but being caught dead—literally—in a tawdry summer destination. Kittredge had no more idea Ian was gay than did Suki Weatherbee, now approaching us with her black companion. Before they reached us, Kittredge excused himself to visit the bathroom.
“Mark,” said Suki, who smelled of face powder and some woodsy fragrance as we kissed the air next to each other’s cheeks. “This is Gaston,” she said. He was her husband and African, not African-American. “Darling,” she asked him, “could you get us another crabmeat sandwich?” When we were alone, she confided that their marriage had taken even her by surprise. “Not to mention my family and half of Charleston!”
She’d met Gaston in Senegal. She was working there after earning her MBA at Wharton. Suki began giggling. “So Gaston never met Ian. Remember Ian back at St. Harold’s? How full of the devil he was? But sweet. Remember Spring Dance when we all got so stoned that we broke into the chapel late at night and ate
all
the communion wafers?”
Not being part of Ian’s clique, I didn’t remember, but I nodded as if savoring the story.
“Are we almost done?” Gaston asked, seeming to grow peevish and less deferential once he returned with the sandwich. “We’ve paid our respects. Let’s get an early shuttle home.”
“Gaston
swore
he couldn’t function away from Mother Africa, but now that we’re living in New York, he just loves it,” Suki told me.
Gaston was not about to let this sweeping statement pass without modifying it in some way. There was a certain vitality to Manhattan, he admitted, but it was “imbued with the innate violence of American society.”
“Eventually we’ll go back to Senegal,” Suki explained. “The skyscrapers make Gaston claustrophobic.”
Gaston bombarded the carp with pieces of crabmeat roll. The fish were colliding with each other in their quest for the bread, slashing back and forth through the water as Gaston kept tossing them crumbs. “Americans are fundamentally unsure who they are. Unsure whether they even belong on this continent,” he said.
“We’ve had one sermon already today, darling,” Suki reminded him.
“Look,” Gaston said, tossing the last bit of bread at a giant carp that was silvery white like the dough rolls Chinese serve for dim sum. “No, not at the fish. Look at that man!”
Gaston indicated a tall, black male among the mourners across the garden. His sleek dark suit fit his body like skin, but his hair was worlds away from either Gloucester or St. Harold’s—a mane of dreadlocks, tumbling over his shoulders, bleached peroxide-blond.
“He’s utterly ridiculous,” Gaston snapped. “He’s not sure whether he’s Haile Selassie or Madonna…It’s this confusion you have, your mongrel culture.”
The man with the dreadlocks, in his early thirties, I guessed, was nursing a drink and wandering absentmindedly through the crowd.
“This Provincetown,” Gaston said. “I understand it’s…a very promiscuous environment. Many nightclubs, lots of, how do you say it,
low
life?”
“Yes,” Suki said, “it’s Fag Heaven. Now why did I think Ian summered in Katama?”
Everything gay about Ian was being obliterated. I felt like I was being obliterated too. A scalding force was threatening to erupt, like the night I’d poured beer onto Ian at Quahog. I said, “You know Ian had changed a lot since Spring Dance at St. Harold’s. He really wasn’t the Katama sort at all. He enjoyed Provincetown more, for the same reason I do…”
Gaston was acting bored and Suki was faking a smile.
I said, “The dick tastes better than on the Vineyard.”
Gaston began laughing, but Suki’s face was transformed into the mask of some Tibetan demon. “You liar!” Suki spat. “Ian always loathed you. He felt sorry for you, that’s why he tolerated your company…you twisted, pathetic little freak.”
“Great to see you,” I told her.
I navigated my way through the crowd until I
“Mark,” said Suki, who smelled of face powder and some woodsy fragrance as we kissed the air next to each other’s cheeks. “This is Gaston,” she said. He was her husband and African, not African-American. “Darling,” she asked him, “could you get us another crabmeat sandwich?” When we were alone, she confided that their marriage had taken even her by surprise. “Not to mention my family and half of Charleston!”
She’d met Gaston in Senegal. She was working there after earning her MBA at Wharton. Suki began giggling. “So Gaston never met Ian. Remember Ian back at St. Harold’s? How full of the devil he was? But sweet. Remember Spring Dance when we all got so stoned that we broke into the chapel late at night and ate
all
the communion wafers?”
Not being part of Ian’s clique, I didn’t remember, but I nodded as if savoring the story.
“Are we almost done?” Gaston asked, seeming to grow peevish and less deferential once he returned with the sandwich. “We’ve paid our respects. Let’s get an early shuttle home.”
“Gaston
swore
he couldn’t function away from Mother Africa, but now that we’re living in New York, he just loves it,” Suki told me.
Gaston was not about to let this sweeping statement pass without modifying it in some way. There was a certain vitality to Manhattan, he admitted, but it was “imbued with the innate violence of American society.”
“Eventually we’ll go back to Senegal,” Suki explained. “The skyscrapers make Gaston claustrophobic.”
Gaston bombarded the carp with pieces of crabmeat roll. The fish were colliding with each other in their quest for the bread, slashing back and forth through the water as Gaston kept tossing them crumbs. “Americans are fundamentally unsure who they are. Unsure whether they even belong on this continent,” he said.
“We’ve had one sermon already today, darling,” Suki reminded him.
“Look,” Gaston said, tossing the last bit of bread at a giant carp that was silvery white like the dough rolls Chinese serve for dim sum. “No, not at the fish. Look at that man!”
Gaston indicated a tall, black male among the mourners across the garden. His sleek dark suit fit his body like skin, but his hair was worlds away from either Gloucester or St. Harold’s—a mane of dreadlocks, tumbling over his shoulders, bleached peroxide-blond.
“He’s utterly ridiculous,” Gaston snapped. “He’s not sure whether he’s Haile Selassie or Madonna…It’s this confusion you have, your mongrel culture.”
The man with the dreadlocks, in his early thirties, I guessed, was nursing a drink and wandering absentmindedly through the crowd.
“This Provincetown,” Gaston said. “I understand it’s…a very promiscuous environment. Many nightclubs, lots of, how do you say it,
low
life?”
“Yes,” Suki said, “it’s Fag Heaven. Now why did I think Ian summered in Katama?”
Everything gay about Ian was being obliterated. I felt like I was being obliterated too. A scalding force was threatening to erupt, like the night I’d poured beer onto Ian at Quahog. I said, “You know Ian had changed a lot since Spring Dance at St. Harold’s. He really wasn’t the Katama sort at all. He enjoyed Provincetown more, for the same reason I do…”
Gaston was acting bored and Suki was faking a smile.
I said, “The dick tastes better than on the Vineyard.”
Gaston began laughing, but Suki’s face was transformed into the mask of some Tibetan demon. “You liar!” Suki spat. “Ian always loathed you. He felt sorry for you, that’s why he tolerated your company…you twisted, pathetic little freak.”
“Great to see you,” I told her.
I navigated my way through the crowd until I
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