It was a night of dreamless sleep for Howard. Outside an autumn wind blew and rustled the leaves that were left on the newly barren branches. But he did not hear it.
He woke, momentarily disoriented, to find himself wrapped in a blanket on the leather couch, in his study, looking up at a gray morning sky that blurred last night's clarity, not in the bed downstairs.
And then he knew where he was and sat up and stretched his back and went into the shower that was right off his study.
Two hours later, he was sitting behind a desk in his office reading the memo from the new board chairman.
Donaldson brought him a cup of coffee and sat down on the leather couch in his office facing him. It was the companion of the couch Howard had slept on in his study last night.
What are we going to do? Howard said snapping his finger against the paper the memo was printed on. After a quick sip of the hot coffee, hot the way he liked it, he felt energetic, pretty good despite everything, quickened by the pitches of adversity that could only glance off but never fell him.
What can we do? Donaldson echoed, say good-bye; we don't have to tolerate an intolerable situation. We've never done programmed news or ever had a corporate overseer on our staff.
He was quiet, determined, and serious.
Have you given any thought to independent webcasting? Howard said.
What are you pitching? Donaldson said, shaking his head in encouragment.
It was as laconic as that, the way it began. They left the network after seventeen years without fuss or bother when World Wide Events Enterprises took it over.
By his old network's new management, Howard's departure was covered by a brief statement issued in response to any and all press questions, but everywhere else it was big news, a major story, good legs. The web start up was swift. Fundraising was surprisingly successful. Howard was regarded as a hero. The web broadcasts quickly drew great numbers and became themselves sources of stories, except at WWEE.
Nick and Lucas sat across from each other at the café table on Nick's terrace. In the amber light of the flames cast by several candles, they gazed and gazed into each other's eyes. They were transfixed by each other. Their mouths smiled. Joy spilled over the crystalline rims of their eyes.
New York was good that time of year, when it was warm enough to spend the night outside, but not hot.
You want me to move in with you? Luke said.
I do, Nick said.
But what about your whole thing with...promiscuity you called it?
What about it?
Does it mean you've changed your mind?
About what?
Being ...you know...not having...just one...
Don't struggle, Nick said, taking his wrist and kissing it.
No, it doesn't mean I've...changed my mind, as you say, Nick said. I haven't changed anything. One love does not prevent or cancel out another. One desire does not stifle other desires. There are many hours in the day. The world is a big place.
But it's hard enough to make a go of it in one place, Luke said. Then he hesitated. Then he pushed on.
He stuttered it out: I want, and then stalled.
You want to possess me, Nick said.
What's wrong with that? Luke said.
Nothing, Nick said. I already feel like I possess you.
That's just it, Luke said. I don't know if I'll ever be able to have that feeling about you.
Why won't you? Nick asked.
Because that depends on you.
It depends on what you mean by possession, Nick said, and how you achieve and experience it.
I'm hungry, Luke said.
Good, Nick said. Sushi?
Ok, Luke said.
There's a place that just opened on Elizabeth Street.
It is autumn and the streets are carpeted with rustling leaves that crackle underneath their feet. There is a smell -- where is it coming from? -- of burning wood. It is hardly chilly enough for that but Luke imagines lovers in an old tenement apartment that still has a working fireplace. They have come home after a day of tedious employment and made a fire and after showering have not gotten dressed again and sit with each other, unclothed before the fire, sharing an unwinding drink and escaping into each other's depths, finding, in an alternative dimension, something that keeps them going.
Nick slips his arm around Luke as they walk. Luke puts his arm around Nick's waist. No matter what happens, there will be this moment, he thinks.
Their interacting reveries were broken by the smashing sounds of an automobile, a yellow taxi cab, careening onto the curb and ramming first a mailbox and then a utility pole at the intersection ahead of them.
Nick felt Luke's fingers like claws digging into his waist. He took his hand and held it tight.
A crowd had quickly gathered. Nick pivoted himself and Luke. They took a turn-off and walked slowly down a quiet and leafy side street. They assured each other they were ok. They stopped. Luke leaned against a brick wall and Nick leaned against him. Their hearts pressed against each other. They breathed in each other. They tore each other apart with savage kisses.
You aren't right, Eliot said to Robin, passing him a joint.
Why not? Robin said, looking up from the photographs he was arranging on his laptop and taking the joint from Eliot's fingers. Eliot made a point of making sure his fingers brushed against Robin's and lingered an instant longer than necessary as he handed the joint to him.
In big, green letters in Baskerville Old Face the words The Integration of Pornographic Imagery and Mainstream Culture were laid out on the screen.
Why not? Robin repeated, laughing nervously.
Kiss me and maybe I'll tell you, Eliot said.
Robin approached him and slithered against him and then kissed him.
Eliot moved his fingers under the opening of Robin's shirt and brushed his stiffened nipples with increasing intensity until he was pulling on them and pressing them hard between his fingers as he bit his lips.
Now tell me, Robin drew back and said with mischief in his voice as well as fear.
Tell you what? Eliot said.
What you were going to tell me...why I'm wrong.
Wrong about what? Eliot said.
That's what I'm waiting for you to tell me.
I honestly don't remember, Eliot said, tickling him.
It was true. He did not. It was the sort of thing, what he was going to say, that the mind erases before it can lastingly get inscribed in the memory, perhaps because it was ill-formulated to begin with or broached with trepidation and half a heart.
The lost memory reconfigured itself for Eliot when Robin asked, stroking Eliot's thick, nearly black hair, Doesn't it bother you that Luke has moved in with Nick?
Why should it? Eliot said.
I should imagine that's for you to answer, Robin said.
I have no answer, was all the reply that Eliot could give.
The fluency of the heart, he thought, is expressed in a language that does not always rely on words.
Although he was momentarily angry at his presumption, Eliot liked Robin.
It makes me sad, he said, taking Robin's face gently in his hands, that you stopped talking to Nick.
Robin shrugged.
You're wrong about him, Eliot said.
That may be so, Robin said. But, I can't explain it. Perhaps he stirs something in me that, that shouldn't be stirred.
But whatever Robin felt about Nick really did not matter, for it was Robin who was riding in that taxi-cab that Nick and Luke saw hurl itself into a mailbox when they went down later that night for sushi. He was killed in that crash.
He had gone out after Eliot left, searching for a heart to touch. He wandered, stopped in at Benny's, but...nothing. He had a scotch and left.
He walked around some more wondering what it was he had been looking for in Nick. He remembered how he had felt himself sucked out of himself when he was with Nick, the way he'd lost himself that he never would again permit.
He grew tired, and chose then to take a taxi back.
I can't handle it, Eliot said, speaking of Robin's death. I've lain in the same arms that death lay in not much later.
Don't be melodramatic, Nick said.
How else an I handle it? Eliot said in quiet desperation.
I understand, Nick said, holding him in his arms, pressing his own living warmth against his dazed friend.
I understand, he repeated and kissed each one of Eliot's eyelids and then both again.
I understand. Come stay at my place for a while.
And Luke?
What about Luke?
Doesn't he have any say in it?
In what?
About me staying there.
No. I don't think so, Nick said. I don't want you to be alone seeing how you are. We seem to have changed places, he continued. Remember when I first arrived in New York. You took me to Robin's Christmas party because you didn't want me to be alone. And that's where I met Howard. Now it's my turn to take care of you. I can't do anything for Robin.
He stopped and looked at Eliot tenderly, kissed him, and together they walked out from under the mazing branches of leafless trees through the gates of the cemetery at Greenwood and got into a limousine provided by the funeral home to take them back into Manhattan.
Luke liked Eliot and there was no discord. There was something, Luke saw, real about Eliot. He was a beauty, as beautiful as he himself and as Nick, but he wore his beauty differently. He had subdued it, not been overcome by it. His beauty did not radiate out of him but glowed within him. It would outlast theirs. Eliot's beauty had extended itself to the point of intangibility. He was something like pure spirit.
And the spirit flows through and illuminates the body.
Luke liked Eliot's body. It was supple and graceful. His touch was good, too, and Luke wanted to touch Eliot's lips with his own.
So he made no objection when Eliot began to stay with them.
You see, Nick said to Luke, when you follow nature things can work out pretty gracefully.
Did I tell you I was flying to Budapest Sunday night?
For how long?
A show and a shoot. Authentic. In the street. I should be gone for about two weeks.
Right on, Nick said, taking hold of him as he hardened and kissing him with a consuming passion. Luke sunk into it and drew Nick in, too. They bubbled with passion. They held each other with awful force. They clawed at each other with hard finger ends. They transformed kisses into bites.
By bringing Eliot in to it, they brought him out of his gloom.
Luke remembered a time before when Howard was with them. He wanted him then, but Howard had panicked about something. He had run out in angry panic. He was angry. He wanted something...exclusivity...power. Anything but his idea of how things should be was unacceptable.
Eliot was not Howard. The breath of his kiss was overpowering. The look in his eyes was reassuring. He would take care of you if he committed to you. But right now, he needed care, and Luke felt an intoxicating mixture of tenderness and lust.
Come in, Howard, Nick said. I'm glad you could come. It's good to see you.
How are you? Howard said. I'd rather we had met again under brighter circumstances.
Yes, Nick said. I'm ok.
Luke, Howard said, extending a hand to shake.
Luke took it, smiled, and returned his greeting a little shyly.
How was Budapest?
It was good, Luke said.
Eliot came in and they shook hands. He unwrapped a scarf from round his neck and hung up his brown bomber jacket.
Howard looked at him admiringly, his tight jeans, his hard flat belly, his boots.
You're taking it hard? Howard said, placing his palm on Eliot's shoulder and squeezing it.
I'm ok, Eliot said. I've been following your career. It's great.
That's in large part because of what you've been saying about me in the magazine and the pictures you've printed, Howard said. Thanks.
It was mostly Robin, Eliot said.
I know, Howard said solemnly.
Do you know what's going on at WWEE? Eliot said, letting go of his hand.
They'll never get the bailout. It will be a good thing for democracy when they crash, Howard said.
When the crowd that had come for Robin's wake left, Howard was still talking to Eliot.
Nick and Luke were beat but cleaning up, gathering the empty champagne bottles, the dirty glasses, the oyster shells, and the wet plates upon which they lay spattered.
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