Significant Others

by Armistead Maupin

  “You were already in the mood,” said Thack.

  “This is true,” said Michael.

  Further down the gorge, another piano began to play. Joyful male voices floated toward them on the breeze. For some reason, Michael thought of a faded daguerreotype he had seen in an antique shop on Union Street: a dozen lumberjacks with huge mustaches and vintage Levi’s, straddling a fallen redwood tree.

  “Brian would have loved this,” he said.

  “Think so?” said Thack.

  “Yeah. He’s a big kid.”

  “Like you.”

  “Yeah. I guess so.”

  Thack snuggled closer and slid his hand up to Michael’s belly. “You’re kind of a couple, aren’t you?”

  “Who?”

  “You and Brian.”

  “Well … yeah … in some ways.”

  “How long have you known him?”

  Michael thought about it. “Nine years, almost ten.”

  “Have you always been friends?”

  “Not at first,” said Michael. “But we … you know, swapped stories.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh … getting laid.”

  Thack chuckled.

  “He’d come bounding down the stairs after breakfast—he lived on the roof then, so he could see anybody who crossed the courtyard. He’d say something like: ‘Michael, my man, how dark was it when you dragged that one home?’ ”

  “Nice guy.”

  “Oh, I’d get him back. You know … tease him about the dog he took to bed. It was just a game.”

  “Yeah, but …”

  “O.K., objectifying other people. But it brought us closer, and we never hurt anybody. I loved dishing with him. He loved sex as much as I did.”

  “Did?” Thack nipped at his ear.

  “Do,” said Michael, smiling.

  “That’s better.”

  “He was a big romantic, really. Mary Ann wouldn’t date him for years, because she thought he was such a pig. When he finally fell in love with her, he courted her like crazy. He spilled his guts to me whenever the slightest thing went wrong. Meanwhile, I was having this on-again-off-again thing with my lover, and lots of other people. So Brian and I just kept on coming back to each other.”

  “I see,” said Thack.

  “It’s funny,” said Michael. “When I look back, he was the only constant.”

  “Mmm.”

  “He was there in the room with me when my lover died. Holding my hand.” Tears welled up in his eyes, blurring the moon. He wiped them away with two efficient strokes of his fingertips.

  “Was it AIDS?” asked Thack.

  “Yeah. When Jon got sick, I was so angry, because nobody really gave a fuck. They pretended to be concerned, but these were just faggots dying. They were sick to begin with. I remember thinking …” He couldn’t find the right words for this.

  “What?” asked Thack, stroking his arm.

  “Just … that nothing would ever happen, no one would ever care until straight people started getting it.”

  “I know the feeling.”

  “But I prayed for it. I actually prayed for it.”

  “You didn’t mean it.”

  “Does that make a difference?” asked Michael.

  Nothing Romantic

  WREN APPEARED AT THE TOP OF THE STAIRS when Brian parked the VW behind her hilltop chalet. “Bring a few logs,” she hollered. “We’re almost out.”

  He looked around him in the dark.

  “To the left,” she said, pointing. “Next to that bench. There’s a woodpile.”

  He found it and loaded his arms with redwood logs. Most were green enough to be oozing sap, and their weight surprised him, causing him to stagger a little. His clumsiness embarrassed him. He was grateful for the cover of darkness.

  When he reached the top of the stairs, he was out of breath. Holding the door for him, Wren said: “Dirty trick, huh? Didn’t know you’d have to work.”

  “No problem,” he said, making his way to the fireplace.

  “They’re so gunky,” she said, following him. “I hate getting them, but I adore having a fire.”

  He dumped the logs on the big stone hearth. “They’re awfully green.”

  “They do O.K.,” she said, “once it gets hot enough.” She picked up several of the smaller logs and tossed them onto the flames. “Now,” she said, brushing off her hands. “A drink, a joint … what?”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “Sure?”

  “Yeah.”

  She gestured toward an armchair. “Sit down.”

  He did so, as she curled up on the sofa. She was wearing a pink blouse and white shorts. Her big friendly knees were as pale and round as a couple of honeydew melons. She cocked her head and smiled at him. “I saw your wife on Entertainment Tonight.”

  “Oh … yeah.”

  “Did you watch it?”

  “No.”

  “She was all right.”

  “So I heard. My landlady told me. My ex-landlady.”

  “Did you watch her show the morning I was on?”

  No, he thought perversely, but I jerked off to the book. “Actually, I didn’t,” he said.

  “She didn’t like me,” said Wren.

  He nodded. “Sometimes she does that. Just to get a rise out of people.”

  Wren snorted. “She got one.”

  He smiled at her. “Good.”

  She studied him for a while, then rose and plucked a joint from a box on the mantelpiece. She lit it with a kitchen match and returned to the sofa, where she took a toke and held it, observing him again.

  “If this is tacky,” she said, “tell me.”

  He shrugged. “Go ahead.”

  “Do you usually take vacations without your wife?”

  He laughed uneasily. “You mean with gay guys?”

  “No,” she said. “I mean without your wife.”

  He felt his head jerk reflexively. “I think we both … needed a little breather.”

  “I know just what you mean,” she replied.

  “You’re married?”

  “No, but I have a lover.”

  “Well,” he said. “I guess he couldn’t exactly go on a book tour with you….”

  “The tour was over last week.”

  “Oh.”

  “I needed time alone.” She smiled mysteriously. “Well, mostly alone.”

  There was her “friend” again.

  “But now,” she added, “I really miss Rolando.” She took a puff on the joint and held it for a while. “I even miss his snoring.”

  He chuckled. “You do miss him.”

  “Are you a snorer?”

  “Mary Ann,” he said. “She’s the worst.”

  “She snores? I love it.”

  “She’d kill me if she knew I told you.”

  Wren made a zipping motion across her lips. “And you don’t blab to Rolando.”

  “What could I tell him?”

  “Well … he thinks I’m still on tour, for starters.”

  “A-ha.” He felt much more at ease now that their conversation involved four people instead of three.

  “He’ll be all right,” she said. “Once I’m home.”

  He looked at her for a moment, then said: “I wish I could say the same thing.”

  “She’s … uh … on your case?”

  He shook his head. “It isn’t her.”

  “Oh,” she said.

  “I was seeing this girl. Nothing romantic. Just … friends who had sex from time to time.”

  She smiled sleepily. “I can relate to that.”

  “She has AIDS,” he said.

  Wren blinked at him.

  “I saw her last week. She looked like someone else.”

  “Christ.” She put the joint down.

  “I took the test, but the results won’t be back for another week.”

  “And your wife …?”

  “Doesn’t know. I couldn’t tell her until …�
� He made a lame gesture, unable to finish.

  She jumped into the breach. “You’re O.K., though. You look just fine.”

  He shrugged. “My stomach kinda burns. My energy is gone.”

  “That could be lots of things.”

  “That’s what the doctor said.”

  “Well, there you go.”

  An awkward silence followed. Then she asked: “Are you scared?”

  He nodded.

  “Don’t be,” she said.

  He shrugged again, afraid of crying.

  “You’re too nice a guy to be hurting.”

  He couldn’t look at her. “Does a nice guy do this to his wife?”

  “Hey,” she said gently.

  “If I’ve … passed it on …”

  “You haven’t. You don’t know that.”

  “If I have, I deserve it.”

  “Stop that. Shut up. You shouldn’t worry about that until … God, Brian, worry about yourself. That’s who I’m worried about.”

  He felt himself unraveling. “Look … I’m really sorry. I should go.”

  “Oh, no,” she said. “No way. That’s hit and run, buster.”

  “I’m sorry if …”

  “Come here,” she said.

  “What?”

  “C’mon. Haul that cute ass over here.” She patted the cushion next to her on the sofa.

  He hesitated, then obeyed her.

  She put her arm around him, easing him down until his head reached the expansive softness of her chest. “There,” she said, stroking his hair. “Now just shut up for a minute.”

  When his tears surfaced, she began to rock him gently, humming a tune he couldn’t quite place.

  D’or Confesses

  PICTIONARY PRACTICE HAD OCCUPIED DEDE AND POLLY for almost an hour. DeDe had performed like a champ until Polly sketched a standing figure, with another figure stretched out on a table. DeDe had tried “doctor,” “mortician,” and “masseuse,” to no avail.

  “C’mon,” said Polly.

  “What else is there?” asked DeDe.

  Polly groaned and drew a huge penis on the standing figure.

  “Masseur!” DeDe shouted. “Yes!”

  They shrieked in unison.

  DeDe said: “Call Kate and Trudy. I’m ready for the playoffs!”

  They were still giggling maniacally when DeDe heard footsteps advancing through the madrone trees. The gait was unmistakably D’or’s.

  DeDe made herself wait for a count of ten, then turned and said, “Oh, hi,” as casually as possible.

  “Hi,” echoed D’or. Her voice was flat as day-old Diet Pepsi.

  “You’ve met Polly Berendt, haven’t you?”

  D’or shook her head. “Not officially.” She nodded in Polly’s direction but didn’t extend her hand.

  “I was just leaving,” said Polly.

  “No,” said DeDe. “Stay. We’ll make some cocoa.” She turned back to D’or. “How was the Holly Near concert?”

  “I didn’t go,” said D’or, stonier than ever.

  Polly rose and slapped the seat of her jeans, knocking off the sand. “Past my bedtime,” she said.

  This time DeDe didn’t bother to protest. “Thanks for the evening,” she said feebly.

  “No sweat,” Polly replied, heading off into the dark.

  D’or sat down on the sand, but didn’t speak until Polly’s footsteps had died out. “Sorry,” she said grimly, “if I interrupted something.”

  “You’re one to talk,” said DeDe.

  D’or stared out at the water for a while. Then she said: “I stopped off and saw Edgar.”

  “How was he?”

  “Fine. He really likes it there.”

  “I know,” said DeDe.

  “He told me I couldn’t come in. Said it was men-only space.” D’or smiled at this, obviously trying to break the ice.

  DeDe refused to thaw.

  “They have their own hierarchy already. Little lieutenants running around. It’s really funny.”

  DeDe grunted.

  D’or turned and looked at her. “You wanna leave tomorrow?”

  “I’m planning to.”

  “Good. I think it’s time.” She looked around. “Where’s Anna?”

  “Asleep,” said DeDe.

  D’or untied the laces on one of her sneakers, tightened and retied them. “Why are you doing this?”

  “Doing what?”

  “You know.”

  DeDe resisted a sudden urge to slap her. Why was she, DeDe, always the one whose behavior required explanation?

  D’or added: “She’s gone. If that’s what’s bothering you.”

  “She?” asked DeDe. There was no point in making it easy for her.

  “Sabra.”

  DeDe muttered.

  “You were right about her. She’s a big phony.”

  It took some effort to conceal her relief. “How did you come to this brilliant conclusion?”

  “I just saw,” said D’or.

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “She was looking to get laid.”

  “Well … did she?”

  D’or hesitated, then nodded.

  “I see,” said DeDe. “And then she left?”

  Another nod.

  “Just … wham, bam, thank you, ma’am.”

  D’or played with the sand under her legs. “Laugh all you want. I deserve it.”

  DeDe kept quiet.

  Her lover looked truly pathetic. “For what it’s worth, I really did think it was my mind she admired. I thought she respected my input.”

  Two minutes earlier, DeDe could have fired off a pithy rejoinder to that one. “Well,” she said instead. “Maybe she really did.”

  D’or shook her head. “It was like … shut-up-and-lie-down time.”

  DeDe abandoned the role of hurt child and assumed the mantle of mother confessor. “I knew she was a shitheel,” she said.

  “I couldn’t believe it,” said D’or. “We’d just come back from a Holocaust workshop.”

  DeDe felt a smile flicker at the corner of her mouth.

  “I was so mortified I just went through with it. I don’t know why. I really don’t know why.” She paused a moment, throwing a pebble into the river. “I guess I wanted to show her there was … something I could do better than her.”

  Than she, thought DeDe.

  “She was so cold afterwards. Like she’d been humoring me all along.”

  DeDe thanked God for making Sabra Landauer such a callous, manipulative and thoroughly undependable person.

  D’or patted the sand between her legs. “I wish I’d finished college.”

  DeDe slipped her arm around D’or’s waist. “C’mon …”

  “I do. I feel so dumb sometimes.”

  “D’or … you made several hundred thousand dollars before you were twenty-five. You traveled, you met people….”

  “Yeah, but I don’t know anything. I’m really illiterate.”

  “Come off it. Just because Sabra was so tacky as to … Listen, have you actually ever read Medusa at the Prom?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I have,” she said, telling D’or the same lie she’d told Sabra. “It’s just plain awful. It’s trite and … lugubrious.”

  “See?” said D’or. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “Ohhh.” DeDe gave her a little shove.

  D’or shoved her back, pinning her against the sand. “I love you so much,” she said.

  “You’re a mess,” said DeDe.

  “Maybe.”

  “Definitely.”

  “O.K.” She leaned down and gave DeDe a kiss. “I’m sorry. I’m really sorry.”

  “Can we get out of here tomorrow?”

  “First thing,” said D’or. “Do you forgive me?”

  “Ask me tomorrow,” said DeDe.

  “Where did you go tonight?”

  “Into town,” said DeDe, “where I consumed mass quantities of animal flesh.”
<
br />   “Oh.”

  “And I don’t want any grief.”

  “You won’t get any from me,” said D’or.

  In a burst of hideous insight, DeDe realized the depth of her commitment to this marriage.

  She had just traded adultery for a cheeseburger and an order of french fries.

  The Littlest Pallbearers

  SOMEWHERE OUT THERE IN THE DARKNESS, A CREATURE was skittering through the underbrush. It sounded larger than a rabbit or raccoon, but it seemed to move in fits and starts, as if pausing for reconnaissance. It was joined, eventually, by an identical sound on the other side of the tent.

  What now? thought Booter. Should he attract attention or not? He could thrash about, maybe, make the tent move, create some sort of sound in his throat. What if it was just the bulldagger again? She could make things even worse for him.

  “Cuckoo,” came a call from the darkness.

  “Cuckoo,” came the reply.

  Not a bird sound, but a human one.

  Children?

  He tilted his head to listen.

  “Wait there,” whispered one of them. “Where?” asked the other. “You know … where I said.”

  “Well, how come you get …?”

  “Just shuddup. I told you I’m Platoon Leader. What did you get?”

  There was a rustling of paper.

  “Big deal. Another granola bar. Gag me.”

  “Look, she almost saw me.”

  “Well … so? You volunteered for this duty.”

  “Yeah, but I don’t—”

  “Just shuddup … and keep your head down. I’ll meet you back here in three minutes.”

  Moments later, he heard someone ease open the big zipper on the tent. A thin electric beam searched the space, splashing light on the orange polyester walls. He arched his neck and came face to face with a boy of eight or nine, fat-cheeked and ginger-haired.

  Booter groaned at him and made a thrashing motion. The boy’s jaw went slack. For a moment, before he dropped the flashlight, his startled face became a levitating jack-o'-lantern, comic yet terrible in its intensity.

  Then he ran away.

  Booter kept groaning through the gag.

  He heard the boy go yelping through the underbrush like a scalded pup. Then the silence closed in again, and he was left panting and sore, indignant in defeat. What the hell was the matter with the stupid brat?

  Then the voices came back.

  “If you’re lying, Philo …”

  “I’m not. I swear. His face was like … the Mummy or somethin'.”