The Wapshot Chronicle - John Cheever [120]
But there was no such school, and when he got into New York, late that night, it was raining and the streets around the station seemed to exhale an atmosphere of erotic misdemeanor. He got a hotel room and, looking for the truth, decided that what he was was a homosexual virgin in a cheap hotel. He would never see the resemblance he bore to Cousin Honora, but, as he cracked his knuckles and stretched his neck, his train of thought was like the old lady’s. If he was a pederast he would be one openly. He would wear bracelets and pin a rose in his bottonhole. He would be an organizer of pederasts, a spokesman and prophet. He would force society, government and the law to admit their existence. They would have clubs—not hole-in-the-wall meeting places, but straight-forward organizations like the English-Speaking Union. What bothered him most was his inability to discharge his responsibilities to his parents, and he sat down and wrote Leander a letter.
A morning train took Coverly out to Clear Haven and when he saw his brother he thought how solid this friendship was. They embraced—they swatted one another—they got into the old Rolls and in a second Coverly had dropped from the anguish of anxiety to a level of life that seemed healthy and simple and reminded him only of good things. Could it be wrong, he wondered, that he seemed, in spirit, to have returned to his father’s house? Could it be wrong that he felt as if he were back at the farm, making some simple journey down to Travertine to race the Tern? They passed the gates and went up through the park while Moses explained that he was living at Clear Haven only until autumn; that it had been Melissa’s home. Coverly was impressed with the towers and battlements, but not surprised since it was a part of his sense of the world that Moses would always have better luck than he. Melissa was still in bed, but she would be down soon. They would have a picnic at the pool. “This is the library,” Moses said. “This is the ballroom, this is the state dining room, this is what they call the rotunda.” Then Melissa came down the stairs.
She took Coverly’s breath away; her golden skin and her dark-blond hair. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she said, and while her voice was pleasant enough it could never be compared to the power of her appearance. She seemed a triumphant beauty to Coverly—an army with banners—and he couldn’t take his eyes off her until Moses pushed him toward a bathroom where they put on their bathing trunks. “I think we’d better wear hats,” Melissa said. “The sun’s terribly bright.” Moses opened a coat closet, passed Melissa a hat and, rummaging around for one himself, brought down a green Tyrolean hat with a brush in the band. “Is this D’Alba’s?” he asked. “Lord, no,” Melissa said. “Pansies never wear hats.” It was all that Coverly needed. He plunged into the coat closet and grabbed the first hat he saw—an old Panama that must have belonged to the late Mr. Scaddon. It was much too big for him—it drooped down over his ears—but with at least this one symbol of his male virility intact he walked behind Moses and Melissa down toward the pool.
Melissa didn’t swim that day. She sat at the edge of the marble curb, spreading the cloth for lunch and pouring the drinks. There was nothing she did or said that did not charm and delight poor Coverly and incline him to foolishness. He dived. He swam the length of the pool four times. He tried to do a back dive and failed, splashing water all over Melissa. They drank martinis and talked about the farm, and Coverly, who was not used to liquor, got tipsy. Starting to talk about the Fourth of July parade he was side-tracked by a memory of Cousin Adelaide and ended up with describing the rocket launchings on Saturday afternoons.