Turtle Bay

Excerpt

Turtle Bay
John Patrick © 2022
All Rights Reserved

Chapter One

Hans

Even after five years in America, Hans still startled every time the telephone rang—an abrupt, clanging sound insisting on attention. Why couldn’t a country capable of producing an atomic bomb be able to create a more discreet way of letting a person know about an incoming call? He vaguely remembered the phones in Ireland giving a soft chime first, before beginning to ring in earnest, but his time there had been short and chaotic, always one step ahead of capture, so he couldn’t be sure.

He didn’t remember the sound of telephones in Germany at all, even though he knew one hung on the wall in the university’s administration office. He pictured it there next to the corkboard but couldn’t reconstruct its sound.

He hoped the new dial telephone would have a more melodious tone. Assuming the phone company ever got around to swapping out his candlestick model for something more modern as they had been promising for months.

The telephone sat atop the counter in the small reception hallway. Hans swiveled his stool and picked up the entire device, bringing the mouthpiece forward and lifting the receiver close to his ear. He was surprised a call had even come through; most of the operators had gone out on strike.

“Schmidt’s Boarding House, Hans Schmidt speaking.”

“Hans, old boy! It’s Wally, up in Albany.”

“Oh, Wally, so good to hear from you. Is this business or pleasure?”

“Business, I’m afraid. I have a live one for you. And don’t forget I’m still on a party line here.”

That was code for anyone could be listening. Hans appreciated the reminder. The boarding house had its own private line, and he sometimes forgot most people outside the city still used party lines. As if to prove the point, Hans heard muffled soft breathing in the background.

He sighed and glanced at the wall clock, mentally rearranging his calendar for the afternoon. “Hold on.” He placed the transmitter back on the desk, switched the receiver to his left hand, and pulled a pad and pencil out of the drawer. He leaned closer to the mouthpiece so he could still be heard. “A day or two’s notice would make a nice change. But go on.”

“Sorry, there was no advance notice this time. He came right up to the counter and said, ‘One-way ticket to New York City, please, next available bus.’ You’ve got two more hours. I’m certain of this one, Hans. We served together.”

“Oh, were you…?”

“No. Nothing like that,” Wally responded. “But I knew, of course.”

“I understand. Greyhound?” Hans asked.

“Yes, arrives at three thirty.”

That was good news at least. The Greyhound terminal was next to Penn Station, which was only a half-hour walk if he hurried.

“Would you recommend Ada or Hans?”

“Oh, Ada for sure, dear boy. This one seems quite skittish. A direct approach won’t do. He needs to see what’s possible,” Wally replied. “He’s a good kid, Hans. Don’t let him get swallowed up by the Y.”

“Understood, and thanks for the tip. What will he be wearing?”

Wally laughed, and the connection broke up a bit. “Oh, not to worry. You can’t miss him.” Hans heard a click as someone hung up, or perhaps someone else picked up to check if the line was available.

“Will you be coming down yourself anytime soon?” Hans asked. “You absolutely must see David Brooks in Brigadoon. He’s in a kilt most of the time. We could make a weekend of it.”

“That sounds grand! Maybe next month.”

They exchanged a few additional pleasantries and ended the call.

Hans needed at least an hour to get Ada ready, and he was thankful he hadn’t yet put on cologne. He’d planned a shopping trip this afternoon to resupply a few staples—coffee, tea, and biscuits for the ladies’ reception parlor—but that could be rescheduled. But he couldn’t put it off for too long; the ladies did not like to run out of biscuits during their social hour.

As he descended the stairs to Ada’s room on the garden level—a New York euphemism for below ground—he was reminded how much easier things were for men. He wore a simple gray suit with a narrow navy tie, appropriate for all seasons and conservatively bland. Why, a fellow could disappear into any crowd wearing such an outfit.

Ada, though—she had a much tougher go of it. It was spring, technically, but still quite chilly. She’d need something…delightful. Yes, Hans thought, that was the right word. Not too frivolous, but sufficiently feminine to show the world there was still joy in beauty. But she’d also need to wear an outercoat and sensible enough shoes for a bit of a walk. She wouldn’t want to invite scrutiny, but she’d want people to see her and appreciate the effort she’d made.

Hans stepped into Ada’s room and opened the closet. He considered his options. He’d have to use last spring’s coat; he hadn’t had the time or funds to completely reoutfit this season. But it would do the job. It was robin’s-egg blue with a fitted waist rather than a belt. Five oversized white buttons ran down its length. Sadly, American fashion houses continued to insist on outrageously padded shoulders even now, nearly two years after the war’s end.

A thrill ran through Hans as he stood in front of Ada’s closet. It always did, right before the transformation.

He eyed the spring dress he’d bought two weeks ago and knew it would be perfect. He took it out of the closet and laid it flat on the bed. It was a creamy off-white cotton, with a hint of pink. It dropped to midcalf and had a layer of tulle underneath the skirt—an extravagant use of material that would have been unthinkable only a year ago, when rationing and scarcity were just starting to give way. Large red cherries created a pattern, and a back zipper allowed for a smooth, uninterrupted front.

Hans removed his suit and his baggy, shapeless boxers, making a mental note to remember to take the clothes back to his own room, behind the kitchen. He spent the next half hour on underclothing and shapewear, then makeup, and finally a softly curling blonde wig that matched his natural hair color.

Hans was more comfortable dressed as a woman than he was dressed as a man. He always had been; it’s what got him in trouble back in Germany.

Dressed as a woman, Hans absolutely sparkled. His slight frame and delicate features fit Ada better than they fit Hans, and more than once he wondered what it would have been like to have been born as Ada. He’d met men who claimed to actually be women, deep inside, but he didn’t fully grasp that. At the heart of it, Hans liked being a man and being attracted to other men. He just liked dressing and acting like a woman sometimes.

It was enough for him.

The dress itself—the item everyone saw—was the easiest part but for the back zipper, which he managed eventually.

He slipped on square-heeled navy shoes, tied a gauzy pink scarf around his hair as protection against the breeze, and then headed out the door.

An hour later, Hans stood inside the sleek and modern Pennsylvania Greyhound terminal. It was one of the many things Hans loved about this country: that something as pedestrian as a bus station could be so boldly futuristic, with its captivating blue steel walls and its wide, curved windows.

The Albany bus arrived on time, and Hans took a seat on a wooden bench directly opposite the bay where the bus had come to a stop. He waited patiently for the passengers to disembark and make their way into the terminal.

At least two dozen men and women entered the terminal before Hans spotted who he was looking for.

Wally had been right—there was no mistaking him.

He was just a slip of a man. If it hadn’t been for his disciplined posture and the military duffel flung over his shoulder, he could easily have been mistaken for a boy. Still, there was something undeniably feminine about him, his fluid walk maybe, or the way his eyes continually cast about but never landed on one object for long. Hans marveled once again at the homosexual’s uncanny ability to spot a kindred soul.

He had carrot-red hair cut close to his head, and his dark-eyed gaze darted about the terminal building. He saw the sign for the gentlemen’s toilets and headed in that direction. Hans assessed him as one of the lucky ones—too young to have served during the worst of the conflict. He’d probably spent the last couple of years posted in France or occupied Germany.

Hans waited by the exit.

Eventually, the fellow came through the waiting room and headed toward the main entryway, chin up with a look of cautious determination on his face. Hans was waiting for him with a map of the city.

When he came close, Hans stepped forward, partly blocking his path. “Welcome to New York, young man,” Hans said cheerily. He held out the folding map. “Here’s a map for you. I can help orient you if you’re not sure where you are in relation to where you’re heading. Please tell me you’re not heading for the Y.”

The man looked bewildered but accepted the map. The new arrivals always took what was handed to them. It would be impolite to refuse! They got over that fast. And of course he’d be heading to the Y. They were always headed to the Y.

“Oh, I—” he began. “Are you—?”

“Oh, my manners,” said Hans. “I’m Ada.” He held out his hand, and the young man took it, seemingly bewildered as to what to do with a glamorous woman’s hand. He held it for the briefest of seconds, then dropped it.

“Johnny,” he replied.

Oh, those diminutive American nicknames! Johnny, Jimmy, Billy, Tony.

Johnny looked about the terminal, probably checking to see if any other travelers had been approached by strangers with maps. Hans very lightly pressed his fingertips to Johnny’s elbow and steered him toward the door. As they stepped into the noise and chaos of New York City, Hans slipped on sunglasses, and Johnny held his hand above his eyes to block the glare.

“And if you are going to the Y, please tell me it’s not the one on Sixty-Third Street.”

“What? Well, yes—I— Who are you?”

“I’m Ada Werner. Sixty-Third Street is this way.” Hans nodded his head toward Seventh Avenue. “Though you really shouldn’t.” He could tell Johnny wanted to cut him loose, but he was counting on the young man being too polite to simply dismiss a woman who was just trying to be helpful. “It’s thirty blocks. Would you like to stop for a coffee first? My treat?”

“No, thank you, ma’am. I’d best be on my way, then.” He picked up his pace, and Hans had to forcefully grab his arm to prevent him from stepping in front of a cab at the corner of Thirty-Third Street. “Careful there, soldier,” Hans said. Johnny glanced at him questioningly. “I’m assuming you’re newly discharged? You have that look about you.”

“What look is that?” he asked once they were safely on the opposite sidewalk.

“The look of a young man who’s had his eyes opened to the possibilities in the world while serving his country abroad. One who can no longer imagine a life for himself in Albany.” A workman with a brown paper bag wrapped around a bottle wolf-whistled at Hans as he walked by. Johnny frowned at the man, but Hans put an extra sway in his hips as they passed.

“Wait a minute. How did you know I’m from Albany?”

“You got off the Albany bus, didn’t you?”

They veered around a vendor selling oranges and chewing gum from a cart blocking most of the sidewalk.

“You’ve been watching me? Who are you?” Johnny asked again. He sounded nervous, but Hans knew he wouldn’t make a scene. They were in public, and Ada was a woman, after all, so what could possibly happen?

“All right, the truth is I run a boarding house.”

“Ah-ha!” exclaimed Johnny. “I knew something was up. It’s like the taxi driver who takes you to his cousin’s place instead of the hotel you’ve booked.” Johnny nodded, seemingly pleased that he’d spotted the scam.

“Oh, darling,” Hans said, looping his arm through Johnny’s. “Nobody actually books in advance at the Y. Surely you don’t have a reservation?”

“Well, no…but that’s not the point.” He glanced down at Hans’s delicately painted nails resting on his forearm.

“Oh, there was a point?”

Johnny didn’t say anything, and Hans patted his arm reassuringly. “It’s fine. It’s good to be suspicious in the city.” They walked alongside a grate in the sidewalk, and the sound of a train rumbling by underground, along with a damp, ripe smell, rose up through the metal.

“Well, my point is that I operate a respectable boarding house for a…certain type of man.” Hans gave Johnny’s bicep a brief squeeze.

“What…what type of man?” Hans could tell Johnny was starting to panic. It was time to move this along. Wally had been right; if he’d approached Johnny as Hans, the fellow surely would have bolted by now.

Hans lowered his voice to a more natural tone, pulled Johnny to a stop, and whispered, “Why, men like us, of course.”

“Us?” Johnny stammered. “Are you—? Do you mean—?”

“I am, yes. As are many, many others in this city.”

“I…don’t know what you mean.” Johnny attempted to pull away, but Hans tightened his grip.

“Of course you do. And do you think I’d be dressed like this if I was pulling your leg?”

Johnny stood perfectly still, breathing heavily. Hans was concerned he might run. “Look, you can go to the Y if you’d like. But you’ll get lost there. There’re six hundred rooms! It’s easy to get pulled into a…lifestyle you may not be looking for.” Johnny stiffened. Hans lowered his voice. “I’m not talking about homosexuals generally, of course; the place is filled with men like us. It’s just that so much of it is only about…sex. And the young attractive men like yourself can be targets for worse. I’ve seen it happen—they start selling their bodies, becoming addicts of one sort or another.”

This was the moment. Either the idea of such freedom appealed to Johnny, or Hans had managed to scare him off just a little. Plenty of young men came to New York seeking exactly that life, and Hans hoped Johnny wasn’t one of them.

“Listen, come see my boarding house first. It’s small—only fifteen rooms—and I have strict rules about behavior, but you’d be safe there and surrounded by like-minded men. We can help you get established. You’ll make friends. I have two nice open rooms you could choose from.”

Hans saw that Johnny was thinking about it. “It’s a bit more expensive than the Y, but much cleaner and quieter. I can give you some time to find work and start earning money first, if that’s an issue.”

They both stood there on the corner. A crowd moved tightly around them when the light turned green. Hans let go of Johnny’s arm. He’d have to make up his own mind now. “It’s only five blocks away.” Avenues, actually, which were quite long, but Hans didn’t offer that. “It’s in Turtle Bay, where the United Nations is going to be built! At least come have coffee and see the place; then you can decide.”

Johnny looked up Seventh Avenue, toward Sixty-Third Street. Then he turned to Hans. “All right, then.”

Hans smiled.

“You know, you’re kind of pushy for a broad, though, right?”