“I’m an Irishman from Georgia.” He paused and corrected himself, “An industrious Irishman from Georgia.”

“And what about Abraham?” I ventured.

“He’s an industrious businessman from Boston.”

“You know what I’m asking you,” I chided, looking over my shoulder to ensure none of the game’s attendees could hear our impromptu soul-revealing conversation.

“He pays me for my modeling,” Cal replied without shame.

“But not for fucking him?” The words made my stomach churn, but I’d been dying to ask them and somehow, in my church, I’d mustered the courage to do it.

He shook his head, not offended by the inquiry. “I do that for free.”

I wanted to die. I had thought the worst possible thing he could have said was that he was a prostitute, but I quickly realized it was more devastating to bear that he wasn’t. “Why do you do that?”

“Sleep with him?” Cal asked, seemingly surprised by the inquiry. “I don’t know. I got used to it, I think it’s like brushing my teeth or reading a book.”

“Reading a good book?”

“A mediocre book,” he laughed. “Significantly less engaging than those I read with you.”

Suddenly, I felt inexplicably comforted. “Why don’t you toss it aside then? Are you afraid if you do he will do the same to you?”

“I’m not afraid of anything,” Cal promised.

I envied him. I was fearful of so much. I didn’t know how to respond as I stared at Kiki Cuyler, wishing he’d give me advice like he gave to Billy Jurges and that Cal would become so irate from the counsel he’d shoot me in the side.

“Do you want me to stop sleeping with him?” Cal asked after several quiet moments.

“I do,” I admitted, my mouth speaking before I had a chance to regulate it.

“Will you stop too?” he inquired, his voice more unsure than I had ever heard it.

“I haven’t slept with anyone since I slept with you,” I told Cal as I waved the hot dog vendor over to us.

“I hate that you have the advantage,” Cal said, thanking the man who handed him the wrapped delicacy. “What should we do about it?”

“I think it’s more about what you’re not going to do.”

“Sleep with other people?” he asked, nodding as he answered his own question. “For me it will only be you.”

“Because you want that or you think I do?” I attempted to clarify.

“It’s one and the same,” Cal said with such conviction I believed it.

Hope.

14

August 1933