Christian Soldiers praying at this very moment, to a god who existed solely to punish, who’d refined hell into a Calvinist theme park for their despised? And how big, we all wondered, was their presence in Provincetown? We saw men in battle gear all the time now, milling on the streets, driving trucks and cars, but were there others, incognito, in this very church this morning?
During the moment of silent meditation, when the associate minister played his Tibetan singing bowls, I thought Edward wiped tears from his eyes. Then a soloist from the choir sang a spiritual, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” bringing the ache of the old South into our humid Yankee church.
After the service, there was the inevitable bottleneck at the door. Again, I worried about meeting the wrong people, but no one from Quahog materialized, thank God.
Some churchgoers were pausing outside, taking refreshments, participating in the post-service social. Edward was unlocking a bicycle from the rack in front of the church, lifting it gently, as if to avoid the violence of metal on metal, avoid the spokes of his wheels banging others. I recognized the bicycle as Arthur’s, but Edward’s clothes were new, a blue T-shirt advertising Quicksilver surfing gear, and black denim shorts cut to advertise his body. I remembered him kissing me in Ian’s bedroom, then scurrying away.
“Hello,” he said. “I heard you were at Quahog.”
Had he heard about my fight, I wondered, or were he and Arthur still frightened of the telephone, of those late-night hang-up calls Edward mentioned at Ian’s?
“How did you hear about our gig?”
Edward was now astride the bicycle, one muscular leg on its pedal and the other straight out, his toe
en pointe
on the ground in its fraying sneaker. “I saw you out front of Quahog before the show. Two friends of Arthur’s went, Elinor and Ginny. I saw them in Adams Pharmacy this morning.” He described the lesbians who’d intimidated the fundamentalist with the pamphlets.
“Did they give you a review of my performance?”
“They said…you made quite a splash.” Was that his wit or the lesbians’? We both laughed.
Talking to Edward, especially about Arthur, was an oddly formal experience in which every gesture, every phrase, seemed governed by some vast, vaguely hostile code of etiquette. He was protecting Arthur from intruders, so it seemed, the way Montezuma’s emissaries sought to bribe away Cortez with gifts of quetzal feathers and jade. Then, abruptly, he became accessible: “I’m sure Ian deserved it.”
I mentioned Edward’s early exit from Ian’s party. He’d found the swordfish “tough as an old shoe” and the chutney sour. Then, blushing, he began coughing. “Excuse me,” he said, choking, while I stood there helplessly, unsure whether this was an embarrassment or an emergency.
He dismounted from the bicycle, letting it clatter to the ground, and then rummaged through the leather pouch strapped around his waist. Retrieving an orange tube from the pouch, he turned away. He held the object to his mouth, his shoulders hunched like somebody with grandchildren. He had asthma, I realized. It was an inhaler, not amyl nitrate, Ian had seen him using in Arthur’s kitchen.
People kept streaming from the church. “Is your friend okay?” asked a woman I recognized as the lover of the lesbian author who’d spoken at town hall.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Let me get him something to drink.” I nudged my way through the crowd to the folding tables of refreshments for the social: sticky pink cake studded with pieces of peppermint, ginger snap cookies, jugs of lemonade.
When I returned with some lemonade, Edward was still coughing, being lectured by the famous author on illness as a metaphor for racism. Her child was sleeping through her speech in a sling on her back. “Perhaps you’re allergic to proximity of homophobia,” the famous author told Edward, then eased away.
Edward drank the
During the moment of silent meditation, when the associate minister played his Tibetan singing bowls, I thought Edward wiped tears from his eyes. Then a soloist from the choir sang a spiritual, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand” bringing the ache of the old South into our humid Yankee church.
After the service, there was the inevitable bottleneck at the door. Again, I worried about meeting the wrong people, but no one from Quahog materialized, thank God.
Some churchgoers were pausing outside, taking refreshments, participating in the post-service social. Edward was unlocking a bicycle from the rack in front of the church, lifting it gently, as if to avoid the violence of metal on metal, avoid the spokes of his wheels banging others. I recognized the bicycle as Arthur’s, but Edward’s clothes were new, a blue T-shirt advertising Quicksilver surfing gear, and black denim shorts cut to advertise his body. I remembered him kissing me in Ian’s bedroom, then scurrying away.
“Hello,” he said. “I heard you were at Quahog.”
Had he heard about my fight, I wondered, or were he and Arthur still frightened of the telephone, of those late-night hang-up calls Edward mentioned at Ian’s?
“How did you hear about our gig?”
Edward was now astride the bicycle, one muscular leg on its pedal and the other straight out, his toe
en pointe
on the ground in its fraying sneaker. “I saw you out front of Quahog before the show. Two friends of Arthur’s went, Elinor and Ginny. I saw them in Adams Pharmacy this morning.” He described the lesbians who’d intimidated the fundamentalist with the pamphlets.
“Did they give you a review of my performance?”
“They said…you made quite a splash.” Was that his wit or the lesbians’? We both laughed.
Talking to Edward, especially about Arthur, was an oddly formal experience in which every gesture, every phrase, seemed governed by some vast, vaguely hostile code of etiquette. He was protecting Arthur from intruders, so it seemed, the way Montezuma’s emissaries sought to bribe away Cortez with gifts of quetzal feathers and jade. Then, abruptly, he became accessible: “I’m sure Ian deserved it.”
I mentioned Edward’s early exit from Ian’s party. He’d found the swordfish “tough as an old shoe” and the chutney sour. Then, blushing, he began coughing. “Excuse me,” he said, choking, while I stood there helplessly, unsure whether this was an embarrassment or an emergency.
He dismounted from the bicycle, letting it clatter to the ground, and then rummaged through the leather pouch strapped around his waist. Retrieving an orange tube from the pouch, he turned away. He held the object to his mouth, his shoulders hunched like somebody with grandchildren. He had asthma, I realized. It was an inhaler, not amyl nitrate, Ian had seen him using in Arthur’s kitchen.
People kept streaming from the church. “Is your friend okay?” asked a woman I recognized as the lover of the lesbian author who’d spoken at town hall.
“I’m not sure,” I said. “Let me get him something to drink.” I nudged my way through the crowd to the folding tables of refreshments for the social: sticky pink cake studded with pieces of peppermint, ginger snap cookies, jugs of lemonade.
When I returned with some lemonade, Edward was still coughing, being lectured by the famous author on illness as a metaphor for racism. Her child was sleeping through her speech in a sling on her back. “Perhaps you’re allergic to proximity of homophobia,” the famous author told Edward, then eased away.
Edward drank the
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