Chapter Eight: A Peculiar Torment

The bookkeeper looked her up and down, a perplexing expression on her aged face. Christine had now spent over a week looking for the written works of her new friend, Arthur. This bookstore, small as it was, was her Hail Mary. If she couldn't find it here, then she was quite convinced she would never find it. Christine was nearly certain Arthur had sent her on a wild goose chase for books that simply do not exist, which infuriated but amused her.

She had grown to love Arthur as though he were a brotherly figure over her two months of employment at The Gilded Cage. He was still somewhat secretive about his life outside of work, but he was so open and warm she felt as though she could open up to him about anything.

"Are you sure you are looking for a book by R. Ham?" The bookkeeper raised a skeptical eyebrow.

Christine released a deflated sigh. "Yes, but at this point I feel I'll never find it. Thank you, regardless." She turned to exit the shop but was stopped when the woman spoke after her.

"I didn't say we don't have it, miss." Her Brooklyn accent was thick, her tone no-nonsense. Christine spun around with big, hopeful eyes and the woman continued. "It's just, pardon me for saying this, but you're not exactly the type I would peg for reading that sort of…literature."

Christine placed an indignant fist on one hip in a defiant gesture. "I believe that I should be the one to make that sort of call."

The woman shook her head in an unreadable expression. "I'm not here to judge." She chuckled a knowing chuckle then held up an index finger as though to say, 'just one minute.' "I'll be right back; we don't keep those sorts of books on the public shelves. We only present them on request, as I'm sure you can imagine." Quietly stepping from behind the counter she disappeared into the back.

Excitement began to bubble in Christine's breast. At long last, the mystery of Arthur's writing would be revealed. She anxiously picked up a random book from a shelf and went through the motions of attempting to skim through it as she waited. Only minutes passed before the older woman emerged from the back carrying a thin paperback book.

"This is the only title we currently have available." The bookkeeper placed the small tome on the counter. "You didn't specify a title, so I'm assuming this will do?"

Christine reached for her small purse and fished around for currency. "Oh yes! Any title will do. What do I owe you?"

The woman named her price and Christine immediately paid up. Clutching her prize in her hand she felt somewhat triumphant, her quest having a successful outcome. She thanked the woman and began to make her exit, book in hand.

"Miss, I would keep that in your purse if I were you. I wouldn't let the public see you carrying that."

Christine froze and furrowed her brow but did as suggested. Her interest was truly piqued. Something about the book was forbidden to the general public and she was anxious to understand why.

The bookstore was blocks away from Central Park and she was keen on a location which offered a bit of seclusion for such a big metropolitan area. The suspense was eating her inside and she brusquely walked towards the park, her new acquisition burning a proverbial hole in her bag. A part of her was fearful she was about to learn something about her dear friend which perhaps he had wished to keep private. Would such a discovery indelibly alter her opinion of him? Christine mentally shook her head, 'Of course not, Arthur has a good heart. There cannot be anything that could possibly give cause for my disapproval of him.'

She ducked and weaved between pedestrians milling about the sidewalk. The humid summer air held to her every movement as though attempting to slow her down. Summer in this city felt relentless. The heat of the paved street could be felt through the soles of her thin kitten-heel shoes, reminding her how precariously close they were to simply fall apart on her feet. Shining them merely maintained their outward appearance but all the walking she had accomplished since moving to New York had greatly compromised their structural integrity over time. She could foresee a necessary trip to the shoe shop in her immediate future.

Entering Central Park was like entering a separate reality. The blaring sounds of automobiles, shouting construction workers, and trolley cars seemed to evaporate as she made her way deeper into the lush, green tree lined pathway of the metropolitan oasis. Her favorite location to seek solace and fresh air was located near a small bridge. In a nook was a bench which she nearly always found to be vacant, as though it was a hidden gem in the city only she possessed the knowledge of.

Christine reverently prepared her spot on the cool cement bench, brushing a few stray leaves from the looming tree above which cast a blessed wealth of shade. Her heart was pounding in her chest as though she was a delinquent school child who was committing petty theft and getting away with it. Eager fingers quickly worked on the clasp of her purse and slipped out the lightweight paperback.

A deep wine-colored cover with a simple white typeface presented the title to the reader.

A Peculiar Torment,

By .

Christine flipped to the first page and began to read. Arthur was an effective writer, she decided, possessing the ability to artfully string together words and phrases in a manner which was poetic yet not too flowery. The lead character, Clyde, was a young man attempting to navigate his way in New York City as a struggling trumpet player.

From the beginning it all seemed to read like any regular novel, but things started to veer from the typical when Clyde attended a party at a wealthy man's penthouse residence. Christine's eyes grew as large as saucers as a torrid scene began to play out on the black and white pages of the book. Never had she read anything of this nature. Men were doing graphically vivid sexual acts on other men. Arthur used all five senses in his writing so much so that a part of her felt as though she truly had entered into this raucous scene of rutting men. Descriptions of sweat, bodies and fluids were abundant.

Christine was not innocent when it came to the world of sex, but her singular experience was terribly awkward, unsatisfying and so short-lived she could nearly claim it never occurred. Women lost their virginity with disappointment all the time, there really was no tragedy in that, but she vowed to wait for real love before giving herself to another again.

With a blush from head to toe Christine continued to follow the illicit exploits of Clyde as he tried to find himself through the Manhattan night life, performing physical acts on other men to make his way until eventually falling in love with a heterosexual man who he knew could never have.

'There is no peculiar torment more pronounced than giving your heart to a man with preferences that do not align with your own.'

With that final sentence Christine closed the book and let out a heavy breath. This was Arthur's secret; this was a part of who he was.

Christine was not naïve; she knew society was cruel to members of the homosexual community. There were laws in this very city which persecuted people like Arthur. Meg had told Christine of a male ballerina at the Metropolitan who was arrested and convicted of sodomy after being seen kissing another man. Meg had delivered this news with hushed tones, as though speaking of it was in itself a crime.

There were reasons Arthur kept his identity a secret, Christine knew this. Her heart ached as she contemplated the injustice of it all. Yet she felt immensely grateful Arthur had trusted her with something as telling as his penname. She vowed he would never regret allowing her to glimpse into his private world.

Placing the book back into her bag, she stood and brushed the back of her skirt. Head full of evocative sex scenes, she made her way towards The Gilded Cage excited to see her friend. She had one or two questions to ask.