I am not Raymond Wallace by Sam Kenyon

Author:Sam Kenyon
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Inkandescent
Published: 2022-09-15T00:00:00+00:00

TWELVE

The following weeks—those leading up to Christmas 1963—will prove to be the happiest of Raymond’s life. He fits into the world of the Maniscalco men like a piece into a jigsaw, and they discuss Christmas together with childlike excitement.

Meanwhile, contrary to Dolores’ ambitions, by the time the December 17th deadline for Doty’s article approaches, Doty has already had both the headline and ninety per cent of his article approved at the highest level. All the same, when Doty leaves that Friday night in the middle of December he does so with a stern word to Raymond. ‘You’re the custodian of this,’ he says, putting his hat on his head as though in punctuation. ‘Don’t disappoint me.’

Raymond smiles reassuringly and shakes Doty’s hand. ‘Have a good Christmas,’ he says.

‘Unlikely,’ says Doty. ‘The wife’s family. But thank you. You too.’

That Sunday, Raymond, Joey and Papà take a trip to Central Park where they watch the skaters, and Raymond wonders what it might be to glide arm in arm with Joey. At one point, Joey puts his arm casually around Raymond’s shoulders.

‘Smile,’ says Papà, his camera poised.

Joey and Raymond grin guileless grins as the shutter clicks and captures them, forever.

On Monday afternoon Raymond knocks on Bukowski’s door.

‘Come in,’ says Bukowski.

‘Hi,’ says Raymond, and closes the door behind him.

Bukowski sits squarely at his desk, his pen poised over a type-written page. ‘The Doty article,’ he says, looking at the pages Raymond is holding.

‘Yes,’ says Raymond, handing over the script. ‘Update from yesterday: another bar lost its license—The Fawn, on Washington Street. I adjusted the opening paragraphs to reflect this.’

Bukowski reads these and nods. ‘Ok. Anything else?’

Raymond tilts his head in disappointed acceptance. ‘The final few paragraphs contain the key additions I made,’ he says, watching nervously as Bukowski jumps to that section. ‘It’s not much,’ he says, ‘but I think for those who do read the article in its entirety, it at least leaves us in the hands of the ... subjects themselves.’

Bukowski reads silently. He flicks back to the opening, rolls his shoulders, then rereads Raymond’s adjusted sections. ‘Do we need this “strange, ambivalent attitude of the homosexuals themselves”?’

‘It’s one of my least favourite lines, and there’s some pretty stiff competition for that particular prize,’ says Raymond, surprised at his own candour, ‘but it’s one of Doty’s from an earlier edit, and I think it politic to deploy it here. If nothing else, it reveals the partisan nature of the writer.’ Raymond pauses. ‘Actually, I also added the paragraph a third of the way down column three,’ he says.

‘Show me,’ says Bukowski, scanning the page.

‘Here,’ says Raymond, pointing at the passage, ‘under Blackmail feared,’ he says and then immediately wishes he hadn’t said it out loud.

Bukowski bites his lower lip. ‘Illinois, huh?’ he says. ‘Okay. And what about this other guy at the end, the guy from...Mattachine, is it?’

‘Insisted on anonymity. But I think his words are no less powerful for that. And it’s really as a trade-off for that line of Doty’s

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