Jeorge Bennett Watson, Stephen Spinella, Ken Barnett Photo by Maria Baranova

Jerome, by the way, isn't a character. Or is, but a place rather than a person: Jerome, Arizona, where Caswell grew up and learned to hate himself, homophobia being the default mode among his family and townspeople, as his program note helpfully articulates. It's a mining town, and a GHOST CITY, a downstage bulletin board informs us. It's also "blood-red," as Doane (Watson) puts it, but a comfy refuge for him and Cornelius, Con for short (Spinella), his partner of many years. It's 1992, and they're at the Northern Arizona Pride Alliance Bloodsucker Ball, on Halloween.

These guys are Korean War vets in their 60s, set in their ways and adjusting uncertainly to the infirmities creeping up on them. But when Con suggests juicing up their staid sex life with a ménage à trois, in the first of Caswell's too-convenient coincidences, Bruin (Barnett) instantly appears and is eager to oblige. He's younger, handsomer, and seemingly a nice, affable guy at first. But he has, and if he didn't there wouldn't be a play, secrets.

After some hot sex–rendered offstage, but graphically enough aurally that I was surprised not to see an intimacy coordinator billed–Bruin becomes a fixture in the Con-Doane household. He's increasingly moody, drinks too much, makes mysterious phone calls. Conflicts heat up: Doane, outwardly a decent, caring, solid man, has one glaring drawback, his denial that Con, his ailments worsening, isn't going to be around forever. Con, with the tart tongue so common to gay men of his generation, is easily upset and determined to visit the Italian Riviera before it's too late. Bruin is often drunk and surly or noncommunicative, and panicky about the AIDS threat. (Caswell's timing is off here: By the early 1990s, AZT was widely available, and HIV wasn't quite the death sentence it had been ten years prior. One wonders if he set Jerome in 1992-94 just to squeeze in a reference to Tom Hanks in Philadelphia.) Arguments well up and quickly subside, and fantasy elements intervene: Christmas trees come to life, and the second act opens with Bruin having a disturbing dream, or I hope it's a dream. And the finale, with some seemingly unresolvable issues resolved and the three men volleying pleasantries in fetching white linen–is it to be taken at face value? Are we in heaven? Italy? Both?

But the proceedings are consistently compelling, and Dustin Wills's direction keeps a sharp focus and gives the actors ample opportunity to shine. Watson, with a mellifluous baritone, is sturdy and simpatico; just the way his Doane gazes at Con conveys a deep and abiding love. Barnett felt a little stiff at the outset, but he loosens up and helps us understand why Bruin is so tense and scattered.

Wills also did the scenic design. Initially it's disappointing, a downstage tinsel curtain and banner meant to convey a whole crowded Halloween bash. But, aided by Barbara Samuels's lighting and Leah Gelpe's excellent sound design, he goes on to create some marvelous effects: a full-size rowboat bobbing on the water, a first act curtain with the floor giving way and the earth swallowing up Bruin–an arresting image and an apt metaphor for what's happening to him at the moment.

There's plenty of gay onstage these days, of course, but not a lot of exploration of average longtime couples struggling with the ravages of age and backing each other up in quiet, tender ways. Caswell appears to know this territory well, and he knows how to set up a joke, one that stems entirely from the characters. (Con: "Get cozy, we'll watch 'Murder, She Wrote.'" Bruin: "I hate Angela Lansbury!" Con, after a beat: "What a horrible thing to say.") Jerome swerves in odd directions at times, and could lose maybe 20 minutes. But these three guys feel real, and their travails, individual and interpersonal, do reach the heart. And in Stephen Spinella's timing, precision, vocal prowess, and unbridled outpouring of honest but never excessive emotion, we have a master class: Folks, this is how it's done.