Over the weekend, Martin watched as Peter searched though his clothes for the best combination to conceal his thinness. He tried on outfit after outfit. He ate as much as he could stand. Tuesday morning, he gave Martin money to buy liquor on the way back from morning classes. Martin returned in the middle of the day with the gin, Scotch, mixes, and a bundle of yellow and white carnations. Then he was off to teach his two o’clock and hold office hours.
At five-twenty, Martin was back, breathless. Inside the door he stopped dead. The bed was made, set up as a sort of sofa with bolsters. The flowers stood like a frozen sunburst at the center of the table in the alcove surrounded by liquor decanters, glasses, an ice bucket, tongs, and three symmetrical stacks of small blue-and-yellow paper napkins—as if for a full-fledged cocktail party. Peter was in the yellow wing chair fully dressed in a white turtleneck, a loose fitting wine-colored cardigan buttoned at the navel, and royal blue slacks. His hair was combed back. His face was fuller than Martin had ever seen it. Peter almost looked fat. Martin switched on the desk light and gaped at him.
“Turn the light off,” Peter snapped.
“What have you done to yourself?”
“What do you think? Will they be able to tell?”
“You look healthier than I’ve ever seen you. Fess up.”
“Stuffing,” Peter whispered. “See?” He lifted his shirt and showed Martin the wadding inside. “And make-up. I told you I studied at the Academy. One of the things a dancer knows is make-up. I spent most of the afternoon on it. Does it show?”
“No. I can’t believe it.”
“Now, two things are very important. The first is that nobody turn on too many lights. And second, I don’t want them to get any closer to me than they absolutely have to.”
“Won’t your mother want to hug you?”
“I thought of that. I’m going to tell her I’m still infectious.”
“God, you’re amazing.”
“Think it’ll work?”
Throughout dinner and dishes, Peter reviewed every detail of the plot. While Martin dry-mopped the kitchen floor, Peter filled the ice bucket, turned off the lights except the lamp on the desk, the floor lamp behind the wing chair, and the overhead bulb in the kitchen. He put the soundtrack from Breakfast at Tiffany’s on the stereo, lowered the volume, and went to the bathroom. By six-forty-five, he was lolling in the wing chair, cigarette drooping from his outstretched fingers, his face a mask of insouciant laze.
“Martin, put your coat and tie on.”
Martin tied his tie in front of the mirror in the hall. “Aren’t you tired?”
“Exhausted.” Peter grinned. “Get me a drink. And get yourself one, so they’ll think we’ve been lounging around sloshing a few.”
“You’re enjoying this.”
“See the decanter with the metal tag on it that says ‘Scotch’?”
Martin’s stomach shifted. Of all drinks, why did it have to be Scotch?
“It’s not Scotch,” Peter said. “It’s tea. Serve me that. The real Scotch is in the other bottle.”
Martin poured the tea over ice cubes.
“That’s another trick I learned in New York,” Peter said. “Cold tea looks exactly like booze. On stage—”
A knock. Peter put his index finger to his lips and checked the room once more. Another knock. Peter lounged back, lit a fresh cigarette, and crossed his legs. He tipped his head toward the door. Martin opened it.
In the hall stood a ruddy frowning man in a navy pinstripe three-piece suit and a stocky woman in a black crepe pantsuit, three-inch heels, and shoulder length, black, Dolly Parton hair. The man was Martin’s age and size, but he was in better shape and had far less hair and no beard. He stood erect, like a man used to depending on his body, a woodsman or athlete. His eyes caught Martin’s attention. Sadness congealed into hostility as he watched Martin’s face.
The woman seemed too young to be Peter’s mother. No gray in her rigid hair, no lines visible in her carefully made-up face. She wore a crystal pendant with matching earrings, dangling transparent spheres, that swung as she moved her head to peer past Martin into the darkened apartment. When she put her hands to her mouth, Martin saw that they were veined and wrinkled. “I’m terribly sorry,” she said in a drawl. She stepped back, wrinkled her brow, and squinted at the number on the door. “We were trying to find 736.”
“This is it,” Martin said. “Mr. and Mrs. Christopher?” He opened the door wide and stepped back.
The woman gave him an exaggerated smile, all teeth between stretched, glossed lips, and moved uncertainly into the apartment, the man at her elbow. They peeped into the half-light.
“Peter,” the woman cried.
“Hold it, Mom.” Peter thrust the palm of his hand toward her. “I’m still infectious. Better not come too close. Mom, Dad, Martin James.”
“Alicia and Roger,” she said. “How do you do, Mr. James?”
“It’s Doctor James, mother,” Peter said.
Alicia appraised Martin. “You’re Peter’s doctor?”
“No, no. A friend.”
“Goodness,” Alicia said. “Peter’s moving up in the world.”
“Not really,” Martin laughed. “I’m not a physician. College professor. Call me Martin.”
Alicia frowned as though she sensed something awry.
“Sit down, everyone,” Peter said with sudden graciousness. “I hope you’ll excuse me for staying put, but I’m ’bout wore out.” He laughed and put out his cigarette. “The doctor told me to take it easy, but Martin and I did a couple of sets of tennis. One probably would have been enough.”
Martin gawked at him. He gave Martin a fatuous smile.
“You’re out playing tennis and you’re still infectious?” Alicia said.
Martin tightened his jaw and pulled up chairs from the desk and dining alcove.
“Ain’t that the damnedest thing?” Peter said. “Actually, except for being a little weak, I’m completely over being sick, but I can’t go back to work yet. Board of Health would have a fit.”
“I thought you told me you had pneumonia.” Alicia fumbled in her purse, pulled out a filigreed cigarette case and a jeweled lighter. “And since when is pneumonia infectious?”
“Some kinds are. What I have is. Viral pneumonia. Ask Martin.”
Martin could have slugged him. “Certainly. Yes. Viral, you know, it’s really bad stuff. You don’t see me going near him.” Martin joined in the polite laughter.
“What’re you drinking?” Peter sparkled. He leaned forward, his arms folded on his knees. “Martin, would you mind doing the honors? Don’t want to spread my germs.”
Martin felt more and more like a player in a late afternoon rerun. “What’ll it be?”
“Gin and tonic,” Alicia said, “and double the gin. Been a long day, and I’m drier than a dromedary during drought.”
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