Significant Others

by Armistead Maupin

  “Mom,” chirped Anna. “Let’s go down there. It’s pretty next to the river.”

  DeDe draped her arm across her daughter’s shoulders. “Sounds good to me. What about you, Edgar?”

  “I like the river,” said her son.

  DeDe turned to D’or. “How’s it look on your map? Anything we should know about down there?”

  Her lover caught the irony in her tone and reprimanded her with a frown. Then she said: “The Womb is up at the next cove, but that’s fairly far away.”

  “The Womb,” echoed DeDe, deadpanning. “I’m almost afraid to ask.”

  D’or lifted the bundled tent and began to stride toward the river. “If you’re going to be snide about everything, I’d rather not hear it.”

  DeDe let it go. Turning back to the twins, she checked for dangling or abandoned gear, then said: “Now stick close, you guys. This is uncharted territory we’re heading into.”

  “Oh, sure,” said Anna, rolling her eyes.

  DeDe helped Edgar rearrange the weight on his backpack, then hurried to catch up with D’or. “O.K.,” she said. “Tell me about the Womb.”

  “Don’t patronize me.”

  “I’m interested, O.K.?”

  D’or hesitated, then said: “It’s a place women can go when they need emotional support. This is a big festival … people can get hurt.”

  DeDe visualized a tent full of wailing women, all boring the Birkenstocks off the poor dyke who’d pulled Womb duty. But she now knew better than to say so. “It sounds very supportive,” she told D’or.

  When the time came to pitch their tents, they chose a stretch of riverfront property separated from the other campers by a stand of madrone trees. No one, not even D’or, had the slightest idea as to which plastic rods went where, but the process of finding out drew the family together in a way that warmed DeDe’s heart.

  Afterwards, flushed with their achievement, the four of them crammed into the larger tent and sat staring out at the light dancing on the water. They had been there only a matter of minutes when someone approached through the madrone trees.

  The head that appeared through the tent flap had been shaved just short of bald. The remaining hair had been etched with a female symbol, with the circle part at the crown and the cross coming down to the forehead.

  “Hello there,” said the woman, smiling at them.

  “Hi,” they chorused.

  She extended her hand to D’or. “I’m Rose Dvorak.”

  “I’m D’orothea Wilson. This is my lover, DeDe Halcyon … and our kids, Edgar and Anna.”

  The woman looked at Edgar for a moment longer than necessary, then addressed D’or. “I saw you come in. Just wanted to welcome you.”

  “Oh,” said D’or. “Are you … uh … with the Wimminwood staff?”

  Rose smiled in a way that was meant to convey both mystery and authority. “I’m pretty much all over.”

  Great, thought DeDe. Thanks for sharing that. “Do you know the way to the dining area?” she asked.

  “Sure,” said Rose. “If you come out, I can show you.”

  DeDe left the tent and followed Rose to the other side of the madrone trees. “Look,” said Rose, when they were out of earshot. “That boy can’t stay here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Don’t play dumb. This is women-only space.”

  “But he’s not ten yet. He’s only eight.”

  “Ten is the cutoff date for attendance. He still can’t camp on women-only space. That’s made perfectly clear in the regulations.”

  “Well, Jesus … what are we supposed to do with him? Float him on a raft in the river?”

  The woman gave her a long, steely stare. “Have you read the regulations? Maybe that would help.”

  “Well, I’ve—”

  “There’s a separate compound for boys under ten. It’s over next to the—”

  “A compound?” said DeDe. “Give me a break. A compound?”

  “It’s called Brother Sun,” said Rose.

  “So … my daughter can stay with me, but my son has to be … deported?”

  “I never used that word,” said Rose.

  DeDe was livid. This was Sophie’s Choice without the choice. “Well, this is truly sick. This is really the dumbest thing I’ve ever …”

  “They should have told you at the gate,” said Rose. “I don’t know why they didn’t.”

  “Yeah. Must have been an oversight on the part of a human being.”

  Rose’s eyes narrowed noticeably. “I have an obligation to report the boy. My job is to ensure that this remains Women-only space. If you’re not willing to comply with the rules, you’re free to leave at any time.”

  DeDe faltered, then turned, hearing D’or approach. “What’s the matter?” D’or asked Rose.

  “It’s Edgar,” said DeDe. “His wee-wee is a major threat.”

  D’or met the remark with a scowl and spoke to Rose. “He’s not ten, you know.”

  “Ten has nothing to do with it,” said DeDe.

  This time D’or gave her a look which said: Shut up and let me talk to the woman.

  “We have a separate camp for the boys,” Rose explained, sounding far more placatory than she had with DeDe. “It’s a courtesy we provide for women who can’t leave their kids at home. If you’d like to see the facility …”

  “But we came here as a family,” said D’or. “Surely you can bend the rules enough to …”

  Rose shook her head, a maddening smirk on her face. “You know where that would lead.” She turned and swaggered away, yelling her final edict over her shoulder. “The person to see is Laurie at Brother Sun. I’ll check with her later to see if he’s situated.”

  “Let’s go home,” said DeDe.

  “Now wait a minute.”

  “I won’t stand for this, D’or. That woman will not tell me what to …”

  “I know, I know.” D’or slipped her arm around DeDe’s waist. “She’s a bitch. I’ll grant you that.”

  DeDe felt a sudden urge to cry. At this rate, she’d be down at the Womb before she knew it. “D’or … why didn’t you tell me about this compound business?”

  “I didn’t know, hon. Honest.”

  “Well, I think we should just leave. I couldn’t possibly tell Edgar …”

  “Hang on, now. We don’t know what it’s like. It could be very nice.”

  “Forget it.”

  “He’d be with other boys his own age. Haven’t we talked about that? It would be like summer camp … only we’d be just a few hundred yards away. And we could visit him all the time.”

  “But he couldn’t visit us. He’d feel excluded.”

  “How do you know, hon? He doesn’t wanna go to the concerts. He told us so himself.”

  This was true enough, DeDe decided. Or were they just rationalizing their way out of a difficult situation? What if Edgar didn’t understand? What if this marred him for life?

  “Tell you what,” said D’or. “Let’s you and me go see this Laurie person at the boys’ camp. If the place is the pits, we’ll scrap the whole thing … pack our gear and find a good public campground somewhere in the area.”

  DeDe nodded tentatively. D’or was at her very best when building bridges over troubled waters.

  Brother Sun turned out to be far nicer than DeDe had imagined. There were at least a dozen boys, and most of them were Edgar’s age. Wasn’t this what she had always wanted for her son? Edgar, after all, was the sole male in a household of women. For the time being, at least, an all-boy environment would probably do him a world of good.

  Laurie, the boys’ overseer, was fiftyish and warmhearted, with an apparent devotion to her mission at Wimminwood. She referred to her charges as “the little hellions,” but it was obvious that the boys liked her. The camp itself was a semicircle of redwood lean-tos, only yards away from a boys-only swimming hole.

  In the end the decision was left up to Edgar. He took to the idea almost instantly,
banishing any vestige of guilt DeDe might have felt. Only Anna put up a mild protest, faintly envious of this “special place for boys,” but D’or assured her that there was plenty here for girls to do too.

  Leaving Edgar at the compound, they set out across the land to get their bearings. They found women laughing around campfires and perched in trees along the river, women playing bridge and chopping wood and drinking beer with other women.

  When they reached the central stage, a square dance was in progress. A hundred sun-flushed women, clad only in boots and bandannas, were do-si-doing to the music of a string band. Amused yet riveted by the sight, DeDe turned and caught her lover’s eye.

  “Well?” said D’or. “It’s something, huh?”

  DeDe nodded. It was something, all right.

  Historical Interest

  AT 28 BARBARY LANE, MICHAEL WAS PACKING HIS suitcase when the phone rang.

  “Michael?” said the voice on the other end.

  “Yeah.”

  “It’s Thack Sweeney. The guy you met in solitary.”

  “Oh, hi.” Didn’t it figure? Didn’t it just figure he would call now?

  “I told you I’d call.”

  “Yeah, you did.”

  “Listen, what’s your schedule like tomorrow?”

  Shitfuckpiss, thought Michael. “Well, actually, I’m going to the river with a friend.”

  “Oh, yeah? Sounds like fun.” If he was devastated, he didn’t show it.

  “What did you have in mind?” asked Michael.

  “Oh … nothing much. Just hanging out.”

  Hanging out had never sounded so good. “This trip is kind of set,” said Michael. “Otherwise …”

  “I understand,” said Thack.

  Michael wavered, then asked: “What are you doing tonight?”

  Thack laughed. “Lurking outside your door at the local mom-and-pop.”

  “Huh?”

  “Well, not technically, but pretty close. The grocer says you’re a block or two away. I was walking up Union Street and just decided to call. It’s the wildest coincidence.”

  Michael wanted more than coincidence. “You’re at the Searchlight?”

  “That’s the one.”

  “You … uh … want to come over?”

  “Well … you must be packing.”

  “No. I mean, I’m finished. Come on over, if you want.”

  “How do I get there?”

  “Uh … walk over the crest of Union, take a left on Leavenworth. Barbary Lane is on the left, halfway down the hill. There’s a stairway you can see from the street.”

  “Got it,” said Thack.

  Michael hung up, sat down, smiled uncontrollably, stood up again and did a little jig around the room. Then he finished washing the dishes, gave the bathroom a quick onceover, and plucked the dead blossoms off his potted azalea.

  When Thack arrived, ten minutes later, his cheeks had been pinched pink by the fog. “Boy,” he said, coming into the apartment. “You didn’t warn me about those steps.”

  “Oh, no,” said Michael. “Did one break?”

  Thack nodded. “I bailed out just in time.”

  “Where was it?”

  “Up near the top … just before you reach the part with the killer stones. Get many lawsuits?”

  Michael smiled at him. “The lane dwellers are used to it.”

  Thack looked around him, like a dog sniffing out his bedding, then went directly to the window and peered out to the bay. “The lane dwellers, huh? Sounds almost anthropological.”

  “Well, it is … kinda.”

  “Like an Amazonian tribe or something. Well, there it is, all right.”

  “What?”

  “The Alcatraz lighthouse. You said you could see it from here.”

  “Oh … yeah. That’s it. Look, if you don’t mind making yourself at home, I should go fix that step.”

  “Now?”

  “It’s kind of … an agreement we all have. There are planks in the basement already cut to fit. It shouldn’t take that long.”

  “This I gotta see,” said Thack.

  “If you’d rather wait here …”

  “No. Go on, lead the way.”

  So Michael went to the basement, with Thack on his heels. He took a plank from a stack of ten (marked SOS—Save Our Steps by Mrs. Madrigal) and found a hammer and the appropriate nails.

  “The steps are in jeopardy,” he explained, as they crossed the courtyard into the pungent darkness of the lane.

  “As are the steppers,” said Thack.

  “If the city gets another complaint, they’ll tear them down, no questions asked. They’ve already got plans to replace them with reinforced concrete.”

  “Can’t have that,” said Thack, a little too deadpan about it.

  Michael looked at him, then continued: “We’re buying time right now, trying to get public support.” He gave up the pitch, wary of Thack’s irreverence.

  When they reached the steps, the broken one was immediately apparent, white as a dinosaur bone under the Barbary Lane streetlight. Michael pulled the fragments free and removed the rusty nails with his hammer.

  Thack squatted next to him. “The support beam is almost as rotten.”

  “I know.”

  “Hardly seems worth it.”

  Michael looked up at him. “I thought you said you were a preservationist.”

  Thack shrugged. “Antebellum stuff. These steps don’t have any historical interest.”

  Michael lifted the plank into place. “Maybe not to you.”

  Thack watched him hammer for a while, then said: “Gimme that.”

  “What?”

  “Do it right, if you’re gonna do it. Gimme the hammer.”

  Michael blinked indignantly.

  “You hammer funny,” said Thack.

  Michael considered several retorts, then handed him the hammer. “I’m a nurseryman, all right?”

  Thack made the nail disappear in three deft strokes. In spite of his mild humiliation, Michael actually enjoyed the moment, his eyes fixed on the set of Thack’s jaw, the corded white flesh of his neck. When he had finished, Thack sat on the mended step and patted the spot next to him. “Try it out,” he said.

  Michael took a seat. “I guess this seems kinda dumb to you.”

  “What?”

  “Caring so much about these steps.”

  “I dunno,” said Thack.

  “I’ve been here almost ten years, so this place is kind of in my blood.”

  “Yeah. I’m that way about Charleston. I’d have a hard time leaving it.”

  “Well,” said Michael, “then you understand.”

  Thack drummed his fingers against the railing.

  “How long will you stay?” asked Michael.

  “Oh … four or five more days.”

  Michael nodded, mad at himself for capitulating to Brian’s panic. It was high time he started catering to his own needs again. “You know,” he began, “if you’d like to join us at the river …”

  “Thanks,” said Thack. “I wouldn’t horn in on your date.”

  “Oh,” said Michael. “He’s just an old friend.”

  “Oh.”

  “He’s straight,” Michael added. “I’m sure he wouldn’t mind. I mean, I was the one who asked him. It’s no big deal.” He felt a little traitorous saying this, but Brian would just have to deal with it.

  “Well,” said Thack. “It does sound like fun.”

  “You bet.”

  “Three buddies in the boondocks.”

  “Right,” said Michael a little uneasily. What sort of compromise was he accepting? “You’ll like Brian, I think. He’s a great guy.”

  They stayed there on the steps, bantering jovially under a lemon-drop moon. Half an hour later, having established a late-morning rendezvous, Thack bid Michael a hearty farewell and set off to catch the cable car at Union and Hyde.

  Elated but a little confused, Michael called Brian and broke the news to hi
m. He took it well, all things considered.

  “No problem, man. It’s your cabin.”

  “Well, it’s our trip, though. I didn’t wanna … you know … impose my …” He didn’t finish, since it would have been an outright lie. He had done what he’d wanted to do. Why pretend to be considerate now?

  “It’s O.K.,” said Brian. “I just wanna get away. You didn’t tell him about … Geordie and all?”

  “No,” said Michael. “Nothing.”

  “Good. That’s strictly between us, Michael.”

  “I know,” said Michael.

  Settling In

  WREN’S NEST, AS SHE HAD COME TO THINK OF IT, was an oversized redwood bungalow with porches on three sides and a huge central fireplace built of smooth stones. It was perched on the ridge above Monte Rio, the last house on the road. From her porches she could look down on a squadron of turkey vultures, circling endlessly above the sleepy river.

  There was a washer and a dryer, a black-and-white TV set, an assortment of comfy old chairs and couches. The refrigerator had been extravagantly stocked with wines and exotic deli food. The linen closet would have been ample for a family of six.

  After several days in this cleansing environment, her end-of-tour tension had all but disappeared. She had lost track of time again, and the sensation was pure bliss. Life was a random pastiche of reading, eating, sleeping, sunning, wandering, and eating some more.

  Sometimes, she would drive down to the Cazadero General Store in the white Plymouth Horizon Booter had rented for her use. She would loiter there with a dripping Dove bar, marveling at the time-warpy blend of tourist kitsch, organic grains and tie-dyed T-shirts. Most of all she adored the bulletin board, with its folksy index cards about belly-dance classes and “fixer-uppers” and solar panels for sale.

  Her only other foray into the outside world had been to see Some Like It Hot at the movie house in Monte Rio. The Rio Theater was an entertainment in itself, a riverside Quonset hut with a Deco facade, noble in its failure to be grand. After the show, a chubby teenager had recognized the world’s most beautiful fat woman and requested an autograph.

  Comforted to learn that her fame was still intact, Wren had written “Think Big” on the kid’s popcorn box.

  Her agent had been pissed, of course. Not to mention her PR man, to whom fell the sorry task of canceling her Portland and Seattle engagements. Neither one of them believed her cock-and-bull story about this impromptu getaway, and her now-delayed return to Chicago had alternately wounded and enraged her lover, Rolando.