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The journey into Manhattan took long enough for Charles to question his plan, abandon it entirely, and then recommit several times over. By the time he reached the hotel off Washington Square, he was certain that he was doing the right thing.
He knew Walter Haywood’s influence and was sure that he and Iris would be unable to get their stories published anywhere else of note in New York. He could picture already how the rumors would start to spread about them, beginning with nasty little inferences and eventually turning outright ugly. Doors would be slammed shut; calls would go unreturned. Charles had seen it happen to others, had thought himself lucky, had even congratulated himself on being clever enough to avoid such trouble. Until he invited it with his own damned hubris.
The city was off-limits now. Their only options were to choose escape or wait for exile.
The door to Dickie’s room was ajar when Charles reached his floor, and for a single dreadful moment he thought that he’d disappeared, as he had in Istanbul; that fate had conspired to separate them. But when he pushed the door fully open, there was Dickie Oswin in his shirtsleeves, suitcase open on the bed.
“What good timing,” said Dickie, pushing the door closed behind Charles before giving him a kiss. “I was just about to call you.”
“You were?” asked Charles, glancing over Dickie’s shoulder at the suitcase.
“I’ve been summoned home,” Dickie said, resuming his packing. “Back to Blighty I go.”
Charles watched as Dickie rapidly, efficiently folded clothes, retrieved his shaving kit and comb from the tiny bathroom, and put on his jacket. Charles could have sworn there had been more belongings scattered everywhere, more signs of life, but in mere minutes the room had become bare.
“I would not have left without saying goodbye,” said Dickie, catching the slightly lost look in Charles’s eyes. “Not this time.”
“What if it didn’t have to be goodbye?” Charles asked, snapping back to the moment. “I came here to tell you about a plan.”
“A plan?” Dickie said, amused. “Do tell.”
Charles stepped forward and took Dickie’s hands in his.
“We’re going away,” he said. “Iris and me. And Eleanor. All of us, we’re leaving. Tonight.”
“Leaving?” Dickie asked. “Where exactly do you plan to go?”
“Into the West!” Charles grinned. “We will find a place to live, and any work we can, and Eleanor is going to have a baby, and we will raise it together. Think of it, Richard. What a grand adventure.” He squeezed Dickie’s fingers. “You could come with us.”
“Charles.” Dickie pulled his fingers away. “This is madness.”
“Maybe so.” Charles shrugged. “Perhaps it is all a childish fantasy. They are my stock in trade. Am I so silly to want one to be real? To want more than a life where we have to hide and sneak and lie, like crooks? A life free to be ourselves?”
The mirth drained from Dickie’s eyes, and he looked at Charles with genuine sorrow.
“It would be quite a thing,” he said. “But you know I can’t do that.”
Charles felt a sharp pang in his heart, and nodded. He did know. Had known all the way over here. But he would have regretted it for the rest of his life if he did not at least ask, and in asking the question, let Dickie Oswin know the depth of his feeling.
What chance did he have of ever being a half-decent father if he couldn’t muster up enough courage for that?
He cupped Dickie’s chin in his hand and kissed him softly, savoring the tickle of that mustache one final time. His Errol Flynn. His matinee idol. His secret and only darling.
“Then I think this is goodbye,” he said, finally. “My love.”
Act Three
Kismet
Someone, I tell you, will remember us, even in another time.
Sappho
Chapter 28
