putting one's own life on perpetual hold.
They went to the Parker House for a slow, civilized meal. The food was delicious and the service perfect, but they found they were exhausted, with either nothing to say or too much, and they ate quickly and left.
At Margaret's house, they had a drink and Miles stretched out on the couch with his head in Margaret's lap. It was all done. They'd survived it and even acquitted themselves, so Margaret said, with a good bit of style. She decided to break her long abstinence and have a drink with him, to celebrate his goodness and to toast Eleanor for her courage and strength. They drank to that.
They had another, and after a while they stretched out together on the couch and were following the normal patterns that led to their making love. "Do you think we should, tonight?" Margaret asked. And Miles, hearing that long sigh that became his mother's final breath, said, "No. You're right, of course. Let's kiss good night and then I'll go."
Back home, he had another drink and thought of his mother's death. And then he thought of Monday: his mother, desperate, reaching out for the emergency cord. He watched her. He saw her watching him. He saw her look. And he did nothing.
He had another drink, he paced around the house, he had some coffee. He would go to bed. He would make his mind a blank and he would sleep.
Then, like a man possessed, without ever giving it a single rational thought, he knew what he was going to do, and he did it.
He put on jeans and loafers and a green plaid shirt. He got in his car and drove to Boston, with the rock station turned up high and the music pounding in his ears. He was parking his car in the usual place near the hospital, when he decided to hell with safety, to hell with concealment. He drove into the Combat Zone and found a place—too near a hydrant, true, but screw it—and parked the car just one block from the Tom Cat Lounge.
Now, here he was, standing in front of Robert's place on Revere Street, trying to pretend to himself that he might or might not go up and have a drink with him.
"I won't do anything you don't want me to do," Robert said. And because Miles was shaking so, he said, "I'll just hold you, all right? I'll just hold you loosely in my arms."
They were lying naked in Robert's big bed, with the sheets pulled up, and the lights dimmed. Miles did not seem able to control his shaking. It had begun with his hand when he placed it on Robert's hard thin chest, and then his whole arm had begun to shake, and soon his entire body was trembling violently.
"Are you sick?" Robert said, and Miles shook his head no.
"Are you frightened?" and Miles nodded yes.
"Is this all right?" Robert said. "I'll just hold you loosely in my arms like this. All right?"
"Hold me tight," Miles said. He spoke through clenched teeth because they were clattering so.
"I can do that," Robert said, "as tight as you like," and he pulled Miles close, running one hand across his back and down to his waist and then once more to his shoulder. He did it again, and this time he let his hand settle at Miles' waist.
"I'm sorry," Miles said, pulling away, "I feel like a fool."
"You feel good," Robert said, holding him. "You feel very good," and waited till he thought Miles was ready for further exploration. He was very slow. He was very patient. Sex seemed almost irrelevant to the movements of his body; his movements were so practiced, so intentional, they seemed like choreography. Finally, however, they had their effect. Miles came and then Robert came, and Miles was startled by the frenzy Robert brought to the act; for that moment, he became a different person, out of control, a little crazy.
Afterward, he held Miles very close again, saying nothing, kissing him softly on the neck, until after a long time he said, "May I?" He pulled away and slowly let one hand drift down Miles' body, touching him gently, carefully, circling in on Miles' crotch.
"Don't," Miles said.
"Well, look what's here," he said. "May I? Do you mind?"
And Miles said nothing because this, after all, was what he had agreed to. He lay back and let it happen.
Robert tossed the sheets aside, and slid lower in the bed. "I'm going to suck you dry," he said.
When Robert finished and had lit a cigarette, Miles said he had to go. At once. So Robert got up and dressed and walked him back to his car which, luckily, had not been towed, though there was a ticket on the windshield. "My treat," Robert said, and crammed the ticket into his pocket. He bent over to kiss Miles goodbye, but Miles turned his face away.
"Sorry," Miles said.
It was nearly four in the morning when he pulled into his driveway, and he was sick at what he'd done and dumb with exhaustion from the night, the week, the months of caring for his mother. He got out of his car and went into the house and let himself fall naked into bed.
Pulling into his driveway, Miles had failed to notice the car across the street where Margaret sat waiting. She had been waiting there since one that morning when she'd phoned—sleepless and wanting a drink—to ask if she could come and sleep with him, just be with him, just keep him company. But he had found some other company, she realized, somewhere else.
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