Butterfly Man/Chapter XXV

by Lew Levenson

⁠XXV⁠

 

NOT far from the Commodore Theatre was the studio of Jan Dobrinu, artistic photographer. Narrow stairs led to the studio anteroom, where, at seven o'clock, Dobrinu, small, dark, waxed black mustache twisted into two fine points, paid off his models of the day. A boy with face molded of paste, white-lipped girl, hair dankly strung in bangs and square-cut bob.

Ken, shifting weight from foot to foot. Dobrinu handed him twenty-five dollars. Felt hat over his eyes, he turned away.

"I don't like drunks," said Dobrinu.

"I hate you," Ken retorted. Then raced down the stairs, two at a time.

Kewpie stood at the door. Broadway. Dusk. Lights oddly colored against a faded salmon sky. Theatre lights. Street lights. Yellow, red, green.

"Going home?" Kewpie asked.

"No." Ken's voice was coarse. He fled into the crowd.

"You mighta said thanks!" shouted Kewpie.

At the corner, Ken paused. Into the traffic he started. A red light held motor cars at attention. The low pitched tone of an automobile horn shocked him. He halted, head bowed.

"Mistah Gracey," he heard a voice.

He looked up. It was Rutgers. The limousine glided to his side. "Come in, Ken," he heard Howard say. Really Howard. Not a gin-soaked dream. The living breathing Howard, elegant in a spring suit, seated on the cushions of the car. Beside him a boy of eighteen, a sweet-faced boy, Ken thought; but not much different from a million others … round face, soft brown eyes.

"Mr. Townsend, Mr. Gracey," said Howard.

"How do you do?" the boy said with an English inflection. Ken sat facing them. He was weary, drained, depleted. The car, moving, was unreal. Sharp out of the heavens, dull, dead gold, last gesture of a dying sun.

"How are you, Ken?" asked Howard.

"All right," said Ken.

"I'm on my way to my apartment. Gerald is visiting here, visiting America, I should say. Queer thing about Gerald, he's heir to the Earldom of Somerset, and he'd rather croon. What with everyone, from barbers to undertakers crooning all day long, I see no reason why an English aristocrat can't qualify. We're going to organize a band, aren't we, Jerry?"

"Right-o," said Townsend affably.

"And we'll call it 'The Queen's Own'."

"Ha—ha," politely laughed Townsend.

"I just returned from the other side," Howard explained. "Did not a blessed thing except a quiet lengthy tour of the out-of-the-way spots with Jerry. I'm back in harness now. First this nobleman's noble band, what say, Jerry?"

"I'm on," said Jerry.

"And then a musical show, operetta, I think. No chorus, no dancers, beautiful, beautiful music in the modern sense. Too bad, Ken, because I'd like to have you in my new show."

He was older. He was strangely different. Less self-assured. Nervous. Straight fine lines on his forehead. Blue shadows beneath his eyes.

"When Jerry's the Earl," Howard said, "we'll give a show in Buckingham Palace, shan't we, Jerry?"

"Why not?" asked Jerry. His cheeks, Ken noticed, were pink, round, like—long ago—Frankie's.

"I must get out here," Ken said. The car stood at Forty-second Street and Broadway.

"Look me up," said Howard as Ken opened the door. "I'm at the Barrington again. Can't quit the old place. Jerry has your old room, that is—" Howard hesitated—"until … until—" The door slammed shut. Ken had closed it upon Howard's words. Rutgers' eyes were kindly.

"You look sorta peaked," Rutgers observed, grinning. "Come up and let me cook you a meal, Mr. Gracey," he said.

The lights changed. Ken watched the car glide on. Howard faintly waved. Ken stood motionless. His hand slipped into his trouser pocket. He felt crisp money, money he had earned. He began to cross the street. A cab, swiftly turning to the right, shot past. The driver cursed:

"Look where you're going, hop-head," he said. Ken did not hear the shouted words. He walked on, into the interlocking chain of traffic-bound cars.

Not even liquor was his friend, for, in the long process of self-immolation, liquor had ceased to play the part of a drug. The gin he continued to drink that evening thus did not stupefy him; it did not stimulate him. He walked conspicuously erect, on the balls of his feet, like an athlete about to spring into action.

He went toward the Yorkshire hotel, not quite seeing accurately. It was nearly eleven o'clock; he vaguely considered going to his room, siting there with a gin bottle and conducting an experiment. He would drink gin, nothing else, noting his sensations at each drink, until he should sink into numb unconsciousness.

He was surprised when a swarthy little fellow darted out of shadows, hands outstretched in greeting.

"I'm Harry Hayes," he said, smiling. "Remember me?"

Ken didn't know him. "You visited me with Howard Vee a long time ago. And I used to drop in at the Barrington. How are you?"

From the past returned a fragmentary memory, Hayes singing his lyrics … he was the famous writer of sophisticated songs. "I've been wondering what happened to you," Hayes was saying.

"I wish I knew," Ken replied.

"We could use you in our next show."

"I haven't danced in ages. Don't wanta dance right now."

Hayes grinned. "I'm betting you'll dance—that is, if you find time to sober up."

"Some fun, eh, baby?" Ken laughed foolishly.

"Come on up to my apartment. Some friends are coming over—all quite respectable, but there'll be lots to drink. You're welcome to get as potted as you please."

Plastic as his mood, Ken yielded. The money in his pocket scorched his fingers as he touched it, red flush of shame in the thought of what he had done, chill terror at the realization that he had really seen Howard—a man of living flesh. Haze drifting across his mind obscured the significance of the day's happenings. He might have dreamed the naked horror of the photographer's studio, the dark prostitution of his body. He might have dreamed the automaton Howard, Howard gibbering foolishly in praise or the vapid object of his adoration. But he had not dreamed. He had been brutally awake.

To forget, he needed more drink. 'Tm thirsty," he told Hayes.

"Scotch, rye, bourbon, brandy; take your choice," Hayes said as the taxi bore them uptown.

"Til take gin," Ken muttered.

The pent house seemed crowded with people. Old, young, male, female, faces, a pink mass, suffused with blotches of black and white, blond hair, black hair, gray hair. Not people; a pink curtain, held before his eyes.

It was hot indoors. On the terrace, green shrubs, potted plants and little tables over which striped umbrellas stood. A long buffet supper. Caviar, cheeses, salads.

"What is it?" Ken asked. "Your birthday?"

"No. This goes on all the time. I feed the open mouths of America. I have a standing order for food at Reubens. I support three bootleggers and at least four waiters. Til die broke … the only way to die."

"Tm ready for death right now," Ken said.

In a mysterious manner a twenty-dollar bill found its way into his hand.

"I didn't mean that," Ken said. "Look here." He dug his hand into his pocket and drew forth some dirty bills.

"Take 'em," Ken said, pushing the money into Hayes' hand. Hayes shoved the bills into Ken's coat pocket.

"Take a drink," the lyricist advised. He poured brandy into a wide mouthed glass. Ken drank. The brandy raced into his stomach. Hayes disappeared. Ken drank again and again. The faces peered at him, spoke to him. He replied. He did not hear himself speak. A woman's voice said:

"I hear you are the best dancer on Broadway. I'd love to see you dance. Please do"

"I'll do it … for you." Ken heard himself say.

The living room was Louis XV. Little gold chairs. Someone played a tune. The faces surrounded him, a flesh-colored wall.

He danced. A few kicks. He stumbled. Someone laughed. The music stopped. The voice said: "It's a shame. Give him a chance." Ken regained poise. He liked the voice. He would dance for it. He lifted his leg in the oblique sidekick. His toe struck a chair. The pain made him stumble. The voice said: "He's too tight."

"I'm not," he protested.

Through a gap in the wall of flesh, he fled into the night air. He passed the tables and the buffet, now strewn with dishes containing broken aspic, shreds of salad, empty bottles.

He stood at the low wall, far above the street. He was rather sick. Below, the park lay like a carpet of trees and Broadway, strewn with diamond lamp light, the silvered lake pale in the full moon.

He staggered along the rail to the side of the house. Here were roof tops, water tanks, a field of apartment buildings. He was like a giant in seven-league boots. He could step from the terrace into space and stride across the city from roof to roof, the world suddenly contracted and small. He lifted his leg over the wall. The voice said: "Don't do that!"

"Why not?" he asked. He couldn't see the woman. It was too dark.

"You'd better lie down," the voice said. He followed it through a window into a bedroom.

"Lie down," said the voice. The door closed. The room was hot. He began to undress. When he was naked, he felt cooler and more comfortable. He felt like going to sleep in his own bed. He decided to go home. Naked except for shoes and socks, he opened the door.

The green and gold room was full of faces. He didn't mind. Inside of him might be rotten, but he was proud that his body was still handsome, straight and unmarked in the bronze light of the lamps.

Men and women were staring at him curiously.

"Wanta see me dance?" he asked. A girl squealed like a stuck pig when Uncle Joe killed it. A laugh. He said:

"Well, I don't want to dance." He thumbed his nose.

He saw Harry Hayes, in the dining room. He went toward his host past the foyer. The foyer door was open. He saw someone, opening the elevator door. He decided to go home at once. He quickly slipped into the elevator. He pushed a button marked: "DOWN."

"Well," the familiar voice said. It belonged to a girl. He turned. She was near him, tall, very near and dark, much like a boy, except that her breasts, rising decisively, shaped the line of her dinner dress. She carried a coat over her arm. She tried to cover him.

"Hello," he said. His vision cleared. He saw her vividly.

"Do you know you have no clothes on?"

"Do you like the idea?"

"You're … rather good to look at … but what will strange people say, especially policemen?"

"I love policemen," said Ken.

"Who are you?" she asked.

"An insect … a worm … a drunken bum."

"Let's go back and get your clothes." She attempted to arrest the descent of the car by touching the emergency button, but he caught her arm.

"You'll be arrested," she warned.

"What of it?"

"You ought to be spanked."

The car stopped at the lobby floor. The girl threw the coat over him.

"I'm chilly," he complained.

"Silly," she said. "You can't go home without even a G-string on."

"You're right," he said. "I'd catch cold."

Someone on an upper level touched a button. The car began to rise.

"I'm tired," said Ken, "I'm dead tired." He sank to his knees and leaned against the side of the elevator. "I'm so tired." When the car arrived at the penthouse floor, he was asleep.

Ken awoke in his room at the Yorkshire. The telephone was noisily ringing and he dreamed of fire alarms and ships at sea and tolling church bells before he could open his eyes.

"This is Connie," she said.

"Who's Connie?"

"Your guardian angel. Are you still indecent?"

"No more than usual. Who are you?"

"The girl who saved you from jail and pneumonia last night."

"Never heard of you. Where are you?"

"Downstairs."

"Come up."

He was soundly asleep by the time she opened the unlatched door. She tiptoed to the bed. He re-awakened slowly.

"I'm sorry," she said. She was colorful, dark eyes, slim face, alert, young. "Don't you remember me?"

"Never saw you before," he said. He sat up in bed.

She perched on the chair-arm. Quickly she sketched his adventures of the night. Harry Hayes had taken him home and put him to bed, while she had waited in the hotel lobby.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Never mind now. I can hardly recognize you in your pajamas. Do you know it's four o'clock in the afternoon?"

"I usually get up at five. I seem to remember you now. Was I shocking?"

"What good is a bare man in an elevator? I was shocked, though, to hear you call yourself names. You hated yourself last night. Why?"

"I'm in the gutter," he said simply.

"In what?"

"The gutter. I love gutters. To roll in. You can't fall off them. You're down."

"I judged you were lower than a worm's knee. Well—that was last night. This is today and you've had no breakfast. Shall I order some for you?"

"Shall you what?"

"Try eating instead of drinking. And stay home. You can put on a dressing gown if you don't feel like resting in bed."

"But I—"

"No, I'm not a nurse. If you must get up, I'll go out on the balcony while you drape the virile form."

She was entering the balcony through the French window when he asked again; "Who are you?"

"Connie's the name," she said. "Ml tell you the rest later."

"I'm little Mary Sunshine," she smiled at him. "Honestly. Or maybe Lady Bountiful."

"You seem crazier than I am."

"Sensibly mad. Last night I saw a perfectly good young man going to hell. I decided to reform him. That's why I'm here."

She was well dressed, he noted. Tastefully. Simple suit. A touch of color. Her eyes halfway between hazel and green. A thoroughly pleasing smile.

"My name happens to be Leeds. That's unimportant. My father happens to own about seventy-five hat stores."

She moved forward so that she could look squarely into his eyes:

"Is it true?" she asked, "what Harry Hayes said about you?"

"What did he say?"

"That you were always a good dancer, always charming, that you started to go around with … queer folks … and then went completely blotto?"

"He said that?"

"It's true, isn't it?"

Ken did not reply.

"I can't believe you are basically wrong. You're a man. Don't ask me how I know, but I do. I majored in psychology at Columbia. I know the pathological ropes perfectly. You're a messy neurotic who needs attention, mothering, loving. You've never been really loved, have you?"

He relaxed in a smile.

"Perhaps not."

"Why not? You're good-looking. Women ought to fall for you in squads and columns."

"They don't."

"But boys do …"

Ken blinked.

"Squirm," she said. "You deserve to squirm. And now that we've hit it, you were plenty unhappy last night. You attempted suicide by leaping off the roof and later by trying to catch pneumonia."

"I was drunk," he faltered.

It wasn't easy to realize that such a person as Connie Leeds existed. During the first few days, he was sometimes inclined to believe that he had imagined her, that she was the creature of some benevolent drug; that she was a good angel who reigned over a happy Paradise into which he had mercifully escaped. Quietly she tended him and paid his bills as well.

For the first thirty-six hours he lay in bed. She watched over him as the jitters brought him close to collapse. For hours he craved a drink, "An eye-opener," as he repeated over and over. Repeatedly he lifted the French telephone from its cradle and was ordering a bottle of gin from the bell-captain. On each occasion she countermanded the order.

"We'll eat first," she always said. "No gin."

To the astonished bell boy who appeared following Ken's first order, she gave a five dollar tip and a command that he ignore further appeals. Instead of gin, light, nutritious custard, a cup of healing chocolate, cinnamon toast and orange marmalade broke Ken's fast.

"Just like home," she said cheerily. Then to Ken; "Now Fm going to order some brandy for you." She telephoned to a downtown pharmacist and soon she was feeding Ken a teaspoonful of smooth, stimulating liqueur. Following his first meal, Ken was ill. He felt feverish, his pulse pattered and skipped. She sat in the chair reading. He shook with a nervous chill. She refused to call a doctor. He begged for a bromide. She prepared a glassful of effervescent salts. He drank and somehow fell asleep.

He dreamed. He was lying on a field of phalli, rigid, red. A hot wind tossed him to and fro. He was nauseated. He awoke. She held a bowl of grapes before him.

"You need alcohol. Eat these and you'll feel better."

"Where did you learn all that?" he asked.

"I studied medicine," she shrugged her shoulders and laughed a little. "Go sleepy-bye," she said softly. And he slumped into deep unconsciousness.

When he opened his eyes again, she was still in the room. She sat there, watching him, a familiar face, a reassuring smile on her full, friendly lips.

Toward dawn, she was talking about herself. She was, she said, an independent woman. She tried to live her own life earnestly. She had never practised medicine because she preferred to be free. Never had she been in love. Occasionally she had experienced a sharp astonishing emotion, a danger signal. At such times, a man would conquer her. Paradoxically, the conquest would result in her despising him. And then their friendship would cease.

She was fairly wealthy, she told him. He, as she could see, was poor. That would make no difference. She'd pay the bills. Of course, if he objected to her self-constituted dictatorship, he could throw her out. In the meantime, she would consider him as just another guinea pig, subject of an experiment.

She asked questions. She wanted to know all about him. Gray dawn silvered the city as he told her.

On his mind lay a heavy memory. Of when he could dance.

He told her about his leg injury. He did not explain why he had thrust his leg through the taxicab window. He could not have revived the emotion of that moment nor, if he had tried, could he have analyzed it in simple words. He preferred to call it an accident.

"But why worry about dancing again?" she said. "You don't have to dance for a living. I have money. Father has plenty more. If you want to, we can produce shows together."

"I don't know much about producing," he said.

"You can learn. Money will buy the knowledge of others. And we'll have fun, shan't we?"

Soon he was stronger, ready to stand on his own feet. He awoke on the fourth morning. She was not there. The News lay on a chair. A knock on the door.

"Miss Leeds," said the boy, "told me to serve your breakfast at nine. She'll be here at ten."

Grapefruit, Canadian bacon, rolls, eggs, chocolate. His appetite was good.

"Johnny," he asked, "what's happened to the boys who used to call on me, Mr. Dennett and the others?"

"Your young lady told every one of them to stay away. I heard her talking to the thin tall one, Feathers, I think you call him."

"But they haven't even 'phoned me."

"Must be a reason for it, sir," said the boy, as he closed the door.

When she told him that they would have dinner in town and that she had purchased tickets for a play, it was already too late for him to reject her invitation. He would go, he knew. And he would discover the real reason why the girl persisted in treating him as a charge, for whom she was responsible. His mind was clearer now. Unhealthy fear was gone. Palatable heavy brandy had taken the place of gin. He drank it in small quantities at her suggestion.

The daily scene, no longer peopled by the shadowy forms of Verne Dennett or Feathers or Kewpie, seemed brighter. Yet as he dressed, shaving himself, he noticed that he looked much older than formerly. Lines had crept into his face. His mouth was strained and its corners sagged. Beneath his eyes blue shadows, and the color of his cheeks was gone. His body was stiff. Knees cracked and other joints lacked flexibility. Yet he was still young, he knew, still in the twenties.

He was spent. No doubt of that. Regarding himself closely in the mirror, he saw into his own eyes. Questioning eyes these were. Eyes that could not explain the meaning of what they saw.

Later, dressed in the tuxedo he had bought for "The King's Own," he met her. She was so concise, so self-possessed, her eyes so determined, her chin so firm, that he half understood why he had permitted her to enter his life. Because he couldn't stop her from doing what she pleased … that was the reason.

She chose the mirrored elegance of Miramar, on a by-street in the fifties. Very few people there; imported wine, (despite Prohibition).

"Wonderful food," she said. "You do look peaked. We ought to go South and get some real sun. How'd you like to?"

"Florida?"

"I prefer Havana."

"Do you know …" he suddenly remarked, "I never realized that it is November. And what year?"

"Nineteen thirty."

He shook his head. "I've lost a year and a half. It was summer in '29 when I left home. I haven't worked in two years."

"Let's not talk about the past," she said. "There's the future."

She was dressed in a black lacey gown. Her throat was white. Her hair was sleek. Cheek bones shaded with rouge. Otherwise natural in the artificial light.

After the theatre he escorted Connie to her apartment. In the cab coming home, he felt a mild sensation of pleasure. This, then, was what going out with a woman meant. Restraint, the inability to express one's self freely … that on the debit side of the ledger. The profit lay in an inexplicable sensation of gentility. They were male and female clad in their finest feathers. Each movement, the position of a chair at dinner, their entrance into the theatre, the taxi door held open after the play, little touching expressions of the male's regard. Of course, Connie was somewhat unconventional. She had talked about him as if he were her oldest friend, even her fiancé. Silently she had probed into his life and had studied him. She avoided the past religiously, spoke of plans, campaigns, decisions, as if she were totally engrossed in the task of recreating him.

He asked himself why she was taking possession of him. Quite calmly he admitted that she was in love with him. He remembered Anita. And Norah. The wise woman had destroyed herself for him. The innocent child had shed a tear and had forgotten. In Connie, he was meeting a new type. The sophisticated woman.

Since Anita and Norah, he had been transformed from a callow child to a man whose inner fire was gone, an ageing man. At twenty-six, he had been already old. At twenty-six, he already stood on the brink of dissolution.

She had rescued him. What would happen? Could he ever become her friend? Could he ever forget the past? Would he ever be able to look at her with loving eyes, to care for her? He was, of course, grateful. Thank God for Connie, thank God. Proof she was that all was not yet lost; proof that he was of finer stuff than most. That a new chapter in his life was beginning.

Why … only a few days ago and he was burning up. Insatiable thirst raged within him; decay and despair.

He entered his room, 703, at the Yorkshire. He switched on the light. The bottle of brandy stood on the dresser. He poured a small quantity into a silver cup and drank.

It was a little after one. He had been sitting up in bed, reading a morning paper. He had fallen asleep and had not extinguished the night light.

Kewpie, returning from a stag entertainment where he had been selling post cards, saw the glint of light beneath the door. He listened. He heard no voices. He knocked. The door was open. He entered. Ken awoke.

In the shadows of the room beyond the circle of lamplight, Ken saw the ashen hair and the beak-like nose of Kewpie.

"What is it?" he asked.

"Hello, Ken," Kewpie said. "I see you got rid of your fair tormentor. Who is the twist?"

"Lemme sleep," Ken pleaded.

"She's softened you. You're meat fit for grinding. Anyone could see that."

Ken smiled. "Same old Kewpie. How's uncle?"

"Dobrinu is going to rent Madison Square Garden for his next art exhibition. Figures to pack 'em in. I've missed you."

Ken sat up.

"So's Verne missed you. And Feathers. Verne says you must choose between flute and lute. I was down there the other evening. Willie insists he always knew you were bisex. I said tri-sex. Isn't cutie a lesbo?"

"I don't know."

"The way she chased Verne one night was a card. He and Feathers were coming up the hall, camping a little. She was on her way to your room. She spots 'em, stops 'em and says; 'Take your crochet needles and your powder puff out into the wide open spaces, pansies. I'm living with Ken Gracey now and I'm no nance … If you look closely you'll find out I'm a he-woman and any he-woman can scratch a she-man's eyes out!' The cat!"

"She said that?"

"I wasn't there. But she might have." He saw the brandy bottle. "You've gone hypo on us … is it good?" He pointed to the bottle.

"I'd rather have gin any time," Ken said.

"Here's gin," Kewpie said, as he opened his overcoat. In the inner pocket was the familiar square bottle.

"I didn't do it to get drunk," Ken said to himself. "I did it because it made me feel better. Solider, if you get what I mean. I wasn't alive. Like a shell. I did things without knowing what I was doing. She led me around like a little dog on a string.

"It was all right getting sober that time. And I sorta felt quiet then. I sorta felt clean inside as if I was a fish, cut open and its gizzards pulled out and washed clean.

"I didn't want to be washed clean. That fish, if you get what I mean, was dead. And so was I.

"Now, I couldn't ever kick to her because she didn't preach at me. She never said anything. She played straight and made me miss my laughs. And what good is living, if you can't laugh?

"The point is, if I'd 'a been born a woman, I'd 'a been a whore. I don't see why I'm not one anyhow. Then if I was, I'd say to myself, it's the money I want.

"But I don't want to have a dame lying around waiting to be laid. It doesn't suit me. They all take it too serious. And I never really did want to do it to them.

"I can't say as I like myself. But what can I do? Y'see, in the beginning, I had it figured out different. I thought I was something. I just ain't. Just ain't.

"Verne," he rolled over, "pour another shock of gin."

The day was the maddest possible. A day for big and little murders. Cutting up people. Jagged glass like razors, slicing flesh. Well, why not? The razors cut him. The glass tore jaggedly into the inside of him.

He was on an awful drunk. Kewpie was worried.

"It's my fault," he said to Verne. "I fed him some alcohol and drops. He drank it, talked a while and then suddenly got up and tore off his pajamas. I locked the door and he went out on the balcony. He yelled and yodelled. I got him inside and he began to scream: Tm a dirty mouthed fag … a disease! I'm a low stinking slut! I'm a rotten …!'"

"Shut up," Verne said. "You give me the creeps." He leaned over Ken, who lay on Kewpie's bed. "His breath is foul as a witch's cave."

"Lay off the poetry," said Kewpie. "I'm afraid for him."

"Stay with him then."

"He'll get the D. T.'s next and try to rape the statue of Civic Virtue."

"I suppose I'd better stay up here with him. Call up Feathers to keep me company."

Kewpie vainly tried to find Feathers. Ken moved restlessly on the bed. Needles, file upon file of them*, marched across his back.

"A drink," he muttered.

"Shut up," Verne said, "you gimme the creeps."

At five o'clock that afternoon, Connie called. Ken's door was locked. She tried it. She called. When she received no answer, she hurried downstairs.

"He came back, Miss," the clerk said, "but I don't know whether he went out again. He was sick, I think."

She waited for nearly an hour. Then she left. At six, Feathers arrived. Marge was with him. The elevator operator wanted the negro to use the service car. Feathers slammed the door. They rode upstairs to the seventh floor.

Verne was asleep. Ken still lay on Kewpie's bed. The arrival of Feathers and Marge waked him.

"I want a drink," he said. Feathers found some alcohol in the clothes closet. Ken drank it.

The telephone bell rang. Verne answered. The clerk wanted Kewpie.

"He isn't in," Verne said.

"You can't put on a party up there," the clerk said. "I had enough trouble with Mr. Gracey last night."

"We're going to put him to bed in his own room," Verne assured the clerk.

They led Ken into his room. "Don't give him anything more to drink," said Verne.

"Well, what are we here for?" Feathers demanded. "You chase me all over town. You get me here all because this auntie has passed out."

Verne took Feathers out on the balcony. Windows facing the hotel court were outlined in light. Night was falling.

"Kewpie's afraid he'll bump himself off if we leave him alone."

"What do you want to stop him for?" Feathers asked. "He's washed up."

Marajuana was cheap. And easy to smoke. Deep inhalation, smoke curling about in the lungs, and time blessedly stops. The gin then quickens the tempo of the heart. Living death. And the impelling realization that life in death is impossible. So what the hell.

"I'm high," said Feathers. He held an unlighted cigarette in his hand. Verne's eyes were glassy. The negro sat, knees crossed tailor-wise on the floor.

Ken had not smoked marajuana. When Kewpie entered, he was sitting in a chair. He rose.

"How are you?" Kewpie asked.

'Tine," said Ken.

"You had me worried."

The door was ajar. Connie stepped into the room.

"Come with me, fellow," she said. Her hand hooked into Ken's elbow. "Come on."

Kewpie said: "We're taking care of him."

"Shut your mouth, you lousy nance, or I'll tear you apart," she said.

"Who's that?" Verne said. "A woman?"

"You forget," Kewpie told Connie, "he's a lousy nance too."

The cab was black and white. She sat beside him.

"I love you," she said. "Do you hear me? I love you."

"Yes," said Ken.

"Yes what?"

"You love me?"

"I just told you so."

"You love me."

"Then you understand? You're not drunk?"

"I'm sobering up. I'm sorry."

"Being sorry isn't enough," she told him. "Look at yourself. Clothes dirty. No shave. Sick. Head big."

"Drunk, that's all."

"No, it isn't all. Those terrible people … those boys … can't you see they are not fit to breathe the same air you do?"

"My friends," he muttered.

"Your enemies. You must hate them, not yourself."

The cab entered the park.

"Where'll I go?" the chauffeur asked.

"Just drive around and around," she said. Then to Ken: "Darling, I nearly went crazy when I knew you had gone back to them. I was afraid you'd got the way you were that night.

"I want you to listen to me. Let me talk. Hear my voice. Listen. You're never going back to them. You are going to stay with me."

"But I …"

"Either that or you go to an asylum. And that would kill you. Ken, darling, it's all very simple, really simple. You are sick. Just sick. I tried to cure you. It isn't just being drunk. It's the other thing, the being queer.

"I don't believe you are queer. I see something in you so precious and so rare, I want to save it. You're a sweet boy, a lovable creature. You need me, a self-sufficient woman. We can go where we please, do what we please."

"Do what we please?"

"Yes. And forever. No money worries. The world to live in. Everything."

"Everything," he repeated.

"We've got to leave at once. Leave New York. Will you?"

He smiled vacantly at her.

"Poor boy," she whispered. "You need love." Her hand touched his cheek. It was a cool, kindly hand. "I don't mean passion. Or raw madness. Love that you have never had. The way I felt tonight proved to me that I could love you that way.

"I was afraid you'd gone mad completely, that you'd let them take you away from me. I was coming over to tell you that I'd decided to go south on Monday. We'd go by boat to Miami, then slowly, south all winter, Havana, Trinidad, Panama, Christmas in Rio, then with spring north again.

"We'd have the finest suites everywhere. We'd buy only the finest foods, and wines. I'd teach you to drink mellow wines sanely. And how to appreciate southern moons and trade winds and how it feels to go naked in the tropics, with warm sun on your body and a whole universe yours to roam around in."

Her arm slipped about his shoulder. She drew him closer to her.

"I'm a woman, darling. A very good woman. Made for love that is sweet and good for you. I like my body. It isn't soft like most women's. It's firm and strong. It can give and take. I've got that for you … a body."

She smiled. "Perhaps it's because I met you when you were … naked, that I know your body is fit to match mine. You have an elegant body, carefully made body. Those legs of yours … they are the last word. How you must have been able to dance!

"And really, sweet"—she kissed his lips—"you have more than a body. You have individuality. Just one of you—made for me."

She kissed his lips hungrily.

"The way to know whether you love me is to take me," she said. "I happen to be the woman in a million who understands that you, of your own free will, would never take me.

"I know how to love. See …" Her hand, insinuatingly, gently, caressed him.

"Don't …" he said.

And yet … and yet … her words, pouring forth, beneficent rain upon his parched mind, nourished a thought.

"This is better," he told her.

"I knew it! I knew it!" she cried triumphantly. "I knew it!"

Her body, lithe, quick, close to his, was hot, penetrating wool and silk, the heat, animal heat, quickened the center of him. Faintly roused, the body flashed its message. She could feel him stirring against her.

"I love you," she said. "Say you love me."

For reply, he kissed her.

"I call my apartment Spring in Paris. You've never been in Paris?"

He shook his head.

"Like it?"

"It's pretty."

"It's beautiful, big boy," she said. Cream and green, the rooms suggested spring. Ivy hung from ivory wall boxes. A balcony carried out the detail. Deep chairs, an ivory grate, the piano long and white against the wall.

She had succeeded in bringing a rare sensation of peace to him. Effects of the liquor were being dissipated. His friend, the woman, was curing him again.

She showed him her apartment, the bar, narrow and white; the dining room, with ivory chairs about a long black board; the bedrooms, two, one hers; the other for him, she said.

Her bedroom, haven of repose, high four-square bed of cream, green shades and curtains, a low white lamp. The door open.

His bedroom … plaids, deep browns. "For my men friends. Now for my man friend."

Her words wove a spell. She talked about Paris and the artist who had designed these rooms. She confided that he was not the first man she had befriended. But he would be, she insisted, the last.

She talked, as the coffee boiled, as its pungent heaviness wakened him.

"Of love, I have but one opinion," she said. "Love is beauty. Beauty must be worshiped. Fm a pagan, in that respect, darling. I believe in consecrating myself to Venus. My bed is my shrine and you are to be my high priest.

"That's saying an awful lot of words to express a very simple feeling." The quick smile flashed. He was calm and happy. And tired, very tired.

Tenderly, tenderly she had spoken. A single lamp in her room. Water flooding a bath compartment. Over his mind the lifting haze of a storm that is gone.

The bathroom was wide and deep. Marble floor upon which his feet rested, cool marble, making his feet cooler than the rest of him.

A glass door to the bath. Before the door, a table. Colored salt crystals in square bottles. A narrow-necked bottle encased in a basket contained fragrant Sweet William scent. A row of perfume bottles, musk for the arm-pits, violet for the breasts. Rose water, pale water of roses, for the secret kiss. And a rare distillate, Cheveux d'Amour, for the lips.

The atmosphere was heavy. Spring in Paris. New York before dawn. For it was very late. And he wasn't certain.

"I'm going to bathe myself," she had said. "You do the same. Wash yourself clean of your sins, my lamb."

A kiss and then, moments afterward, rushing water.

He stripped. Into the bath compartment he stepped. A multiplicity of handles. Hot. Cold. Needle bath. Shampoo. He wove a curtain of water about him and stood steadfast against it. He touched the tap marked Needle Bath. Ice cold water pounded his body. A violent wrenching shock. Cold heat. Heated ice. Vigor. Flood of blood racing back into his brain. Awareness.

Into his brain came memory. He remembered. Long long ago, he had been young. The rippling laughter of youth on his lips, the love of the dance provoking his body into a rollicking naked frolic. At the door, cold eyes of Mr. Lowell …

Water stabbing him. Young. Strong. Fighting his way up to meet Anita. Cold water vividly painting a spectral portrait in the spray … Anita's voice, so compelling … then the foul stench of her.

He stepped out of the bath. Dry heat rose up to drink the parting drops of bath water. A white, fluffy head tossed powder upon his skin. Acting quickly—quick motions, hurry, hurry. He must go to meet her before it is too late. He found the silk robe, white Shantung silk.

He opened the door.

His room. His clothes lay upon a chair.

Quick steps. He must discover the truth. He had lived upon the crater of a lie. He must flee down the volcanic slopes to the valley.

At the chair he tossed aside the robe. Through the open door he saw the bedroom of cream and green, the low white lamp.

She had moved the lamp so that it played white upon her body. She lay naked, an unimaginably pure living statue. Flesh of pink and white, cherry-tinted invitations to kisses, a somber patch of shadow where the roots lay.

He stared. Love is beauty. And beauty is divine.

But love of a woman is dank unwholesome terror, her shrine fit only for the worship of Satan, the sobbing syllable of her prayer an incantation said by the devil's priest at a black mass.

The door of the bedroom closed softly. Adrift on a gentle sea of sensuous thoughts, Connie waited for him.

"Sweet," she called at last, "where are you?"

He heard her words as he was leaving the apartment, like a thief who has escaped the terror of arrest.

On the way to the hotel, he stopped at an all-night drug store. He bought a bottle of gin.

He drank all of it.

When the cab stopped before the Yorkshire Hotel, he was drunk.

The cab driver cried: "One ten, mister."

"Get it from the clerk," Ken said. "I'm broke."

The night clerk was asleep. Ken straddled the tapestry rope across the dining room entrance. Chairs and tables in his way, he staggered to a side door; thence to the kitchen stairs.

Seven flights, up, up, up. He stumbled, he sprawled upon a landing; his breath rose painfully from the caverns of his lungs. He panted, raced up, as if in fear.

Half way he said: "She can't get me—not her!"

To his amazement, they were still there. The Captain, too. And nit-wit Willy. Some sodden. Some half awake. A fetid odor, as of vomit.

"Come in," Kewpie said.

"Welcome home," said Feathers.

"Did the trollop make you?" asked Verne.

"I'm drunk," said Ken.

Marge opened an eye. "I smoke marajuana," he announced.

On the table was a half empty bottle of gin. Ken poured it down his gullet. He fell on the bed, room tip-tilted against him.

"Get off a me," said Feathers. "I wanta snooze." Whirligig world—silly world. "Poor Gracey," the Captain was saying. "Washed up."

Zigzag fire, arches of lighted lamps before his eyes. Words—Love is beauty, and love of Howard could have been beauty, if only he had known.

What chance had he had? In Texas, a farm boy he should have been. Consort to cattle. Pigs. Sheep.

"He's just a rotten old fag," Feathers said, close to his ear.

"Too bad he can't dance no more," said the Captain.

"Who can't dance?" Ken asked quietly. "Who can't dance?"

He sat up.

"Who can't dance?" he demanded. "Who can't dance?"

He tried to stand up.

"Who says I can't dance? Who says I can't dance?" he cried. "Look. Look!"

He felt the old rhythm within him, life beating a furious tom-tom upon his brain.

"I can dance!" he shrieked.

"Shut up!" said Kewpie.

Ken pivotted, sought the space of a kick. He felt the rhythm within him. He knew how to keep time. His body was fresh and young, unspoiled.

But the room was small and crowded. The jealous walls persisted in moving toward him, the floor insanely spun, as in the funny house at Coney Island; and he couldn't lift his leg from the floor. He tried. Don't say he didn't try. It hung there, lifeless, as if made of lead.

In a mighty effort he attempted to kick. He lost his balance. He fell. His head struck the arm of a chair. He heard drunken laughter, jeers, the bitter tones of derision.

He couldn't dance. They were right.

Blackness of annihilation. Then a desire for air. Someone helped him to his feet. He saw the door.

"Where you going?" asked Verne.

"To get air."

"That's all you got, man," Feathers gibed.

He felt the corridor race beneath his feet. The stairs were like springs. He bounded down.

A chair clattered to the floor as he spiralled through the dining room. The side door was open.

Air.

Air. Light of dawn above the buildings. Streets of New York.

Air.

The same air over Texas. Texas and home. He must reach Texas somehow, seek it out and find it. Isn't it the biggest state? Its cattle the beefiest? Its liars the lyingest?

Texas—Texas is west. West is across Broadway, down that street, across that one, hurrying, racing, across another, the Drive, Riverside a blurred green in the dawn light.

Over yonder in the west lies Texas. He hasn't got a dime. Not a dime. Well, then, he'll walk it. He'll walk west on the pier, to Texas. He'll tread Texas soil again before he dies—Selma, fragrant with magnolia in the spring.

To tread Texas soil, he must first cross the river.

Well, didn't Jesus tread the waters? And why? Didn't Mr. Barton say, one Sunday morning, "to prove this is the best of all possible worlds."

What Mr. Barton meant was that Texas is the best of all possible worlds.

Not Hollywood or Mexico or New York.

Home. Home to Texas.

He was in a great hurry and he stepped right off the pier and into space.

His body obeyed the natural law. It fell into the water.

The water was cold. It sobered him up.

He went down. Water fresh in his face.

He came up. Water gulped into his throat.

As he came up, the eastern sun rose in gilded dawn over the city of New York.

Ken's hand stretched out, as if to grasp the city that had killed him.