Garbeau looked at him a while, her suggestive eyes level. She drew herself up so the lines of her body were emphasized. Hartley suffered an asexual pang, a cramp in his chest.
“This particular scene,” Garbeau said carefully, “may not be perfect in terms of actual experience. We may not get an exact one-to-one correlation with the facts. But the scene will echo the feelings of real people in trouble, everywhere.”
Nobody else looked Hartley’s way. They made a big, unnecessary production of riffling through the notes on their clipboards.
“This is just not, not right,” Hartley managed finally over his chest cramp. “Camp was freaky, it was hard.”
“We know that. We understand.”
“Understand? Understand? Look, you think those drugs you have are anything?”
“Easy, Hartley—”
“Camp made those drugs look like the Sunday funnies. Camp was — every minute you realized there were more terrible things inside you!”
“I’ll play it that way,” the actor playing Hartley called from beside the fire. “Don’t worry man, I’ll do it right.”
“Hey, pretty boy, I’ll do it right!” Hartley shouted. “I’ll do it right on your face!”
“Easy Hartley” Garbeau put her hand under his shirt. “Easy, easy.”
“Check out that anger,” the actor was saying to the group round the fire. “That anger is great. That’s what I’ve got to have.”
“Quiet,” Garbeau said. “I’ll handle this.”
“I understand,” the actor said.
An odd sound moved through the shooting crew, a kind of chuckle.
“Hartley, please,” Garbeau said in another voice, “think of the story. A man, alone, far from his loved ones. Think of it. He’s forced to take whatever help, whatever small comfort he can get, from others as lost and miserable as himself.”
Her hand continued to hold him at bay.
“You really believe this garbage, don’t you?” he said at last. “This whole pack of lies — you set it up.”
Garbeau just laughed. “Hartley, come on. We’ve had some fun, these last couple days. All right.” She spoke so mildly, like a lover. “We’ve had some good times. But this is serious business. Think of it, please. A man, alone and lost and miserable. He huddles together with others like him, seeking protection from the winter wind. And then that man lifts his head and sings the true feelings. He sings what we all share.”
Hartley had to look away. He cast his eyes over the metal angles of the cameras, the whiteness of cue cards and notes on clipboards, the gloomy backdrop of a swamp that now seemed miles and miles distant. He saw two other women he hadn’t noticed earlier. He saw a cherry-red van and a driver smelling what looked like an orchid. There were so many in the shooting crew, so many watching him. Finally Hartley looked at the actor playing Hartley. With a start, a flinch he couldn’t suppress, he saw that the kid was grinning. Grinning. In fact the glimmery tones of the actor’s face were stretched so wide and lewdly that all at once there was no room left for doubt. Everyone here knew what Hartley and Garbeau had been doing.
In a moment the evidence fell into place. “I understand;” and that low-bore chuckle; and Garbeau’s soft, soft tone of voice. Garbeau and Hartley had been the only ones to stay behind at the hotel this morning. They’d been the only ones to visit the bar last night. Everyone here knew.
Now Hartley couldn’t free himself from that grinning, painted mirror. He tried to straighten up, be a soldier, but instead stumbled backwards on the heels of his unfamiliar sandals. He thought how he must look, in his colored beach shirt, his swim trunks that showed off skinny legs white from a New England spring. He felt utterly freakish. The wrinkled member between his legs seemed without warning to hang down enormously, heavy and prominent, as if Hartley was dragging around some kind of dinosaur whose tail was roped to his waist.
“You never wanted me to come here.” He spoke to Garbeau but kept his eyes on the actor. “You did everything you could to keep me from seeing this.”
“Just let them sing,” Garbeau said. “Just let them start. You’ll see.”
Hartley’s chin dropped to his chest.
It seemed that the actor playing him had already struck the opening chords. There was some dialogue Hartley didn’t catch, as the kid strummed. Then they were into it, “Silent Night” of course. They sang with a wonderful shivering raggedness. Hartley found he could lift his head, they sounded so good. He saw a man by one camera holding up a cue card with the lyrics printed on it. He saw that the actor who played Hartley sang looking just enraged. The kid sang with a look as if he were ready to tear somebody’s guts out. And by “holy infant, so tender and mild,” Garbeau had pressed up close to Hartley, pinning one of his arms against his side.
“Now tell me,” she murmured in his ear, “doesn’t this feel right?”
All he could feel was the uneven gentleness of her body against his arm. His knuckles dangled in the cushioned opening at the top of her thighs. He thought: I must be in love. Only if he were in love, he reasoned, could he have let her play him so easily for a sap.
“Hartley, you’re such a natural,” she whispered. “You’re such an apeman. You must see this is true to life.”
And to hide his feelings, to pretend another explanation for the tears that had started to stream down his cheeks, Hartley opened his mouth and crowded it with song.
The next morning he made an honest effort to get resecured. He’d been unable to resist spending the night with Garbeau again, unable to resist yet another bout of roughhousing come morning. But when she went out to swim he drank coffee at the coffee bar. He wore his fatigues, long sleeves and all. After his second cup he knew what he’d do. Yes, really get resecured. He climbed the stairs back to Garbeau’s room. Her company had set up a couple business lines, so a person could talk as long as they wanted. He double-checked the DO NOT DISTURB sign. Then Hartley let down his pants and settled himself once more in the bed. He didn’t bother with his boots, only pulled his pants and shorts down round his knees. He and Claire had done this before. Took so much concentration, so much give and take, it always wound up clearing his head. He dialled the number and then held the phone in one hand.
No answer. Hartley tried twice more. He had the switchboard operator try a third time.
“Afraid no one’s home, sir.”
Hartley tried to think. He’d thrown the pillow on the floor and lay at ramrod attention.
“Operator. Ah, could you tell me. I was wondering what day it was?”
“The 15th, sir. Father’s Day.”
“Good, good.” What? What was good about that? “But I mean, operator? Ah, I’m from out of state. What day of the week is it?”
“Friday, sir.” Obviously the woman handled this kind of question all the time. “Friday, June 15th, 10:06 A.M.”
Suddenly Hartley was furious. His insides were going on spin-dry for the third day in a row and this headphone jockey downstairs was showing off her watch.
“Operator? Hey, operator, I’m in love. I came down here to see my life story and now I’m in love.”
“Very good, sir. Would you like a newspaper?”
“Huh? Hey, operator, never mind that. You know what Willy Peter is? Willy Peter, Make you a buh liever. You know what Willy Peter’ll do to a dink in a cave?”
“I’m sorry, sir. It is the policy of the hotel to stay out of our patrons’ personal affairs whenever possible.”