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Bob Levy
reads
First Moves
in Real Audio format.
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Poor Arthur Cantor. If only he were as generous, as understanding with himself as he is with his sons. If so he would not be attempting to evade this encounter, this unwelcome coincidence of person and place. In midtown Manhattan's Tower Music, he would not be pretending to be studying the compact-disc case he is holding, nor pretending he hasn't heard someone calling his name. From the shop's loud-speakers, selections from a Seventies' surfing anthology, the perfect antidote to the reds and greens of the holiday season, pie-sized wreaths hung at the end of each aisle, plastic Santas identifying each on-sale CD. Swarming about Arthur, a
lunchtime crush of shoppers, oblivious to the existence of anyone but themselves. With the exception of one man, the man who has been calling his name. This character out of Arthur's long-ago past now striding up the aisle, determination in the man's always elf-like eyes. The man, Billy
Fraelich, exhales "Arthur" as he arrives, an exhale implying, 'Arthur Cantor — at last.'
Where Arthur is all business in topcoat and burgundy scarf, Billy Fraelich is cozy and boy-like in jeans that are faded, in a thick nubby sweater of warm reds and golds. And as Billy Fraelich throws open his arms, Arthur throws open his eyes, an attempt to falsely convey sudden recognition.
Though his wife has assured him embraces between men are the style, Arthur, forty one, stomach tight, glances over Billy's right shoulder. And as they embrace Arthur pictures the summer afternoon that he and this Billy last touched. Two fourteen year olds they were then, sprawled across a living room carpet. In the pressed shirt of blue denim, young Arthur. The freckled face and hands, that one is Billy. As for the day's third participant, the carpet, it is a satin-like pile, a rich silver hue that matches the color of the middle-aged Billy's hair.
Billy Fraelich, who in Tower Music is saying, "I did catch glimpses of you over the years …" And Arthur Cantor is aware of those times, painfully aware, having averted his eyes, avoiding uncomfortable meetings precisely like this. "Once," Billy goes on, "I pointed you out to my wife."
Billy pauses. A pause which terrifies — by design? — Arthur certain his old friend about to raise that summer afternoon Arthur has never expunged from his memories, that single awkward blip in a lifetime otherwise blip-free.
So terrified is Arthur, he leaps mouth first into conversation, preferring talk of the here and now, his home in upstate Bedford, his position with Spence and Farrow, the wife, the two sons. What he plans to say next is, "Let's catch up over dinner
…" And after a glance at his watch, he'll be off.
But as he removes gold card-case from pocket, Arthur finds he has again returned to that long-ago afternoon. Outdoors a sudden breeze, warm, the room's lace curtains billow. Across the Monopoly board, Billy Fraelich throws the dice, moves his silver race-car eight squares, landing on just the property he needs. One hand placed behind him, the carpet's pile tingles the ends of Arthur's fingers, a shiver of excitement sent up and around Arthur's neck. He raises his shoulders, attempts a deep breath. It is August, Arthur in beige cotton shorts. And when a deep breath is not possible, he stretches his legs, the carpet's lush nap licking at the backs of his thighs, his excitement made worse.
In Tower Arthur hears himself saying, "My sons," photo in hand, pointing as he names each of the boys. But it is his own hand, his fourteen year old fingers he is visualizing, fingers spidering their way across that silver plush, around that game-board, inch by inch, coming to rest on the back of the other boy's hand. And in that never-to-be-forgiven moment neither hand stirs. Through an open living-room window the rumble of an el train in the distance, through another window, a car door slams. A moment of absolute stillness, then movement, subtle, movement within the two layers of fingers. A squeeze …
This, while between Tower's racks of CD(s), Billy Fraelich is matching Arthur's family photo with one of his own.
… Where had he, Arthur, been hoping that squeeze would be leading? Because there had to have been some girl he'd had a crush on back then. Must have been. And Billy's reaction to the squeeze … Did he quick pull away? Or … did he smile? Could he have encouraged? Led Arthur on?
"My oldest just had his first dance … " Billy is saying.
His sons received their olive coloring from Arthur, their deep sober eyes. From their mother their open smiles, their natures to match. Annette recently suggesting it might be time for a 'birds-and-bees' sit-down with their eleven year old. Arthur, always ill at ease in any discussion of sex, carefully avoiding any hint of confusion in his own past, never alluding to any late August afternoons, any Monopoly boards. In fact, only this week Arthur had been thinking back to his own father. To what his pop had dubbed 'Arthur's Excitement', the distracting flush of arousal which, as a boy, would wash over him. A jostling school bus, an 'excited' Arthur impervious to the jolts, oblivious even to whether his stop has been reached. Or when
called on in class, a distracted Arthur responding, "What? Huh?" "Your excitement's showing," his father would snide over dinner, Arthur abruptly returned from whatever steamy place his sexual imaginings had transported him to. His father positively relentless, pressing — "What're you gonna' do if it hits while you're ridin' a bike? Or shit, behind the wheel of a car?" The man, that bitter red faced man, so in love with the sound of his words, the sound of his own laugh.
"You know, meeting here, it's perfect." Billy's voice.
"Perfect?" says Arthur.
"Because whenever I think of you …" But again that terrifying pause. "No. You tell me, Arthur. What
do you think I think of when I think about you."
Arthur Cantor is the stuff of corporate vice presidents. He will not be toyed with. And though he knows the answer, knows it can only be the warm afternoon of clasped hands, of silver wall-to-wall, Arthur shrugs, then looks at his watch. A meeting with his staff in ten minutes, that's what he'll say.
But Billy, now he is smiling, pointing to the racks of CD(s) as he says, "How you and me and Schneider, how the three of us used to swap records …"
Records. Records. Not the clasping hands. Not that damned carpet. Records — for Billy that's what's so perfect about this place. And as Arthur takes a long breath, it is as though Tower's doors have flown open, the air fresh and sweet. How foolish, how childish to have avoided Billy all these years. Ridiculous. While through the shop's speakers a track by one of those new groups; Counting Crows, Black Crows … For sure something with crows.
"The records … " says Billy. Then he adds, " … Oh, and one more thing." An ominous ring, a devilish note, to this, Billy's add, a take-charge hand closing on Arthur's elbow. "I promised myself if I ever ran into you, Arthur, there's something I'd get off my chest. About something I told you. Something I thought, just between us." Suddenly rows of parallel creases cross Billy's forehead. "But the next day, Arthur, there you were in the gym, repeating every word, repeating it to Schneider and
Rudell."
Arthur lowers then shakes his head, needing a second, just a second to make sense of this. But Billy has begun drifting down the narrow aisle and toward check-out. "What I said was, 'I like you, Arthur. Just that. 'I like you'." Billy tosses these words over his shoulder, a toss far more loud than Arthur (even now, absorbed with appearances) would have used. Still an image is forming in Arthur's mind, a room,
enormous, and flooded with light. It is the tall-windowed gymnasium Billy was speaking of, its parquet floor glistening. "The way you were laughing when you told them," he hears Billy going on. "As though what I'd meant by 'like' was, you know, something
more." And there he is, young Arthur Cantor standing beneath one of
the backboards, his mischievous grin, concerned only with the story he is telling. Schneider, Rudell, Mazzini, the three of them laughing, hooting.
"We were so young," Arthur whispers, his hand on Billy Fraelich's shoulder. On West 57th Street, through Tower's display window, a forecasted snowstorm's first swirling flakes.
The still sauntering Billy stops short. "There was more."
More? Arthur Cantor does not need more.
But Billy's back to him, Arthur hears, "There was no stopping you, Arthur. On and on, telling the others how after I told you 'I like you', how I reached out, reached out and touched you. Took your hand and squeezed it."
And then silence, absolute, palpable. No longer the lunchtime hum of shoppers. No longer the music. A gift, this silence. A holiday gift. Because in this wonderful silence, this whiteness, this calm, Arthur Cantor can rerun his remembered tape of the past seconds. " ... I touched you," Billy had said. "Touched you. Took your hand and squeezed it."
So! It was Billy! Billy, not him! Billy! And oh, oh the relief! So great the relief it is all Arthur can do to keep from laughing out loud. Billy! Billy not him …
But before Arthur can savor the moment, he wonders, But did he understand Billy right? He did say he was the one, didn't he? The one to touch, then to squeeze? Or Billy, was Billy saying something altogether different? Was he saying, suggesting, that Arthur had been lying to Schneider and Rudell in the gym, lying when he said 'Billy touched me'? That in fact it was he — Arthur — who'd been the one
to touch first? That what Billy's been angry over is that Arthur lied?
Arthur's hand closes on the shoulder of his old friend. "I need to know, Billy, what you're saying." The store's hum resumes, the concerned heads of shoppers turning in their direction. Even so Arthur goes on, "Who the hell was it, the one who made the first move?"
"That what you think this is about?" says Billy, waving a hand, would Arthur please lower his voice. "Because this is only about trust, Arthur. Trust. Listen, don't get me wrong. It didn't kill me, you telling that to the guys. Hurt? Sure. Betrayal hurts. But it was a long time ago,
Arthur... A long time. I've moved on. But each time I see you, Arthur — crossing Seventh Avenue, once at Grand Central — that day, that gymnasium, all of it, it comes back."
"So, was it you?" If Billy Fraelich has moved on — good, fine. But Arthur, Arthur Cantor still needs to know. "Were you the one?"
"Whatever, Arthur," says Billy, edging his way through a cash-register aisle. " Whatever works for you … "
"The truth … " Arthur's voice cracks. "The truth." But now, without another word Billy Fraelich is approaching the doors.
A cold slap of air, the shop's door sliding open then remaining apart, the electric-eye sensing Arthur Cantor, stopped dead-in-his-tracks. The snow covered 57th Street sidewalk is splotched with dark footprints, to Arthur's right a Salvation Army volunteer, his bell-ringing hand a gray blur. The truth, Arthur says to himself. But what the hell is the truth? Can a memory — his, Billy's — can it ever be called one hundred percent accurate? Especially this memory, an incident twenty five years old, for Chrissake. And once Arthur Cantor has decided what his own truth will be, his own comfortable, acceptable, version of that long-ago afternoon, he tugs at the cuffs of his topcoat, and with a holiday spring to his step, returns to the store.
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