count off as I go. Gray has caught up behind me, but makes no move to mother. It becomes a point of pride that I don't stop to catch my breath. I can feel myself pushing and winning, countering all that useless sleep. The last ten steps my chest is stabbing with every breath, but I'm in no danger of a coronary, not today. The terns are wheeling at the top of the bluff as we come up, their dance to the death of the sun. I am with them for once, my heart careening.
"You go get into the shower," says Gray, a light hand between my shoulders. Still my coach. "I'll make us something hot."
I trot bareass across the terrace, the feeling of being a naughty boy not dissipating at all. It only seems to get stronger as I stand under the pounding spray, lathering myself. I actually pump my dick for a bit, and it even lifts its head a little. But I have another secret building, much more exciting than a half-mast hard-on. I can hardly dare to put it into words, even to myself. But the feeling of having broken my leper status in the iceberg cold of a sunset swim—that holds. Toweling off, I can still see all my dalmatian spots, but they don't assault me. I'm enough of a realist to know it won't last, this existential vacation, yet I'm ready to work it for all it's worth.
When I come down Gray has put out bowls of stew, heated out of a can. With hunks of coarse bread and mugs of milk, it looks like a true peasant's supper. "That felt great!" I enthuse as I sit at my place, tearing into the bread. Gray lays aside the old picture album, something I've never seen him look at. Gray never needs the old snapshots, since he carries the whole movie around in his head. "I'm going to jump in the water every day," I announce brazenly.
He smiles approval, but he's pensive. After the next bite he says, "I need to ask you a favor."
So WASP formal. I feel a thrill of panic low in my gut, because I think he's about to ask me to leave. "Sure, anything."
"Well"—he laughs dryly—"this is completely out of the blue. But Foo's decided she wants to come spend a day at the beach."
For a second I think he's lost it, like my father after the first stroke, mixing the seventies and the forties. Gray is smiling at me, shrugging. "Your aunt Foo?" He nods. "She's still alive?"
"Oh sure.Ninety-one and sharp as a tack. But she hasn't left the ranch in at least five years, and there's hardly anything left of her. We're afraid she'll break her hip just getting into the car."
These Baldwins are something else. Even as I listen—round-the-clock nurses, still in her own room at the ranch where she once slept with a nanny—I'm utterly buoyed by the old girl's indomitability. I thought the whole lot of them had been dead twenty years. In my head there even appears to be a relationship between my dunk in the ocean and Foo's return, as if the shock of connection has opened a hole in time.
"So what's the favor? It's her house. Of course she can come."
"No, but it's yours right now," he insists, one finger touching my wrist on the table. "And she understands that. When an artist's in residence here..." He opens his palms and lets the phrase hang, as if the ellipsis could lead anywhere, a symphony or the Great American Novel.
"But I'm not doing anything. I'd be honored to have her here. We'll have lunch on the terrace. Unless—" Now I get flustered. "Maybe she'd like to have it all to herself. Look, I can split—"
"No, no, we'll all spend the afternoon together. Perhaps Mona would like to meet her."
It's still not quite believable, the ancient world returning like this. I consider the bitter irony that a woman who lived here in 1912 might still live longer than I. Which sets me frowning. "You think she'll be scared of my... you know, my cooties?"
"Foo doesn't know from AIDS," Gray reassures me, grinning. "She's not exactly up on current events. She's still arguing about whether Picasso's a fraud. That gigolo from Barcelona!' "
Sounds like we'll have an
"You go get into the shower," says Gray, a light hand between my shoulders. Still my coach. "I'll make us something hot."
I trot bareass across the terrace, the feeling of being a naughty boy not dissipating at all. It only seems to get stronger as I stand under the pounding spray, lathering myself. I actually pump my dick for a bit, and it even lifts its head a little. But I have another secret building, much more exciting than a half-mast hard-on. I can hardly dare to put it into words, even to myself. But the feeling of having broken my leper status in the iceberg cold of a sunset swim—that holds. Toweling off, I can still see all my dalmatian spots, but they don't assault me. I'm enough of a realist to know it won't last, this existential vacation, yet I'm ready to work it for all it's worth.
When I come down Gray has put out bowls of stew, heated out of a can. With hunks of coarse bread and mugs of milk, it looks like a true peasant's supper. "That felt great!" I enthuse as I sit at my place, tearing into the bread. Gray lays aside the old picture album, something I've never seen him look at. Gray never needs the old snapshots, since he carries the whole movie around in his head. "I'm going to jump in the water every day," I announce brazenly.
He smiles approval, but he's pensive. After the next bite he says, "I need to ask you a favor."
So WASP formal. I feel a thrill of panic low in my gut, because I think he's about to ask me to leave. "Sure, anything."
"Well"—he laughs dryly—"this is completely out of the blue. But Foo's decided she wants to come spend a day at the beach."
For a second I think he's lost it, like my father after the first stroke, mixing the seventies and the forties. Gray is smiling at me, shrugging. "Your aunt Foo?" He nods. "She's still alive?"
"Oh sure.Ninety-one and sharp as a tack. But she hasn't left the ranch in at least five years, and there's hardly anything left of her. We're afraid she'll break her hip just getting into the car."
These Baldwins are something else. Even as I listen—round-the-clock nurses, still in her own room at the ranch where she once slept with a nanny—I'm utterly buoyed by the old girl's indomitability. I thought the whole lot of them had been dead twenty years. In my head there even appears to be a relationship between my dunk in the ocean and Foo's return, as if the shock of connection has opened a hole in time.
"So what's the favor? It's her house. Of course she can come."
"No, but it's yours right now," he insists, one finger touching my wrist on the table. "And she understands that. When an artist's in residence here..." He opens his palms and lets the phrase hang, as if the ellipsis could lead anywhere, a symphony or the Great American Novel.
"But I'm not doing anything. I'd be honored to have her here. We'll have lunch on the terrace. Unless—" Now I get flustered. "Maybe she'd like to have it all to herself. Look, I can split—"
"No, no, we'll all spend the afternoon together. Perhaps Mona would like to meet her."
It's still not quite believable, the ancient world returning like this. I consider the bitter irony that a woman who lived here in 1912 might still live longer than I. Which sets me frowning. "You think she'll be scared of my... you know, my cooties?"
"Foo doesn't know from AIDS," Gray reassures me, grinning. "She's not exactly up on current events. She's still arguing about whether Picasso's a fraud. That gigolo from Barcelona!' "
Sounds like we'll have an
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