Whippoorwills

by Dana F. Skolfield

  Tony’s in the kitchen agonizing over dirty breakfast dishes, while I escape to the sound of pounding surf, smells of the sea—running up the rickety stairs to the roof, Tony calling after me, “Where are you going?”  Too late—I’m gone.

  He’s been checking my every move this morning, afraid I might run off without him to the daytime meat rack—“Judy Garland’s Memorial Playground.” Hypocrite! He knows the rule—never in the daytime.  He can’t wait for the dark night to malinger among the scrubby pines where faces can’t be seen, dragging me with him to scavenge anonymous liaisons.

  Below me on the deck next door, a boy dances to Jim Morrison’s  “Light My Fire,” moving easily, seductively, swaying hips.  I haven’t seen him before—his lean blackness, face smiling open sunshine.  He looks up at me, reaches down to lower the volume.

  Joints snapping.  “I’m Nathaniel,” he says, “call me Nate.  I work the Bus-a-Long—unemployed dancer-chorus boy and former hustler.”

  Nate is wide-eyed Afro wonder, short cropped hair, slapping hands into collapsing, rippling center, fracturing laughter as he speaks, takes a quick step back, doubling in, leaning forward—upright, standing tall.  Envy and Wasp-uptight eat at me.

  Why can’t I move—smile, laugh, wind—unwind like that? Why ain’t my onion peeled down to the juice like his? There—you see—I  said ain’t!

  His grinning face hovers above the stunted pine trees separating our houses.  I want to shout back at him, I can’t touch you from here!

  He must sense my lascivious thoughts and trumpets, “My lover won’t be back till Thursday,” feet now thrashing terrace floor as if he’ll wing any minute—Mercury ascending with swallows.  Shifting my gaze now to fathom the inside of his house to see who’s there—the “The Movie House” we called it after we’d seen “Boys in the Sand” which was filmed there—the final segment—Afro hunk telephone lineman hooking up with white dude whose been amusing himself with jet black dildos.

  I’m looking through a large fish-tank window which exposes men and women of different hues—Asian, white—lounging or wandering about beneath a high walk over the cathedral ceiling living room.

  But to hell with that—Nate’s the main event.  If this is why lovers get wrecked in the Pines, bring it on.  I’m sure not going around with sackcloth over my head!  Oh what a pleasure it would be to stretch out my hand and feel his narrow waist, rub fingers over his chest and maybe—get thee behind me—no, damn it, get thee  out front! Don’t believe in Satan—Eros is my god.

  Nate’s still rapping,  “Yeah—we’re here for summer all the way into October—fall’s the best time for me in the Pines, Monarch butterflies fluttering over the waves—ever seen Monarchs here in September?”

  “Well, yes—“

  “Come on over and have drinks with me and Jean-Paul—he’s my lover, back from the city tomorrow.”

  “With all the gang?”

  “Oh no, we don’t usually have so many around—Jean-Paul had a party last night—these are leftovers—he knows lots of people from all over everywhere, they’ll all be gone tomorrow.  Did you hear the whippoorwills last night?”

  “Whippoorwills? yes, I heard them.” (Tony hadn't and  wait till I  tell him Nate did!)  Goose­bumps scurry up the back of my neck at the very mention of whippoorwills, same as the night I first heard the mysterious creatures in Watermill a few years back.

  The lights were out in the Pines last night.  In the darkness on the long haul down Fire Island Boulevard, hardly a boulevard, just a narrow wood-slat walkway nailed together a few inches above the sand.  We’re pulling a toy wagon heaped with frivolous cargo.  The cry of the whippoorwills reaches out, breathless in distant woodlands toward bayside.  I jerk the wagon to a halt.  “Whippoorwills!  Haven’t heard them  since Water Mill.”

  Tony stops, grunting, his humpy, hulky frame hovering near me in the shadows—Tartar face stone cold, beautiful blue eyes narrowing to slits, “Fuck the goddamn whippoorwills!” he rasps, out of breath, grabs the wagon handle and rumbles off into the shadows.  Doesn’t surprise me.  His cock is up whenever I reference anything from  former lovers.

  The first time I heard whippoorwills was a misty, cool June twilight, alone—lover Freddy was in town—one month before the first moon landing.  The mysterious sound came from across an expansive meadow—even rabbits stopped to listen.  I didn’t know what kind of birds they were, until captured by their rapid-fire,  whistling cry, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, whip-poor-will, maybe fifty times without stopping—it could’ve been a hundred.

  I tell myself Tony’s all tensed up, not just from my mentioning Water Mill, but the drive from Manhattan to the Sayville ferry, anxious to get the house open, pissed because there’s a blackout.  I ask  myself why he’s living out the whole fucking summer our first night?  No sooner we’re in the house, than he’s on deck unpacking, arranging candles on small tables, hanging begonias in flower pots, sweeping floors—getting organized!

  “Damn it!” he cries, “we left the caftans at the boat landing!  After all that sewing!  You’ll have to go back and get them.”

  “Why me?”

  “Because I have things to do!”

  The caftans are still there, a small miracle, lying across the wooden railing in front of the Sandpiper.  And still the lights are out.  When I get back, caftans in hand, Tony’s on the deck setting out insect repellant candles.

  Me?  I hear the whippoorwills again. . . No lights, no moon, no mosquitoes either, although I remember several years ago cruising the bushes in search of prey, poison ivy, virulent in May, attacking groin and thighs with a vengeance.

  At last, Tony gets a vodka and tonic in him, makes one for me, but can’t sit still.  So much to be done—so much to organize.

  Why can’t it wait till tomorrow?  It’s our first night alone—our first night on the island and there won’t be another until next year, certainly no time alone after our two house shares arrive—a young-old combination, hairdressers at Charles of the Ritz.

  So the first night vanishes and I hope the rest of the summer won’t be like he’s getting out the payroll at the Tiffany warehouse in New Jersey, forever preparing the house as if expecting a visit from his mother.  Yes, he warned me, he might invite his mom and dad who live in Wilkes-Barre.  I wouldn’t object—they’ve visited us in Manhattan, and were really hip when we took them to a performance of the  all-nude Oh, Calcutta!  But a visit to Fire Island Pines—seeing guys humping in the window of that house near the beach, a different story altogether.

  In the beginning we get into vodka and tonic, trying to lay it all out—how many weekends more, who we’ll allow as weekend house guests, Sandpiper tea dances, cocktails at the Blue Whale, Sunday beer-pissed dancing at the Ice Palace in Cherry Grove, twisting feet on dead poppers, shaking ass and—would we run off to rooms at the Cherry Grove Hotel to fuck with strangers?  Better not, lovers get wrecked on Fire Island doing things like that—right?

  But it wasn’t sex falling like green cones from scrubby pines that wrecked us.  And it isn’t neighbor Nate either.  It was taking too long to get with the ebb and flow of tides, not watching the sun rise out of the ocean; bright, cold blue Jupiter in Capricorn, red Mars ascending into Aries, Swan in the Milky Way.  Tony just couldn’t leave dirty dishes in the sink or take time to lie with me in the sand under a full moon nestled in each other’s arms, listen to swallows fluttering out of pines—or the whippoorwills.

  Whippoorwills will be gone in July. Whip – poor – will! whip – poor – will! whip – poor – will!  I read in the New York Times whippoorwills are never heard in the city; they’re creatures of wooded hills and open country and strictly nocturnal, seldom seen but often heard, and long remembered afterwards, especially by country people.

  “Named for it’s three-note call, whip-poor-will, they never call just once or twice, but utter the sound over and over and over.  John Burroughs once counted more than 1,200 calls in one series and counts of 200 or more can be made almost any summer evening in the country, calling when at rest and when not on the wing catching night-flying insects.  You can never forget whippoorwills once you’ve heard their call.”

  Hearing them that first night in the Pines was unreal—perhaps an omen, a friendly omen, alerting me, telling me my life was about to change, turn a corner.

  Tony never should’ve invited his friend from Wilkes-Barre, Danny Pitaski, the wandering troubadour in friendly denims, stoned night-tripper, slim-hipped mystery child with large, soulful, Piscean eyes.  Tony should never have left me alone with him.

  I’ll tell you right out we never climbed into the sack or got it on in the sand or leaning against a tree, Danny and I—neither lying down nor standing up. Another kind of trip with Danny altogether.  Besides, Nate-fantasies continued, getting more brutal every day.

  No, with Danny it was chipping away layers of crusted barnacles. Unwound alarm clocks wouldn’t ring anymore, only exalted highs, baptizing ourselves in broiling surf, rolling bodies naked in ocean foaming bubble-baths, warm sun cascading sparkling diamond salt spray, languishing in front of the fire, ruby reflections dancing on wine-filled burgundy glasses . . . reciting Rilke . . . “Herr, es ist die zeit . . . it is time . . .”

  “Tony’s still living out the fifties,” Danny says as we sit together in front of the fire, “furtive, in the closet, still he wants to be wild and promiscuous, and that’s okay, if you’re both on the same trip.  We never thought you two would last as long as you did, one whole year.  We had you figured as a head.” (By “we” he meant a gaggle-dozen or so buddies from Wilkes-Barre; by “head,” smoking pot and taking LSD—coke and crack weren’t at the top of the list that summer.)

  “Nah, I love him,” I said, “I wanna make it work.  Hell, I never even smoked grass much till I met Tony and I’m not sure I can handle it, you know, like I’m not enough to satisfy whatever it is he’s searching for—it’s all about sex with him, and that’s okay, sex is great, but I can’t seem to make him believe what a great, wonderful guy he is—and a friend.  He drags me into the meat rack all the time and in town it’s down to the trucks or baths.  He won’t go by himself.  I can’t even get him to go with me to the Oscar Wilde bookstore, says it’s a hangout for queers.”

  “Let go of all that,” Danny says—the advice a bit too will-o’-the-wisp for me.  I was a total failure when to came to “letting go” of anything.

  “You ever heard whippoorwills, Danny?

  “Sure, why?”

  When Danny and I wandered the beach and sand dunes, before the Fourth, whippoorwills weren’t whispering in the pines anymore.  Our nights were full of oracles, days filled with dreams, finding a wave to fall in, wandering forever through low tides.

  Nathaniel was around to feed my fantasies, particularly beautiful towering over curly tops and skin heads on the Sandpiper dance floor, swinging those damn loose hips; laughter coming out of him so free and full I wanted to burrow inside his soul—change the color of my skin—find out who I am.  I knew for sure I had some of Nate in me—deep down inside somewhere.  I was consumed with desire to take in more of him than just eye color, skin pigment, and inviting calves.

  But face it, you get into Nathaniel’s soul, you’re gonna get into something more complex taking you into deeper waters beyond the tides.

  Two days of tranquility with fantasies and Danny ended abruptly at the boat landing on Tuesday night before the Fourth—turmoil pure and simple—clash of scrounging demigods vs. pot smoking heads.  I have the advantage of a miracle, I’m perfectly calm, but Tony isn’t buying it.

  Alas, Danny, after casting his runic spell over me, has drifted away.  “Just can’t take all that organized holiday shit,” he tells me.  The last I see him, he’s walking down the beach toward Cherry Grove in a gray mist fadeout.

  I’m sure not ready for the nightmare assaulting me at dockside—sand sharks flopping in a polluted Gulf Stream spilling out of the ferry in the guise of weekend trippers, stringed cartons, torn shopping bags, Tourister luggage, cases of booze, flower pots, fake logs, accompanied by straight home owners and yapping dogs tangled into one gigantic witch’s brew.

  Tony emerges from the tangled mass like the wrath of a Titan, as if he’s dragged thunder and lightning around his beautiful head all the way from Manhattan.  Our guests sputter about him like furies bent on scourging the Island of wanton potheads and acid freaks.  Now that we have arrived there shall be a little order brought! three square meals a day and dishes washed! No more listening for whippoorwills or swimming beyond the tides!

  Blind fool am I in public display, rushing into Tony’s arms, thirties movie queen—Cathy running to Heathcliff at Penniston Crag, Jezebel dancing at the Olympus Ball in a red dress, it’s the wrong color, should be white, but I plant a wet kiss on his mouth, feeling lips as dry as smoked cod.  I hug him anyway.  I don’t hear the alarm.

  “Cut the crap!” he cries.

  Well, okay, so I grab the wagon with its piled-high groceries and clothing—all that clothing!—and stagger up the boardwalk, Tony following dutifully behind to steady the load, trailed by our guests-in-the-house who’ve already started complaining about the long walk.

  “How far is it, for chrissakes?” snaps Tony’s ex-lover, Rodney, a dusty, dried-up man, old before his time.  “You might have found a lease share closer to the ferry!”

  Heartsick, I fear the weekend will be measured T.S. Elliott fashion, counting out our lives with coffee spoons.  (Why haven’t you watered the plants? What have you been doing all week?)—mixing cocktails, tossing salad, boiling spaghetti, sit-down dinner, perhaps a B&B permitted in front of well-regulated fireplace; not a moment taken to ponder reflections in the burgundy glass; banking fires, turning out walk-lights, blowing out candles, fluff pillows—to bed, flip over and fuck, up early in the morning—our guests moaning, out of bed only if sun is shining, and keep those nasty joints hidden from sight!

  It doesn’t turn out that way exactly.  No matter, I’ve gone beyond the sandbar, swimming with rip tides, too late to swim back to shore.

  I should’ve told him I didn’t want to hide anymore, that phantasmagoric things, cosmic rays, have bombarded me shattering the crust, opening me to tributaries, eddies, clocked by the sweep of constellations and tides. To keep from drowning we had to swim with the riptides parallel to shore, not fight against them, so that eventually they take us safely where we yearn to be—together in each other’s arms, living in a much grander world.

  I should’ve come right out with it.  No longer would I stagnate in routine, certainly not while on the island.  I wanted him to see our individual essences got lost somewhere, melted into a mold, not gold, but coming out brass.

  I ache to tell him about the four figures I’ve seen hovering on the roof in the ramshackle house down near the ocean—two old, comfortable looking queens leaning into excited conversation with two ladies in cloche hats as they contemplate the sunset across the bay; imagining them swapping anecdotes from a kind of Bea Lillie, Noel Coward past—their special kind of Bohemia long ago—theatre, ballet, intrigues, when queens were called “belles.”  Cloistered lives perhaps, but living it fully.  How beautiful for us to be able in our time to live in a more inclusive world—and still be like them sharing our memories when we’re old together.

  What if our life remains cloistered?  What if this very summer slips away with nothing recorded in our hearts to wrap around us?  Our particular closet isn’t proud, it’s built from fear and uncertainty—cluttered, no one allowed to enter unless they’re a good roll in the hay, or worse, certified cynical, self-hating closet queens hiding from the world.

  It’s no help Rodney, Tony’s ex, is Mister Regulated, painfully organized, and the other guests, strident and paranoid that anyone should discover their secret sexual longings; on the island hiding their sexual appetites—venturing at night into blind meat racks where nobody can see their faces.

  Tony walked off to the beach as soon as we got to the house and I think, beautiful, he’s getting into his own head—escaping from dragging ass with these tedious, uptight robots all the way from Manhattan, but when he comes back an hour later, dinner is on the table and he says he isn’t hungry and goes to bed.

  Somehow I get through dinner, avoiding B&B in front of fire, off to dance with Nate at the Sandpiper, furiously smoking two whole joints along the way, sharing them with no one.  Early morning, around three, returning,  Tony passes me on his way down the ramp.

  “I’m going to the meat rack!” he growls in the darkness, “there’s a tree there with my name carved on it.”  I allow him to pass, saying nothing, drifting by him silently, off to bed and sleep.

  Five in the morning he’s up packing, drinking vodka filling a large water glass, slinging clothes around the bedroom and laying on how he’s going to take the six am ferry; spewing out repressed hostility—all the kind of garbage comes out of us when we’re splintered.

  I cool it, stoned out of it, telling him if he wants to go, take the ten o’clock ferry ‘cause right now he’s waking up the household.  He wants to strangle me, can’t say I blame him, but I don’t want to mess with him, I’m on another shore.

  “Here! take the goddamn gold chain!” he yells, tossing it at me across the bed. “Dangle it on Nathaniel’s black ass!”

  “Jean-Paul and Nate are still together,” I mumble.

  “Yeah, together with everyone on the island!”

  “Including you?  You’ve been drooling over Jean-Paul ever since you met him.”

  “What if I have?”

  At last, he runs down and sacks into bed.

  He didn’t take the six o’clock ferry, nor the ten o’clock.  Fourth of July brunch celebration begins, I’m finding solace, dutifully peeling Long Island potatoes and onions.

  Champagne corks pop from the deck spiraling into the pines.  Nate and Jean-Paul join the celebration and even our uptight guests get into the spirit of things after a few glasses of bubbly, although frowning their disapproval when joints are passed around and they witness Jean-Paul blowing smoke into Nate’s open mouth.

  Later, Tony comes to me at the deck rail and says he wants to kill me and wishes, for chrissakes, he didn’t love me so damn much.  (Dear Tony, love is not possession of one’s soul.)

  I begin to unravel my feelings.  “We can’t go on the same—not in town, either.  I tell you right now, I’m not going to cruise bars or go to the baths or the trucks with you anymore.  You can go alone.”

  He stares at me.  Night’s coming on, our guests are off to the meat rack.  A cool breeze filled with mist moves toward us, almost hiding us from each other.  “Want to go to the dance?” he asks, “or is that included in your package?”

  “Sure, let’s go.”

  “Now that you’ve got black beauty into the sack.”

  “Who says I have?”

  The weekend’s over at last, our Neanderthal guests depart, and Tony has the following week off so we have time to light a few joints at our leisure and linger over burgundy in front of the fire, even if the logs are fake, richly red reflections dancing on our glasses. Suddenly, dinner is never on time and we find ourselves swimming naked at midnight, walking along the beach through fog on cool evenings.  A good first step, but not enough—still the threesomes with guys on the beach, tripping with them, taking them to bed.

  And this brings me back to Nate.  So what if we balled together and let’s say we did, and that we got so much into each other—like so much we’ll never forget it?  Is that why I left Tony?  And let’s say Nate and I didn’t make out.  Am I dragging around thinking I missed the Fuck of the Century?

  More important, Tony and I had other hang-ups to work over that had nothing do with whether I balled with Nate, or Tony met Super Stud by the tree with his name on it, or made out with Jean-Paul.  Fantasy and truth—digging all of life, that’s reality and fantasies blended into to one glowing magic lantern show, and sadly it’s not what Tony wanted.

  I left Tony, not because of that summer and the whippoorwills, not because of Nate and Danny weaving their magic spells.  They were the catalyst, yes—the boot in the rear I needed and hadn’t realized I did—to take myself out of cloisters.  When Tony refused to go with me to the gay bookstore, or show public affection—most of all, when he began to reveal his prejudices, laughing at Martin Luther King’s “I have a dream!” in the great march on Washington . . . that nailed it.

  “I have a dream. . .” and I knew it was my dream too—liberation, to step out into the world again—get involved—no more hiding.

  If you ask me what a whippoorwill looks like, I couldn’t tell you, I’ve never seen one, but you don’t have to see whippoorwills to know they exist, free in the woodlands, thrilling us with their breathless cries.