then we’ll take a stroll around the rest of the place before the sun goes down.”
Soon they were all drifting past the giant willow tree, which Karen said was “magnificent”; then, following Ann Blake’s original route, they climbed the stone steps beside the flower-bed terraces. “This funny little shed here on top is where I work,” Michael told them. “Doesn’t look like much, but I like the privacy of it.
“… And talk about nooks and crannies,” he continued as they came around the corner of the big dormitory building, “there’s a nook or a cranny along in here somewhere that serves as a refuge for one of America’s most celebrated faggot actors –I mean this old guy’s so queer the cops once threw him out of Westport for showing dirty movies to little
boys.”
“Good evening,” Ben Duane said from the shadows of a doorway. He was dressed in a rumpled suit and a clean shirt, adjusting the turquoise clasp of a string necktie as if in readiness to descend the hill for dinner at Ann Blake’s house. There was no way of telling whether he’d heard Michael or not, but the chance of it was enough to prevent either of the Davenports from stopping to introduce their guests.
“Hello, Mr. Duane,” Michael said quickly, and they all moved away faster than they’d come.
“Jesus!” Michael said, smiting his forehead with his hand. “That was the dumbest, the all-around dumbest thing I’ve done since we moved here.”
“Well, I don’t think he heard you,” his wife said, “but it wasn’t one of your better moments.”
And he was still weak with chagrin when they’d completed their circuit of the grounds and come back to the living room, where he sank into a chair to nurse his feelings.
Then Lucy briskly got their supper on the table – early, she explained, because they were all going to a party at the Nelsons’.
“Nelson?” Brock inquired. “Oh, yeah, the hotshot water-color guy. Well, fine, that oughta be nice; a party’s a party.”
When Tom Nelson greeted them at his bright front door he was wearing the field jacket of an airborne infantryman.
“Where’d you get the paratrooper’s jacket?” Michael asked him as soon as the introductions were over.
“Bought it off a guy, is all. Nice, huh? I like it because of the pockets.”
And Michael was nettled: the tanker’s jacket of Larchmont had been “bought off a guy,” too. What the hell was Nelsontrying to do – be a different kind of war veteran every time he moved to a new town?
The Nelsons’ big living room was swarming with people, and so was the studio beyond it. There were a few lovely girls among the women, almost as if a movie director had organized the scene, and the men ranged from youth to hearty middle age, some of them with beards. There were three or four Negroes who looked like jazz musicians, and the crisp recorded sounds of Lester Young seemed to lace all the disparate talk and laughter of the room into wave on wave of pleasurable discourse. At first sight, and even on closer inspection, there was nobody there who didn’t seem to be having a good time.
This was Arnold Spencer, a professor of art history at Princeton.
This was Joel Kaplan, a jazz critic for
Newsweek
and
The Nation.
This was Jack Bernstein, a sculptor whose new show had just opened at the Downtown Gallery.
And this was Marjorie Grant, a poet, who said at once that she’d been “dying” to meet Michael because she’d “loved” his book.
“Well, that’s very nice,” he told her. “Thank you.”
“I’m crazy about your lines,” Marjorie Grant said. “One or two of the poems themselves didn’t strike me as wholly successful, but I love your lines.” And she recited one of them, to prove she had memorized it. She was about Michael’s age and pretty in an old-fashioned way: she wore a heavy shawl drawn close around her upper arms and torso, and her blond hair was fixed in a thick, tight braid that circled her head like a
Soon they were all drifting past the giant willow tree, which Karen said was “magnificent”; then, following Ann Blake’s original route, they climbed the stone steps beside the flower-bed terraces. “This funny little shed here on top is where I work,” Michael told them. “Doesn’t look like much, but I like the privacy of it.
“… And talk about nooks and crannies,” he continued as they came around the corner of the big dormitory building, “there’s a nook or a cranny along in here somewhere that serves as a refuge for one of America’s most celebrated faggot actors –I mean this old guy’s so queer the cops once threw him out of Westport for showing dirty movies to little
boys.”
“Good evening,” Ben Duane said from the shadows of a doorway. He was dressed in a rumpled suit and a clean shirt, adjusting the turquoise clasp of a string necktie as if in readiness to descend the hill for dinner at Ann Blake’s house. There was no way of telling whether he’d heard Michael or not, but the chance of it was enough to prevent either of the Davenports from stopping to introduce their guests.
“Hello, Mr. Duane,” Michael said quickly, and they all moved away faster than they’d come.
“Jesus!” Michael said, smiting his forehead with his hand. “That was the dumbest, the all-around dumbest thing I’ve done since we moved here.”
“Well, I don’t think he heard you,” his wife said, “but it wasn’t one of your better moments.”
And he was still weak with chagrin when they’d completed their circuit of the grounds and come back to the living room, where he sank into a chair to nurse his feelings.
Then Lucy briskly got their supper on the table – early, she explained, because they were all going to a party at the Nelsons’.
“Nelson?” Brock inquired. “Oh, yeah, the hotshot water-color guy. Well, fine, that oughta be nice; a party’s a party.”
When Tom Nelson greeted them at his bright front door he was wearing the field jacket of an airborne infantryman.
“Where’d you get the paratrooper’s jacket?” Michael asked him as soon as the introductions were over.
“Bought it off a guy, is all. Nice, huh? I like it because of the pockets.”
And Michael was nettled: the tanker’s jacket of Larchmont had been “bought off a guy,” too. What the hell was Nelsontrying to do – be a different kind of war veteran every time he moved to a new town?
The Nelsons’ big living room was swarming with people, and so was the studio beyond it. There were a few lovely girls among the women, almost as if a movie director had organized the scene, and the men ranged from youth to hearty middle age, some of them with beards. There were three or four Negroes who looked like jazz musicians, and the crisp recorded sounds of Lester Young seemed to lace all the disparate talk and laughter of the room into wave on wave of pleasurable discourse. At first sight, and even on closer inspection, there was nobody there who didn’t seem to be having a good time.
This was Arnold Spencer, a professor of art history at Princeton.
This was Joel Kaplan, a jazz critic for
Newsweek
and
The Nation.
This was Jack Bernstein, a sculptor whose new show had just opened at the Downtown Gallery.
And this was Marjorie Grant, a poet, who said at once that she’d been “dying” to meet Michael because she’d “loved” his book.
“Well, that’s very nice,” he told her. “Thank you.”
“I’m crazy about your lines,” Marjorie Grant said. “One or two of the poems themselves didn’t strike me as wholly successful, but I love your lines.” And she recited one of them, to prove she had memorized it. She was about Michael’s age and pretty in an old-fashioned way: she wore a heavy shawl drawn close around her upper arms and torso, and her blond hair was fixed in a thick, tight braid that circled her head like a
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