Chapter 16

It's time we learned more about Walt and how Law came to know him.

16

Walt

I woke up too early and laid in the quiet darkness to contemplate my life.  I thought about the way I’d lived for a while, and about the yawning nothingness that stretched ahead of me.  I thought of Walt.  I felt terrible about the way I’d treated him the night before, the way I’d treated him for a long time.

Walt was a wonderful man.  He always had been.  He was too good for me, and I was no good for him.  Everyone seemed to know that but him.  I sure knew it.  If anything, the exchange last night had proved it.

Still, losing the office, the apartment, and my livelihood didn’t bother me half as much as losing Walt.  The mental image I had of him as he slipped through the door, when he was angry and hurt and afraid, tortured me when I was already tortured.  Having to watch the only person who gave a damn if I lived or died walk out of my office, and likely out of my life entirely, and knowing that I was the cause of his leaving, was difficult to deal with.  I brooded over it.

*          *          *          *

I met Walt near the end of 1936.  I’d been off the police force for about a year and in business for myself.  Walt was the overnight man at a counter service eatery up north, near the middle-class area of Passyunk Square.  I’d been up that way on a case for a few weeks and stumbled into the place.  The food was cheap, portions were large, and the flavor was incredible.  The attractive guy behind the counter, whose name turned out to be Walt Whitman Stack, was a nice bonus.  Soon, I was eating all my meals there.

Walt’s shift was ten at night to eight in the morning, but he worked the place alone from eleven to six.  The very first night, I raved about the food.  In order to explain the culinary masterpiece I’d experienced, Walt told me where he’d learned to cook.  He told me he’d gone to college for culinary arts.  He also told me that he’d worked at the legendary Bellevue-Stratford Hotel from 1927 until 1930 when the Depression forced a dramatic cutback in staff.  Since then, he’d bounced around, taking whatever job he could as long as he could cook and experiment.  He said that’s how he kept his skills sharp for when, in his words, ‘everything gets back to normal.’

Since I was usually in the diner between eleven and twelve and again between five and six, and since the place was usually empty at those hours, Walt and I struck up a conversational acquaintance.  I’d tell him about the progress, or lack of progress I was making on my case.  He would tell me stories of growing up in the rural Pennsylvania community of Scranton, or about his father, the literature professor, or about a new dish he was perfecting.

I was attracted to Walt.  I enjoyed his food and his company, and I thought there was a chance that we were the same.  The deliciousness of Walt’s food made me hesitate to announce myself.  I didn’t want to risk alienating him over my sexuality and losing access to his cooking.

I deferred my decision indefinitely and it was eventually rendered moot.  The case I’d been working on ended, so I had no more reason to hang around the little diner.  The place was too far from my office for me to be a regular, so I figured that was the end of that.  I went home and stayed away for two weeks.  I tried to forget Walt and the little diner, but I couldn’t get the man or his food out of my mind.  One sleepless night, I took the trolley up Broad Street and walked the six blocks to the diner.

Walt was glad to see me.  He fussed over me and cooked what he called his ‘special meatloaf’ to celebrate my presence.  The meal instantly became my new favorite.  Walt was so solicitous about where I’d been, what I’d been doing; I thought he had to be like me.

My curiosity got the better of my judgement and I tried to ask without asking.  “Do you have anything in common with your namesake?”  I asked Walt as I finished my meal.  By then, I’d looked up Walt Whitman the poet, and discovered that he was famously, or perhaps infamously, a homosexual.

Walt hesitated, then hedged his answer.  “I’m not a poet, if that’s what you mean.”

I pressed my question and added some detail that I hoped would get Walt to answer me more directly.  “Neither am I, but I have something in common with Whitman, and I wonder if you might.”

Walt considered his answer while he rubbed a damp rag around the counter like it was the most important thing he would do that night.  He tried to clarify what I’d asked him without giving it a name.  “I think you’re asking if I have similar tastes.  Is that the question?”

I agreed with Walt’s presumption.  “More or less.”

He stopped wiping the counter and searched my face with his pale blue eyes.  Whatever he saw must have satisfied him.  “Yes.”  He announced confidently.  “The poet and I have similar tastes.”

Walt’s answer didn’t make me turn a cartwheel, but I was encouraged.  “That’s good.  Now the three of us have something in common.”

Walt threw his rag into a sink behind the counter and leaned on his elbows with a fist pressed to each side of his face.  He asked his own searching question.  “What are you looking for Law Edwards?  Do you want to have fun or are you ready for commitment?  I like sex, but I’m not looking for a lover.  I want a partner.  What do you want?”

Walt’s question set me back on my heels.  In my deepest self, I always hoped that I’d find someone to live with, someone to come home to, someone with who I could be as much a partner as queer men were allowed to be.  I didn’t think I had the capacity to live that way, though.  Between my job and my violent nature, I didn’t think I’d ever have much more than a fairly steady bedmate.  Because of that, I lied to Walt, and I lied a little bit to myself.  “I don’t want a partner.”  I said to him.

“It sounds like we want different things.”  Walt sighed like he was disappointed.  He straightened up and turned his palms toward the ceiling in a gesture that I took to be a kind of a shrug.  “But don’t let that stop you from coming around.  I like you and having something in common means we understand each other better.”

I liked that Walt said that he liked me.  It made me feel good inside.  Because he said he liked me, and because I was attracted to him, after that night, I made it a point to make the trek to the diner at least once a week.  I never bothered with a menu when I went.  I ate whatever Walt put in front of me and was never disappointed.  He enjoyed cooking something special, and I enjoyed spending time with him.

That pattern went on until the summer of 1937, when Walt landed a job in a big cafeteria at the Navy Yard.  It was day shift and more money, but he needed to move further south to be closer to work.  “You know the area.  Where can I get a place?”  He asked one night while I was savoring his special pork chops.  “I’d prefer an apartment but may need to take a room for a while until I find something that’s right.”

I heard opportunity knock.  Actually, it might have kicked the door in.  I told Walt of a coincidence that was in my favor and his.  “My landlord just evicted the second-floor tenant of my building.  The guy had hard feelings and smashed the place up.  Bad for the landlord, but good for the next tenant.  Now it’s got all new paint, gas range, cabinets, everything.  I looked at it a couple days ago out of curiosity.  He’s not asking much rent because the neighborhood is crappy.  I think forty a month.”

Walt was enthusiastic about the possibility.  “That’s less than I’m paying now.  Can you get me in to see it in the morning?  I’ll come when I finish here.”

I gave him the address.  He looked at the place in the morning and moved in the following week.

*          *          *          *

Soon, Walt and I got used to seeing each other regularly.  Sometimes he would stop to chat on his way home from work or to ask me if I needed anything when he went shopping.  In the beginning of 1938, he invited me upstairs to Sunday dinner.  I gladly accepted.  I’d never learned to cook and ate all my meals at counters, at the automat, or from street vendors.  The only home cooking I’d had since my mother’s was Walt’s.

A few weeks later, he invited me again, and then again.  Soon, Sunday dinner with Walt was a standing appointment instead of an occasional invitation.  Over the next months, ‘every Sunday’ evolved to ‘every day.’  I ate at Walt’s so often, I started to feel like a freeloader.  To soothe my troubled conscience and to return some of Walt’s kindness, I made it my habit to do the dishes each night after we ate.  I also gave Walt money for groceries when I was flush, and he fed me for free when I was broke.

The more time he and I spent together, the more time we wanted to spend together.  I started to linger after meals to talk, or to play cards, or to listen to radio programs.  One night, near the end of that year, Walt invited me into his bed.  That night I found out that Walt was an enthusiastic lover who knew when to be aggressive and when to be tender.

Our relationship accelerated after we slept together and by early January of 1939, I lived at his place in every way but on paper.  That time with Walt was my first domestic experience.  It was the first time in my life I had someone to come home to, someone to share my day with, someone to kiss ‘goodbye’ in the morning and ‘hello’ in the evening.  It was the first time I had someone to sleep next to that wasn’t a conquest.  It was a good life, a peaceful life.

In April, I fucked up the first time.  The event that led to my f**k up was supposed to be a celebration.  On the second Tuesday of the month, I came home, which is how I’d started to refer to Walt’s apartment, to find him making my favorite meal.  Walt’s special meatloaf was in the oven, roasting along with russet potatoes and a crockery dish of glazed carrots.  A bottle of very nice bourbon stood on the counter next to a fresh seltzer syphon.  The table was set with a flower arrangement centerpiece and red candles in tall holders.  Walt kissed me ‘hello’ and I noticed he smelled shower fresh.

“What’s the occasion?”  I asked.

“Welcome home.”  He said and ignored my question.  “Dinner will be ready in forty minutes.  Why don’t you get a shower?  Wash off the grime of the day and unwind.”

I realized that Walt was seducing me.  I didn’t understand that because all it usually took to get me in the mood was a chin jerk toward the bedroom.  I didn’t dwell on my confusion because there was no downside to what I assumed Walt was building toward.  I congratulated myself on what I figured would be a nice evening.  ‘Nice dinner, few drinks, maybe a marathon tumble…happy Tuesday to me.’ I thought and went to get cleaned up.

When I was showered, dressed, and back in the kitchen, the seduction continued.  Walt greeted my return with another kiss, then he gave me a highball to enjoy while he set the food out.  His every motion was for my pleasure.  He was ahead of my every desire.  As we ate, he passed sides before I asked and refreshed my drink before it was empty.  He’d outdone himself on the meal and in every other way.  Every bite was perfection.  I wanted to stuff myself silly, but I anticipated ‘fun and games’ later, so I used some rare self-control.  I finished and pushed my plate away.

“Was it alright?”  Walt asked like he didn’t already know it was the best meal I’d ever had.

“Amazing.”  I admitted.  “You going to tell me what’s going on?”

Instead of an answer, Walt did something incredibly sexy.  He took a cigar from his shirt pocket and gazed into my eyes while he teased it with his thick tongue.  He trimmed the end with his teeth and smoothed the bite with his lips.  He shaped the cigar tip and moistened it with his mouth to mellow the smoke.  When he finished teasing me around the cigar, he met my eyes again while he lit it with a table lighter.  He carefully roasted the end and drew on it to establish the ember.  He passed the burning cigar to me across the table.

I tasted the smoke and realized the cigar wasn’t one of my regular brand.  It was a luxury brand I only smoked when I was very flush with cash.  I drew on it and enjoyed the rich flavor of fine tobacco.  I smoked and felt like a king.  I’d had a fine meal, excellent whiskey, a good cigar, and had a handsome man to fuss over me.

Walt stood from the table and made a suggestion.  “Why not put something on the radio and enjoy your cigar?  I’ll clean up and join you.”

I moved to the living room and turned on the console radio.  I found an orchestra variety show and sank into the Chesterfield sofa to listen.  Sounds of clinking dishes and tinkling silverware floated from the kitchen and harmonized with the music of Glenn Miller, Benny Goodman, Duke Ellington, and others.  When Walt finished with the dishes, he came to join me.

I had my eyes closed, so I felt more than I heard him approach.  Walt’s steps were silenced by the non-slip soft-soled shoes he wore for work.  He sat on my left, draped his heavy right arm over my shoulders and pulled me into his big, warm body.

“Are you happy?”  He asked me.

I squirmed to fit against him better and sighed in contentment.  “Very.”

I smoked my cigar and rested against Walt’s solid body until I’d smoked the whole thing through.  Walt shared a bit of the cigar.  He tasted the smoke about every third time I drew on it.  He wasn’t a habitual smoker, but he liked the smell of good tobacco when I enjoyed it.  He would occasionally sample whatever I was smoking.

When I’d smoked my cigar down to the band, Walt took the butt from me and rubbed it out in an ashtray.  Just as he did, the voice of Virginia Bruce started on the radio.  She was crooning Cole Porter’s hit love song ‘I’ve Got You Under My Skin.’  The mellow notes wafted from the loudspeaker.

“Would you dance with me?”  Walt whispered.

I tried to refuse.  “I don’t dance.”

“Please.”  He asked sweetly.

I couldn’t refuse to dance with Walt after the evening he’d treated me to.  I stood from the Chesterfield and offered my arms to him.  He held me close and guided us in slow turns around the small living room.  His athletic grace smoothed my uncoordinated movement and made me feel like Ginger Rogers to his Fred Astaire.  That dance made me regret never dancing before.  The tune finished and he kissed me in the short silence at the end of the song.

“Are you ready for bed?”  He breathed over my face.

I nodded.  “I’m more than ready for bed.”  I said with growing enthusiasm.

Walt chuckled a deep, rumbling laugh from inside his chest.  Walt liked when I was eager.  He always said that the energy I had when I was excited made for better sex.  He and I walked hand-in-hand to the bedroom.

*          *          *          *

After our fun and games, I pushed myself off Walt’s body and crawled into bed next to him.  He moved up next to me and pulled the covers over us.  We settled together and Walt gathered my body to his.  He became the bigger of our big spoons and added his heat and masculine scent to the afterglow of our sex.  I relaxed into him and reveled in the feeling of being sexually satisfied and wrapped in Walt’s body.  Walt kissed the side of my face and reminded me of the question I’d asked several times since the start of the evening.

“Do you still want to know what the occasion is?”  He asked, and then went right on with the answer.  “It’s our anniversary.  We’ve been together for three months.”  He kissed me again, squeezed my body lovingly, and closed his eyes to sleep.

Walt drifted into contented dreamland while sirens screamed in my head.  ‘ANNIVERSARY!’ My mind shouted in fear. ‘SINCE WHEN ARE WE A COUPLE?’

I didn’t sleep a wink that night.  My mind swirled with worry and doubt as I wondered when and how I’d changed my status from that of occasionally paying freeloader to PARTNER.

Two awkward days later, I was offered a case in Kensington, which was way the hell away on the other side of the city.  I packed a bag and left without a word.  A week later, I’d brought the case to a successful close, and was headed home with a pocketful of cash.  On the way, I stopped at a bar and got roaring drunk.  The noise I made when I crashed through the front door of my office at two in the morning brought Walt running down the stairs.

Walt was relieved that I was alive, and he was apocalyptically angry about everything else.  He yelled at me for a long time, then he didn’t speak to me for a month.  I apologized eventually because I was hungry and horny.  He let me back into his life, on probation.  After three months of good behavior, we were almost back to where we were before.  Then I fucked it up again.

The pattern repeated several times.  One time, I can’t remember which, Walt swore we were done for good.  “Never again!”  He bellowed.  Five months of frigid silence later, he woke me up one very early morning.  He did it by pounding on my room door like he was trying to break it down.

I thought the building was on fire.  I jerked the door open but found no smoke and no fire.  Instead of a life-threatening emergency, there was Walt in a bathrobe.  He pushed me back into the room, shut and locked the door, and removed his robe.  He wasn’t wearing anything underneath.

I rubbed my face and wondered which one of us was nuts.  “What’s up?”  I asked.

“I’m tired of not having any.”  Walt said and pointed at my underwear.  “Lose the shorts and get in bed.”

I looked at him through my fingers to see if he was fooling around.  He wasn’t.  Other than the early hour, I had no objection to what he wanted.  I did as Walt said and gave him what he demanded.  The sex wasn’t great as Walt was very much in it for himself.  I didn’t mind because I still got to have sex with an attractive man.  He left as soon as he finished.

The next day, Walt gave me the cold shoulder.  The day after, he invited me for dinner and things went back to normal until I fucked up again.

Each time I fucked up, I told myself that if Walt would just let me back in his life, I’d never hurt him again.  Each time he let me back in, I hurt him.  The excuse I gave myself was that Walt asked too much of me.  The plain reality was that I was afraid of the responsibility of a real, long-term relationship.  I was afraid of the anger and violence that I nursed inside me.  I was afraid of ruining Walt’s life.

Instead of committing to him, or shutting him out completely, I made no decision and the cycle repeated like a carousel with no attendant, until Walt had enough.  That morning, as I brooded in my bed, I knew I’d driven him away for good, and I was very lonely.