Insatiable Appetites

39

Bruce Willard drove his own car, an old Mercedes station wagon that he used mostly for buying trips, to Philadelphia, following the confident instructions of a dash-mounted GPS. He followed the directions numbly, trying not to think of Evan for a while.

As he neared his destination he began looking for a driveway or a mailbox but saw neither. Then the female voice of the GPS began to insist that he make a U-turn. He did so and retraced his track until the U-turn message came again. This time he slowed down to ten miles per hour, but he still nearly missed an overgrown, gravel track: no street number, no mailbox. He turned into the track and proceeded slowly, branches on either side scraping against the car. After a quarter of a mile or so the little road widened and became paved with granite cobblestones, winding through a corridor of old oak trees until he passed through a high, wrought-iron gate and into a forecourt before a large brick house of the Federal style — three stories, the corners and windows trimmed in limestone. The place practically gleamed with good care and fresh paint.

As he came to a halt the front door opened and an Asian man in a white jacket, black trousers, and black bow tie trotted down the front walk to the car.

“Good morning. Mr. Willard?”

“I am,” Bruce replied.

“May I take your luggage?”

“There’s just the duffel in the backseat.”

“I am Manolo,” the man said. “I take care of Mr. Hills. Please follow me.”

Bruce trailed him up the walk and into the house and a broad foyer containing a Georgian table so beautiful that he had to resist stroking it, upon which rested a heavy silver bowl filled with fresh flowers.

“The living room is to the left,” Manolo said, pointing, “and the library to the right. Your room is upstairs.” He trotted up the broad staircase and opened the first door down the hallway to the right. “This is the Elm Room,” Manolo said. “Mr. Hills hopes you will be comfortable here.”

Bruce surveyed the room — the canopied bed, the comfortable chairs before an Adam fireplace, the good pictures, the fine fabrics. “I’m sure I will be,” he said.

Manolo opened the door to a dressing room. “Would you like me to unpack for you?”

“Thank you, that won’t be necessary.”

“Mr. Hills expects you for lunch in half an hour,” the man said. “He will meet you in the library.”

“How are we dressing?” Bruce asked. He was wearing a blue suit and a necktie, since he did not know if he would have time or a place to change before the funeral.

“You are perfectly dressed, sir. Is there anything else I may do for you?”

“Thank you, no, Manolo. I’ll be down in thirty minutes.”

Manolo left, closing the heavy mahogany door softly behind him. Bruce took his toiletry items into the big marble bathroom, splashed some water on his face, then took off his jacket and sat in a comfortable chair for a few minutes, still numb.

At the appointed hour Bruce put his jacket on again, adjusted his necktie, and walked downstairs to the library. A man was sitting at a desk, wielding a magnifying glass, examining an album of stamps. He looked up and stood. “Good afternoon, Mr. Willard,” he said.

Bruce thought he looked exactly as Evan would have looked in thirty years: slim, beautifully tailored, with thick white hair.

Elton Hills came around the desk and offered his hand, then directed Bruce to a wing chair before the large fireplace, where a fire burned brightly. “Would you like a glass of sherry before lunch?” he asked.

“Thank you, yes.” He sat down, and a moment later Manolo appeared with a silver tray bearing a black bottle and two glasses. He poured the wine and handed it to Bruce and Mr. Hills, then left.

“It’s a fino, nicely chilled,” Hills said. “It won’t get you drunk before lunch.”

Bruce tasted it. “Excellent,” he said.

“Have you ever visited Spain?” Hills asked.

“Yes, in fact I once attended the sherry harvest festival in Jerez de la Frontera, as the guest of one of the houses there.”

“And did you enjoy the experience?”

“It was a week of relentless debauchery,” Bruce replied. “Every time I turned around there was someone with a bottle of sherry, refilling my glass. There was a bullfight, a fiera, and in the wee hours, after dinner, much flamenco dancing, much of it by members of my host firm and their domestic staff.”

Hills smiled. “I did that once, too — once was enough.”

“I know how you feel.”

“Tell me, Mr. Willard, was my son a queer?”

“Yes,” Bruce replied, “as am I, though these days we prefer ‘gay.’ We were lovers as well as friends.”

Hills winced noticeably. “I was afraid of that.”

“Mr. Hills, if you are uncomfortable in my company, I can leave now.”

Hills made a placating motion with his hands. “No, please. I’m sorry if I offended you. I’m an old man, unaccustomed to today’s ways, and there are many things I don’t understand.”

“Are you of a religious nature, Mr. Hills?”

“I am.”

“Well then, all I can say to you on the subject is that God made us all, and he made us as we are. Evan and I no more chose our sexual orientation than you chose yours.”

“You’re quite right, I suppose. I didn’t choose to be heterosexual, I just was.”

“And there you have it in a nutshell.”

Manolo entered the room and called them to lunch. They did not speak again about sexuality.