Maybe the Moon: A Novel

by Armistead Maupin

  Good God, I thought, the creep dumped her. What was there to get misty-eyed about?

  She turned and looked at me. “Do you think I should call him?”

  “No, I do not.”

  “He looks different, Cady. Sadder. Maybe he misses me. How would I know if…”

  “Sweetie, he threw your stuff in the yard and changed the locks.”

  Playing the old tape again, Renee nodded morosely.

  “I think that was a clue,” I added.

  “Yeah.”

  “Besides, you haven’t missed him for years. You’ve told me so a million times.”

  Another nod.

  “What’s this about, anyway?”

  She sighed and gazed balefully into the distance. The helicopter was rising now, heading away, growing tinier by the second. I thought she might cry again, but she didn’t. She just pursed her lips and frowned a little. “I’ve been thinking,” she said. “Maybe he was right.”

  “About what?”

  “Maybe he was the only guy who’d ever want me.”

  “Oh, honey.”

  “Ya know?”

  “No, I don’t know. Look, Renee. Just because some men can’t sustain a relationship long enough to…well, that doesn’t mean…” I didn’t finish, since I couldn’t really say for certain where the fault lay. The truth is, I almost never see Renee around her boyfriends; when she’s got something going, she tends to hang out at the guy’s place. It’s possible, given her insecurity, that she turns all clingy and desperate on the third date, scaring off even the nice ones.

  Looking for another way out, I reached over and tucked my hand into hers—my “baby starfish,” as Renee calls it, into her huge catcher’s mitt—and told her it was time to lighten up. Hand holding almost always works on her, but I save it as a last resort to keep from wearing out the effect. Also, there’s an unsettling sort of come-to-Mama thing that happens when the great and the small converge sentimentally. I’ve never been completely comfortable with it.

  Renee smiled wanly. “But what else could explain it?”

  “Explain what?”

  She shrugged her big fuzzy blue shoulders. “Why they don’t stick around.”

  “Because they’re buttheads.”

  She uttered an impatient sigh. “How can they all be buttheads?”

  “I don’t know. It’s one of the great wonders of the modern world. An all-butthead extravaganza.” Removing my hand from hers, I wrote across the sky with my forefinger. “The Night of a Thousand Buttheads.”

  She giggled. Finally.

  “And it could be me, you know.” I threw this in breezily, as if it had just crossed my mind. Cooped up in that damned house so much, with too much time to stew in my juices, I’ve started to fret about all sorts of things.

  “What do you mean?”

  I shrugged. “Maybe it’s me who’s scaring them away.”

  “Cady…” Oh, how wounded she looked. “I brag about you all the time.”

  “Well, that’s what I mean. Not everybody’s like you, honey. Maybe you shouldn’t always mention it right away.”

  Her hand fluttered to rest on her bosom as she stared at me in genuine horror. “That is the worst thing I’ve ever heard you say.”

  “It’s just a theory.”

  “Well, it’s a dumb one. People are impressed that I room with you. Especially after I tell them who you were.”

  Were. Get it? Sometimes she makes me sound like the Norma Desmond of elfdom.

  “I just meant,” I explained calmly, “that some guys might think of you as encumbered.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “You know. That you and I are a unit.”

  She gave a girlish little gasp. “Lesbians?”

  “No, sweetie.” I chuckled.

  “Then what?”

  “I don’t know.” This was getting muddier by the minute. “I just hope people realize you’re a free agent. I mean…free to go your own way.”

  Now she looked utterly stricken.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “You want me to move out?”

  I just shook my head and smiled at her.

  “Well, it sounded like it.”

  “You’re such a mess,” I said.

  Renee’s lower lip plumped like a pillow. “Well, you are too.”

  Both of us, I think, were greatly relieved.

  Since that night a lot has happened. A check arrived from the cellulite people the following day, just barely enabling me to pay off the dentist and my other bad checks. Apparently they are going to air the infomercial—in a matter of weeks, they claim—so I’m bracing myself for the endless replay of this indignity. I can’t even justify it as exposure, since all you see are two fat little legs sticking out from under a Mylar and Styrofoam jar. Renee is beside herself, of course, and is currently alerting the planet.

  The money will buy me time, at least, so I’ve embarked on a program of self-improvement in preparation for taking a meeting with Arnie Green. Yeah, I called him, and Renee knows all about it. That’s why I’m stretched out here on the air mattress, cram-tanning like crazy in the thinnest coat of baby oil, in spite of everything I’ve ever heard about the ozone layer and melanomas and all that. It’s also the reason I’m doing the Cher Diet, if the truth be known. I said I was doing it for myself, but I’m not; I’m doing it for Arnie Green, an alte kaker with hair in his ears.

  If you’re not totally disgusted yet, try this on for size: I’m making an outfit for Arnie Green. I work on it in the morning when I’m watching Joan Rivers. I was doing just that today, in fact, when I saw that fucking yellow ribbon on my lamppost. The outfit is black-and-white satin, very Dynasty, like something Alexis would wear to a board meeting. That kind of eighties retro drag would be downright embarrassing in Leonard’s office, but it might be right up ol’ Arn’s alley.

  It better be. I’ve made a hat to go with it.

  3

  IT’S LATE AND I’M POOPED, BUT I’M WORKING AGAIN. THE temptation is to blow off the diary, since I’d like nothing better than to climb out of this sticky costume and into a hot bath. On the other hand, I haven’t written in almost two weeks, and there’s all sorts of stuff to tell you. I’m afraid I’ll forget the important details if I don’t get some of them down. Since Renee has just rewarded me with a cup of cocoa, I’ll put the sugar rush to work and do my best to tell you about my meeting with Arnie Green.

  I lost almost five pounds in the ten days I gave myself to get in shape. That’s pretty dramatic for me. It didn’t do much for my thighs, of course, but it gave me a lot more energy and made my cheekbones pop out again. Renee hennaed my hair the night before the interview, and I spent two hours on makeup, paying special attention to my eyes. Everyone tells me they’re my strongest feature—emerald green with flecks of warm brown, sultry but reassuring. When I was a teenager in Baker, I used to study them for hours in the mirror, imagining how the rest of such a pretty girl might look.

  Arnie Green’s office was in North Hollywood. I made an eight-thirty appointment with him so we’d both be fresh and Renee could take me there before she went to work. As the first client of the day, I’d also avoid the gut-wrenching chitchat of the waiting room, which was easy enough to imagine, even though I’d never been to the office. I’d be stuck there with all the others, twiddling my thumbs in quiet agony while some bleached-out accordion player bragged to me about her recent triumphal come-back at the Amway convention. Who needs that kind of stress?

  We found a spot to park right in front, which I took as a bad sign. We were in a sort of ghost town, a mini-mall less than half occupied, where businesses announced themselves by painting over the flaking plywood of their predecessors. Arnie’s glass-fronted office was one of a row of three facing the street. The other two were a Philippine import shop and a place with burnt-orange curtains fading along the folds to pale shrimp. The hand-stenciled sign outside said: VID-MART ENTERPRISES.

  “OK,” I sai
d. “Time to lose the hat.”

  Renee was crushed. “Why? It looks so nice on you.”

  It was a rakish triangular affair, the same black-and-white satin as my dress. I’d spent a whole morning making it, gloating over the finished product, but in this shabby setting it struck me as overeager, even pathetic. I felt like some broken-down baroness flaunting her tiara at a flophouse.

  “It’s not right,” I said.

  “At least keep it on till he can see it.”

  “Renee…”

  She sulked a little while I undid the pins and stashed the hat in the glove compartment. I tried to check myself in the rearview mirror. “Is my hair fucked?”

  “No.” She adjusted a few wisps over my ears. “You look beautiful.”

  I grunted.

  “I swear, Cady. Your skin is radiant. You’re glowing.”

  Glowing or not, I felt like a total fool. Renee got out of the car, opened my door, and lifted me down to the pavement. I brushed out my dress, groaning at the folly of it all. How could I have listened to that evil queen Leonard? And why in the name of Jehovah had I thought black-and-white satin would be suitable for a morning meeting?

  A woman in rollers and Bermudas came out of the import shop and stopped in her tracks, staring. I acknowledged her presence with a tight little smile and a vaguely royal wave. She wasn’t even faintly embarrassed. “You in show business?” she asked.

  “Workin’ on it.” I headed for Arnie’s door like a bat out of hell.

  “The circus?”

  “She was Mr. Woods,” Renee announced grandly.

  “Renee, for God’s sake!”

  Seeing my exasperation, my housemate flushed violently, then turned back to the woman. “We have to go now. We’re late for an appointment with her agent.”

  “He’s not my agent,” I muttered as Renee held the door open for me.

  “Well, whatever.”

  We beat a retreat into a space no larger than our living room. There was a desk with a receptionist, and half a dozen plastic chairs were lined against one wall. A single row of publicity stills was the only thing in sight that kept this from being the waiting room of a veterinarian. I even spotted animals among the glossies: a cowgirl astride a palomino, a cockatoo in drag, a chorus line of poodles. The humans in Arnie’s stable tended to be magicians and clowns and ice skaters and, yes, little people, all of whom seemed to tower over me. No surprises so far.

  The receptionist looked up from her computer. “Cadence Roth?”

  I threw up my hands and grinned at her. “Guilty, Your Honor.”

  She tossed off a look that said to save the cute stuff for the boss. I didn’t hold it against her; the old girl must’ve heard a lot of shtick in her time. I wondered if she might be Mrs. Green. “He’ll be back any minute,” she said. “He’s gone for doughnuts.”

  “No problem.”

  “Did you bring a résumé?”

  I told her I’d already mailed one to Mr. Green.

  “Oh.” She fidgeted among the papers on her desk for a moment, then stopped and said: “Have a seat, please.” Then she turned and addressed Renee, who was gawking at the wall of photographs. “You with her?”

  For a moment I worried that Renee might claim to be my manager. I allow her such indulgences around shop clerks and people in movie lines, but agents are a different matter, even agents like Arnie Green. They could easily start asking things that Renee couldn’t answer. In my scramble to get ready that morning, I hadn’t thought to warn her about this.

  Renee just said yes, though, without embellishing.

  “Coffee?” asked the receptionist. “Either of you?”

  “No, thanks,” said Renee.

  I shook my head, smiling, then hoisted myself onto the sofa, all ass and elbows. I’ve carried out this maneuver most of my life and still can’t find a graceful way to do it.

  “Ooh, look,” said Renee, studying a photograph. “He does Big Bubba.”

  “Really?” I said this as enthusiastically as I could, since the receptionist was watching and I had no earthly idea who—or what—Big Bubba was.

  “We’ve handled him for years,” the lady said.

  “How wonderful,” I said, smiling like the whore I am.

  “You a fan of his?”

  Renee was the one she’d asked, thank God. “Oh, yes!” came the answer.

  “Big,” I told the receptionist. “She’s a big Big Bubba fan.”

  That’s when Arnie came in, toting his bag of doughnuts. I knew it was him right away, since he always puts an ad in the trades for Halloween and he looked just like his photo, skinny and bald and heavily tanned, with big ugly caterpillars of hair crawling out of his ears. Instead of a plaid suit, though, he was wearing pale-blue Sansabelts with a matching golf shirt.

  I scooted off the sofa to give him the full impact of my height. This usually gets the talk going when I meet people for the first time. Plus they’re not as uncomfortable once they see you can walk.

  Arnie bent down to shake my hand. “Miss Roth.” He’d obviously done his homework.

  “Mr. Green.”

  “I’ve been looking forward to this.”

  “Well…good.” I couldn’t decide if his courtliness was phony or not, but I was grateful for it.

  “Is the lady…?” He gestured toward Renee, who was still standing by the photo wall, looking useless.

  “My friend,” I said. “Who drove me.”

  “Ah, yes.” He swept his blue-veined hand toward his office door, inviting Renee to join us. I could have sworn I caught a whiff of vintage testosterone. “Please,” he said, “after you.”

  Renee pointed at her left tit. “Me?”

  “Why not? We’re all friends here.”

  I didn’t like this at all. For one thing, I wanted Arnie’s undivided attention. For another, I didn’t want Renee to see me groveling. When she glanced at me for guidance, I made a quick slashing motion at my throat.

  “I better not,” she told Arnie.

  “Why not?”

  “Uh…I gotta keep an eye on the car?”

  Arnie looked distressed, as if my driver had just suggested that his neighborhood was less than desirable.

  “The top is down,” I explained. “We’ve got stuff in it.”

  “Suit yourself.”

  I followed him into the office, which was windowless except for a skinny slit at the top of one wall. The chair provided for clients was ominously high and on rollers, so I enlisted Arnie’s help in mounting it. He was really clumsy about this, stumbling a little, and I heard something crack in his back when he set me down. So much for the Cher Diet.

  Behind his desk, Arnie pecked at a doughnut while he studied my résumé. “Mr. Woods, eh?”

  I nodded, smiling modestly.

  “I took my grandkids to that.”

  “Mmm.”

  “Was that your voice, then?”

  I told him no, that the elf’s voice had been electronically created, that I had provided his movement only, that sometimes Mr. Woods was a robot and sometimes he was me. (I really should have a fact sheet or something. God knows I get asked this stuff often enough.)

  After a while, Arnie said: “I don’t think I’ve seen the other movies.”

  I gave him a sardonic smile. “I don’t think you have, either.”

  He chuckled, showing the teeth of an old horse, impressed by my bold display of professional candor.

  “They let me act,” I said. “That was enough.”

  Arnie brushed doughnut sugar off his fingers. “You know I don’t handle movie people.”

  I nodded. “I just want to work, Mr. Green.”

  “Arnie,” he said.

  “Arnie.”

  “You sing well,” he said. “You have a fine voice.” I had sent him a homemade demo tape of me singing “Coming Out of the Dark,” Gloria Estefan’s new back-from-the-brink-of-death number, thinking that it struck the right note of spunky survivorhood.

 
“The tape’s pretty bad,” I pointed out. “I mean, the sound quality.”

  “I can tell, though. You sound like…what’s her name? Teresa Brewer.”

  That’s not far off, actually.

  Arnie grinned. “You’re too young to remember her.”

  I told him I knew who she was, though, and took it as a compliment.

  He was looking at the résumé again. “And you do your own makeup, make your own costumes.”

  “Who else?”

  “You didn’t make those shoes.” He squinted down at my black patent slippers.

  “K mart,” I told him. “Toddlers department.”

  He cracked another smile, which seemed almost grandfatherly, shook his head slowly, then returned his watery gaze to the résumé. After a long silence he said: “Don’t see any wrestling work.”

  “No,” I replied. “And you won’t.”

  He nodded slowly, as if that sounded reasonable enough.

  “And I don’t want to be tossed anywhere.”

  The nodding continued.

  “Any hope?”

  He opened a drawer in his desk and pulled out a ragged-looking file. “I think maybe so.”

  As it turned out, he had an arrangement with a small company in the Valley called PortaParty, which provides entertainment and “color” for social functions, mostly rich children’s birthday parties. One of the performers, a girl clown of average height, had just left for a job in television, and they were looking for a replacement.

  Arnie assured me I didn’t have to be a clown. I’d be free to create my own character, maybe even sing, as long as the boss was happy. Mostly, it involved handing out candy and putting up with the kids. If I liked the sound of this, he said, I could start work the following weekend.

  I didn’t hate the sound of it, especially the part about my predecessor leaving for a job in television.

  At least it was show business. Sort of.

  I thought about it overnight, at Arnie’s suggestion, and called back the next morning to accept.

  “This is just a start,” he said.

  Then why did it feel so much like the end?

  My mood grew bleaker as the day wore on. I found myself brooding over the Corsos, people I hadn’t thought about for years, a retired midget couple who had been in show business but had nothing to show for it when I met them except a few battered scrapbooks and an apartment full of odd mementos. Like me, they had worked in a movie that had enchanted the world, but no one ever knew that unless the Corsos took the trouble to tell them.