Exiles in America(10)

“But most artists can’t love anyone else’s work without doubting their

own. They’re too competitive.”

“You admire other people’s work.”

“Because I already hate my own stuff.”

Zack hesitated. “No, you don’t. You’re just frustrated right now.”

“We’re not gonna go there tonight.”

“Okay. We won’t.”

But if they couldn’t talk about that, they didn’t know what to say next.

They said nothing for a moment.

“I’ll let you get back to your reading.” Daniel tapped the book by the pil-

low: Wives and Daughters by Elizabeth Gaskell. Zack had read all the giants

and was growing more and more obscure.

Zack opened the book. “Well, we have the whole school year to figure out

the Rohanis,” he said, pretending that was all they’d been talking about.

“Or never see them again,” said Daniel.

“Except we did offer her the use of our washer and dryer.”

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Daniel groaned and rolled his eyes. “I think I scared her off.” He kissed

Zack on the forehead. “Good night, love,” he said. “Good night, Jocko.” And

he went next door to his bedroom.

They slept in separate rooms but kept their doors wide open. Zack snored,

but not so badly that it carried down the hall. They had slept apart for so long

now that they did not miss each other’s body. In fact, each man remained in-

tensely conscious of the other’s presence in the next room, almost as if he were

sleeping beside him. Jocko would shift from bed to bed in the night, depend-

ing on his mood.

Life in couples usually writes white upon the page, except in times of cri-

sis. Zack and Daniel believed their private crises were all behind them. Over

the past twenty-one years they had fallen in and out of love with each other

more than once, and not always at the same time. They had come to believe

that they would always have each other, no matter what might happen to them

separately or together.

6

They met in New York City in 1981, at the monthly gay and lesbian

dance at Columbia. They were two young men in their late twenties—

they did not know how young they really were—with the spotless preppy

clothes and skinny El Greco bodies of the period. Neither was looking for a

boyfriend that night. Both just wanted to get laid. Daniel was getting over

being dumped by a middle-aged art dealer. Zack was in the middle of his res-

idency and had no emotional space for anything like love. He was just begin-

ning to enjoy sex for the sake of sex. Back in Virginia he used to fall in love

with any man who was kind enough to go to bed with him.

It was after midnight, and all the pretty undergraduates had paired off.

They noticed each other across the room. Daniel strolled over. “Hey, hand-

some. Wanna dance?” Zack disliked this New York smart-ass manner, but he

nodded and stepped out on the floor. Years later, he remembered a song by

the Beach Boys, Daniel insisted it was the Supremes. “My name’s Daniel.

What’s yours?” “Zachary Knowles.” “Oh. You’re from the South.” “How did

you guess?” “You got an accent, sweetheart.” “Damn. I’m trying to lose it.”

They danced a second dance and Zack decided the guy was cute enough.

Zack disliked dancing—he knew he moved like a wooden Indian—so he cut

to the chase. “You wanna go back to my place?” Daniel laughed. “Not too

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2 5

impatient, are we, sweetheart?” “Sorry. I’m on a tight schedule.” “What am I,

a train?” “It’s just that I can’t afford to waste time.” “You sure know how to

romance a girl.” Zack disliked this kind of faggy talk, but he hated himself for

disliking it. “Sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. I apologize.” “No apology

necessary,” said Daniel. “Besides, it is getting late. Where do you live?” He

lived downtown, only a few blocks from Daniel’s place. It’d be easy enough to

get home afterward. “Oh, why not?”

They caught a cab, and Zack became nervously quiet on the ride down,

Daniel nervously chatty. He talked about politics, first Jimmy Carter, then

Ronald Reagan, wanting to prove he had a serious side. They arrived at Zack’s

building, rode in the elevator up to his apartment, walked through the door—

and mutually pounced. They became two frantic, groping, greedy, generic

bodies—for twenty minutes or so. Their first sex was friendly, efficient, and

forgettable. Then, while Zack considered going to sleep and Daniel consid-