Maybe the Moon: A Novel

by Armistead Maupin

  Apparently Callum also accused Jeff of mobilizing the GLAAD protest, which Jeff denied both to Callum and to me. There were lots of loose scripts floating around, he said, lots of fed-up queers infiltrating the studios these days.

  I asked him if GLAAD knew that Callum was gay.

  “Of course.”

  “You told them?”

  “Cadence.” He sounded miffed. “I slept with the guy for months. I don’t live in a vacuum, I have friends, I have a life. He’s the one who’s supposed to be invisible, not me.”

  “Does Callum know they know?”

  “He didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Just that you had blabbed to Leonard about Griffith Park and he’d appreciate it if I’d talk to you nicely and ask you to be more careful in the future.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I told him to talk to you if he had a bone to pick.”

  “He won’t do that.”

  “Why?”

  “Because he has to be nice to me.”

  “Why?”

  I explained about the tribute and how Philip and Callum and Leonard had jerked me around for days and how, ultimately, I’d aborted the return of Mr. Woods. When I was finished, Jeff responded with a dumbfounded silence, and then: “You really aren’t gonna do it?”

  “No.”

  “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  I released a long sigh. “Jesus, Jeff, if you don’t get it, who will?”

  “I know, but Bette Midler and Madonna.”

  “Jeff…”

  “I understand the principles involved. I see what you mean, believe me…”

  “But?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Well, I do.”

  “What if they find somebody else to wear the suit? They’re bound to try that.”

  “As short as me? I don’t think so.”

  “You never can tell.”

  I told him I’d just have to live with it if they did.

  “You’re right,” he said eventually. “Forget it. Fuck the bastards. This is exactly the way to go. It’s the only way you can have any power at all over them.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Unless…”

  “Unless nothing.”

  “No, wait a minute…”

  “Jeff…”

  “What if you didn’t wear the suit?”

  “I just told you…”

  “No. I mean, what if you wore the suit, or agreed to, and went ahead with rehearsals and all that, and then took off the suit…you know, just before you go on.”

  I met this with the stony silence I felt it deserved.

  “They couldn’t stop you then,” Jeff added. “They’d look like monsters.”

  “OK, Einstein. And then what?”

  “You sing. Or whatever.”

  “With no rehearsal, no prior communication with the orchestra, just grab a mike off a five-foot stand and start singing.”

  “Somebody could help with the mike. And forget the orchestra—sing a cappella. It’ll show off your voice even more.”

  “Jeff, read my tiny lips: Philip Blenheim will be standing in front of me, waiting for his award.”

  “So you sing to Philip Blenheim. It’s your tribute to him. The audience will be charmed, and he’ll just have to stand there and smile and take it.” Jeff laughed triumphantly. “This is so brilliant I can’t believe it! This is exactly what you have to do, Cadence!”

  What I felt at that moment was the strangest mixture of irritation and terror and total exhilaration, because I knew instantly that Jeff was right. It was time I started thinking less like a victim in this unholy war and more like a guerrilla. Why skulk off in anger from my best shot yet at the big time? What good would it do to make a point for the sake of honor if the public never even knows I’ve made it?

  “God, Jeff…do you think?”

  “I know.”

  “But they’ll introduce me as Mr. Woods.”

  “And out strolls this stylish little woman, totally herself, totally sure of who she is. I’m telling you, Cadence, I’m getting shivers already.”

  So was I, for different reasons. Like, for instance, what if I couldn’t get out of the suit in time? It’s a bulky and confining lump of latex and wires, not some flimsy veil I can fling off like Salome at a moment’s notice. And what if somebody takes note of this striptease and puts a stop to it before I can escape into the public eye? On the other hand, this was only a live performance in a hotel ballroom, not the rigid and overpopulated environment of a movie set; with a few well-placed diversions and the right accomplice, it might not be that hard to pull off.

  Jeff must have heard my wheels turning over the phone. “I know you can see this,” he said.

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Then…what?”

  “I don’t know. Just being a pussy, I guess.”

  He laughed. “What can go wrong?”

  “A million things.”

  “Do you give a shit?”

  “No.”

  “Well, then…”

  “Will you help me with it?”

  “Sure, but…what about Neil? He knows a lot more about show business.”

  “If I wanted him, I’d ask him,” I said.

  “Oh. Sorry.”

  “Will you help me?”

  “What would I have to do?”

  “Oh,” I said, “stand around a lot and cope with rubber.”

  “I can handle that.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  He laughed, then turned sober again, obviously beginning to feel the weight of his impending responsibility. “I just thought of something,” he said. “What if they want you to walk on with Callum? As Mr. Woods, I mean. He’ll have to hang out with you backstage.”

  “That won’t happen,” I told him. “It’s too much at once: the grown-up Jeremy and the first sight of Mr. Woods. The audience wouldn’t be able to absorb it.”

  “I don’t know,” said Jeff. “They might think it was touching or something—the height difference.”

  “Yeah, but that’s not how Blenheim thinks. He’ll want the elf to come out on his own. My guess is that Callum’ll come on first and introduce Mr. Woods.”

  “Make sure you get your own dressing room,” he said.

  “All right.”

  “That way we can keep you hidden until the last minute.”

  “Good idea.”

  “And don’t let him give you any shit about that. You’re the one holding the cards here.”

  I got an actual lump in my throat, imagining my little nook between Bette’s and Barbra’s. “I should get off and call him,” I said.

  “Who?”

  “Leonard.”

  “No. Wait till he calls back. And agree to it very reluctantly. You can’t be enthusiastic all of a sudden. He’ll be suspicious.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “But don’t be bitter about it, either, or they’ll see you as dangerous.”

  “What a good criminal you make.”

  “Attitude is everything,” he said.

  “I have to go now. I want to think about this.”

  “I thought you’d decided.”

  “I have decided. I just have to let it soak in. Tell me something.”

  “What?”

  “You aren’t doing this just to embarrass Callum, are you?”

  He hesitated for a moment, then said: “Why should this embarrass him?”

  “Well…it’s not what they planned on.”

  “No, it’s a hundred times better. Nobody’s getting stiffed here, Cadence. This’ll work to everyone’s advantage, whether they know it or not. You watch. Even Blenheim will see how much more human and interesting this is.”

  “OK,” I told him. “You’re the one who’s responsible when the poo-poo hits the Panasonic.”

  “When the what?”

  I giggled. “Leonard used to say that.”

  �
�Wouldn’t he just?”

  “I was trying to be Hollywood for you.”

  “Well, stop it.”

  “I’m hanging up now.”

  “Call me when you’ve heard from him.”

  “Don’t worry.”

  “This is my best idea ever,” Jeff announced.

  For the next two hours, I paced the backyard in a state of near delirium, while disaster and triumph fought for top billing in my mental movies. On the dark side was the notion that Leonard had already told Philip about my refusal and Philip had become so enraged that he’d checked The Guinness Book under “smallest” and was sparing no expense to acquire the twenty-nine-inch title holder from Yugoslavia. She’d be flown in like a live lobster just in time to save the day. Philip would be so grateful he’d break his vow of secrecy over the functioning of the elf and unleash a torrent of publicity for his new “pint-sized discovery.” I could see the little bimbo already, sitting prettily atop her luggage at LAX, blowing kisses to reporters as she recounts her life story in charmingly broken English.

  On the positive side, I saw amazing things in my future: a spread in Premiere magazine, a record contract, a custom-made role in Philip’s new musical, and, above all, Leonard, wearing his best shit-eating grin, taking credit for my success as if he’d believed in it all along. Neil would be so proud of me we’d end up frolicking openly on his AstroTurf for the “Couples” section of People. I could conjure up almost anything in those queasy hours in limbo, because I knew for sure—perhaps for the first time in my life—that almost anything was possible.

  When Leonard finally called, I adopted a weary, affable, slightly defeated tone as I agreed to crawl back into rubber one last time for the sake of friendship. He was so elated that he promised me my own dressing room the moment I requested it, a clear indicator that I should have asked for more. There will be a preliminary fitting next week at Icon, in case “adjustments” are required, which I took to be another reference to my weight. Mr. Woods will have only one line of dialogue (no prize for guessing which), which will emanate—prerecorded—from a tiny speaker in his head. He will make his entrance all alone, Leonard assured me.

  22

  FIVE DAYS TO GO.

  Maybe it was a mistake, but yesterday I told Renee about my coming-out party. It was just too hellish keeping the secret any longer, seeing as much of her as I do, and frankly, I needed a fashion consultant for the big night. When I explained the plan, she screamed even louder than she had when I told her I’d decided to wear the suit. What’s more, she thinks it’s a brilliant idea—absolutely foolproof—which some people might regard as reason enough to be worried.

  This morning she took me to The Fabric Barn so we could select the material for my debutante gown. We settled on green bugle beads, very dark and shimmery, in a sort of half-assed nod to Mr. Woods. (Also, as you know, it’s a color that looks great with my hair and eyes.) We bought Velcro too, so the gown can be breakaway, capable of being donned in seconds. I’ll be in the rubber suit for an hour or more, so there’s no way I could wear the gown underneath. And, as Renee keeps reminding me, my hair and makeup will need attention after confinement in that sweatbox. This will take a pro, she says, someone who can work fast—someone like her, for instance.

  It’s true that her pageant skills might come in handy for this, but I’ve got my doubts about her ability to stay cool in the midst of all those stars. She was ditzy enough around Callum. On the other hand, the more henchmen I have, the easier it’ll be to pull off the switch. I’ll just have to play it by ear, I guess.

  Meanwhile, I’ve got a brilliant idea for the song I’ll sing to Philip on stage: “After All These Years,” from The Rink. It’s Kander & Ebb—frisky and up-tempo enough—yet the lyrics have a definite edge of sarcasm, especially when applied to me and Philip:

  Gee, it’s good to see you

  After all these years

  Gee, you’ve really lifted my morale

  Kept it all together

  After all these years

  What’s your secret, old pal?

  I can see that fortune has been kind to you

  Guess you’ve had no obstacles to climb

  Gee, you look terrific

  After all these years

  Completely unchanged by time!

  That line about “obstacles to climb” just might get a laugh, which would be all right with me. Anything to keep the audience loose. In any event, the message won’t be lost on Philip.

  Jeff drove me to Icon early this week for the fitting. Seeing that suit again was like viewing the embalmed remains of an old and bitter enemy. It was arrayed on a table in its own room—Lenin in his tomb came to mind—while technicians glued and snipped and soldered with offhanded, clinical calm, bringing the creature back to life. There was new, lighter-weight circuitry attached to his eye and facial muscles, which allowed more breathing space, but not enough to make a real difference. His insides, having been recently overhauled, were gaseous with epoxy, though one of the technicians assured me the smell would be gone by Saturday night.

  For a terrible minute or two—just as I staggered, arms forward like a sleepwalker, into the breach again—I considered the possibility that the motherfucker might not fit. When I made it all the way in and they snapped me shut, my ass and waist were a little snug, but the rest felt fine. I was so relieved I made a nervous joke about my weight to the technician, who laughed and said not to worry, they’d already enlarged the suit, at Philip’s request, in the event of just such an emergency. This was not what I needed to hear.

  I’d halfway expected Philip to make an appearance that day, but he didn’t. According to the technician, Philip keeps in close contact with the shop but has expressly asked not to see Mr. Woods before the tribute, to keep from diluting the impact of the experience. “Like the bride before the wedding,” said the technician, chuckling, as if this were the very sort of quirky, unpredictable thing that makes Philip so darned lovable. I would have blown lunch then and there if the circumstances had been more amenable.

  When Mr. Woods was on his feet again, testing his functions, word of his resurrection seemed to spread telepathically through the studio. Office temps and ADs and perky publicity minions begged admission, one by one, to the crowded hallway where the elf strutted his stuff. After a few seconds of experimentation, I could work his controls as if I’d never been away from them—like they always say about riding a bicycle. By squeezing the various bulbs in my hands, I could make him wrinkle his nose or roll his eyes or dimple up charmingly at the sound of their collective “Awww.” I’d almost forgotten how this felt—to be there and yet not be there, to be the living heart of something but not the thing itself. “Isn’t he cute?” they would coo, over and over again, and that blithely inaccurate pronoun hurt just as much as it ever did.

  The main thing, of course, was that Jeff was there, watching everything, learning the ins and outs of the suit. When the time came, I knew he’d be able to assist my escape without too many nasty surprises. Just before I climbed into bondage again, he smiled at me slyly and winked, as if to say: “Don’t worry. I’ll have you out of there in no time.”

  As we left the studio, I asked him if the scheme seemed more daunting than he’d imagined.

  “Not really.”

  “Still think it’s the right thing to do?”

  “Absolutely.” He turned and looked at me. “You spoken to Callum lately?”

  “Just briefly,” I told him. “He called to say he was glad I was doing the tribute. Why?”

  “Just wondered.”

  “I didn’t tell him you’d be there, if that’s what you mean.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  I asked him what had happened with the GLAAD protest.

  He shrugged. “We picketed.”

  “We?”

  “I went. Big deal. I believe in it.”

  “Did Callum see you?”

  “Yeah, I think so.”

  “D
idn’t that feel weird?” I asked.

  And he said: “Not as weird as hiding in that kitchenette.”

  My resolve began to weaken on the short ride home, only to be bolstered again by a quick browse through Variety, where I learned that Batman Returns was using little people in penguin suits to augment a flock of regular penguins. Now, there was a job worthy of a serious actor’s commitment. Meanwhile, plans were in the works elsewhere for a film called Leprechaun, a thriller about a little green serial killer who disrupts the peace of an average American household. So much for humanizing us. They might as well have called it Fatal Enchantment. This was all the reminder I needed that drastic measures were in order if I expected to turn my life around.

  By the time Renee got home, I’d already made a good start on my sewing. She kicked off her shoes and sat next to me on the floor, then held up the gown to examine the beginnings of sleeves, letting the bugle beads catch the light. “This is so elegant,” she exclaimed. “I’m glad we picked it.”

  I agreed.

  “Neil will love it,” she said.

  “Neil won’t see it,” I said, “except on TV.”

  “He’s not coming?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because I didn’t tell him what I’m doing.”

  “Why not? He loves the way you sing. I betcha he’ll think it’s a neat idea.”

  “Yeah…well, it was just too complicated.”

  She frowned at me. “Did something happen?”

  “No.”

  “Something did, Cady. What?”

  How is it, I wonder, that a woman who uses “betcha” and “neat” in the same sentence can be so adept sometimes at reading my distress? “His ex came by with his kid,” I explained.

  “Oh.”

  “The morning I was there.”

  Renee’s fingers flew to her mouth. “You were in bed, you mean?”

  “No. Nothing like that.”

  “Oh.”

  “It was just weird, that’s all. Everyone was so proper and stilted and jolly. Like a really empty episode of The Cosby Show. I felt like such an outlaw. Like I didn’t belong there at all.”

  Renee squinted at me in confusion. “Because you’re white?”

  “No. Because he was embarrassed. He tried hard not to be, but he was.”