Gay Place

by Billy Lee Brammer

  They forgot how, Jay thought; it seems to have slipped the mind. Vicki seemed full of it, an excess of it so that it became a self-worship, an indulgence. Sarah was endowed with it, but the spectacle of his own struggle against short supply had distorted the emotion for her.

  There had been a time, he reminded himself once again, when hope and assurance and large intention trumpeted in his ears, when the future shimmered before him so colossal and limitless with promise, that …

  He tried to go back in his mind to how it was, but now he wondered if it had ever really been that way. He questioned whether this, too, was a joke played on himself — the fond inventions and embroiderings of time. He had long since given up his dream for the future. Had he now ceased believing in the past?

  The ideal man! Innocence become imbecility; reduced to sniffing leftovers.

  Halfway down the marble hallway of the Capitol building he shook a guard awake and had him run him up on the elevator. The Governor’s reception room was thick and sticky with stale air. He opened some windows and tried to place a call to the country house. Sarah’s voice presently came on the line.

  “He’s asleep,” she said to him. “He was exhausted.”

  “I was supposed to get a call from him,” Jay said. “I’m not sure how to handle this thing in the morning.”

  “He’s asleep. Everybody’s asleep. The party’s over.”

  “Let’s get engaged,” he said. “Can you be engaged to a person when you’re still married?” He had tried for a note of levity, but it somehow sounded hysterical.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Some people can do anything.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Oh Jay … I just don’t know. I’m tight I guess. Everybody out here’s tight. ’Cept Arthur — he just looks like death.”

  “What the hell’s going on out there?”

  “All sorts of things,” she said, “all sorts. I got a half-dozen propositions during the evening. A record for me, I think. Some of them very attractive.”

  “What?”

  “The propositions. Vurry ’tractive.”

  Now he was beginning to feel a little boozy himself.

  “Must be quite the fashion. I got a couple of those things, too.”

  “What?”

  “Propositions. What you said. Two of ’em.”

  “That’s what I heard,” Sarah said. “Ass whata heard.”

  “What did you hear?”

  “Lots uh things.”

  “What? What did you hear?”

  “You ’n Vicki. Unnerstan’ you two might get together ’gain.”

  “That’s not true? Where did you hear that?”

  “One uh the innersted potties. She tol’ me all ’bout it. I was outside under the arbor neckin’ with old Greg — that’s a nice person that Gregory — and she came up to tell us all about it. All ’bout how it might happen. Vicki. She’s a peach.”

  “Sarah … Sarah … What’s going on out there? What are you doing?”

  “I’m sittin’ here, my sweet, drinkin’ Scotch. The twenty-five-year-old stuff they keep locked in the closet. Hoot Gibson’s passed out in another room. Arthur’s asleep. So’re the others, I s’pose, doin’ I don’t know whut-all.”

  “You go to sleep, too, Sarah. Get to bed and try to rest and I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

  “Na minute. Have a little drink first. Bye see you …”

  The disconnection was immediate, and he sat staring at the phone receiver as if the instrument itself had failed him. Sometime later he stretched out on a leather couch in the Governor’s office and slept fitfully until he was awakened by the iceman come to fill the cooler. He ran an electric razor over his face and applied a fresh dressing to the place on his forehead. By nine he had not heard from the Governor and he placed another long-distance call. This time there was no answer.

  Secretaries and staff members had begun to fill the outside offices. He sat at the Governor’s desk, and within a few minutes the reporters began calling to inquire about the team of Federal investigators and the report filed in Washington.

  “What’s he say, Jay, what’s he say?”

  “Well it’s not so bad,” he began. “We’ve been showing good faith, making progress. The Courts should certainly understand that —”

  “I don’t care what you think, Jay. I wanna know what he thinks.”

  “He’s not here,” Jay said. “He’s out of the city.”

  “We know that. We already called out there. No answer. What’s he tryin’ to do — hide or something? It’s not going to get any better …”

  “It’s very unusual for the Federal Government, the Justice Department, to take an action that … It’s —”

  “We know that. What’s he say? What’s the statement? He’d better do something or this knocks hell out of his re-election plans.”

  “We need time to study the case. We —”

  “When he gets in, you call us, dammit.”

  “Okay. Okay.”

  He tried the country house again without success. As soon as he had put the receiver down, the incoming calls resumed. There were inquiries from other newsmen from other cities and from members of the Legislature.

  “Is he gonna call a special session, Jay? Just tell me that.”

  “I don’t know, I don’t know.”

  “He’d damn well better. He’d better close the schools. We got the votes to do that.”

  “No you haven’t.”

  “What!”

  By the middle of the morning reports were coming in about the demonstration planned, the “march” on the Capitol. There were calls from other cities from people planning to drive in, inquiring if the Governor would be there to talk with them.

  “I guess we’ll just have to close the schools.”

  “I don’t see how.”

  “Why not? Why not?”

  “Half of them are desegregated already,” Jay said. “And what are we going to do without schools?”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  Hoot Gibson appeared in the office early in the afternoon. Jay pulled him into one of the back conference rooms.

  “Where is he? What’s happened?”

  “I don’t know, Jay. I been gone since early this mawnin’ run-nin’ all ovah, runnin’ round all ovah. Had to ’range to get the servants back into town fah Miz Fenstemakeh’s pawty. Had to get those pitcher people on the plane.”

  “They’re gone? They’re all gone?”

  “All ’cept Miz Vicki.”

  “She’s still there? What about Anne? The little girl. They weren’t supposed to —”

  “Little one went with the others. Vicki stayed on. Said she’d take a later plane. I don’t know when.”

  “What about Arthur? What did he say?”

  “Nothin’.”

  “Nothing? Nothing at all?”

  “Nope.”

  He tried to make some sense of this and found it impossible. It was like talking in another language. And it was all a nightmare. Be a man! he thought, and was shaken by half a giggle, half a sob. He tried to call into the country again, but there was no answer. Another phone was ringing, long distance from the Governor’s campaign manager.

  “Where the hell is Arthur? What’s he going to do?”

  “I don’t know where he is — or what his plans are.”

  “Well this is murder. They’re going to have us whipped before the campaign even gets started. You have any ideas? Jay. Don’t any of you people have any ideas?”

  “I haven’t had an idea in two years. The Governor usually has all the ideas.”

  “He’d better come up with a good one this time.”

  Hoot Gibson stood looking out a window, scratching himself. The girl, Jay thought, why did they take the girl? If there had only been time to think or plan. Now the departure of the little girl seemed to have left a great gap in him, an irreparable loss of imagination and vitality. And Vicki. Had she stayed to
talk with him? Why hadn’t she called? Why didn’t they answer the phone out there? He searched his mind for a course of action. Be a man? There was some small fiber of it left in him, but now the brain seemed to have boggled at the prospect of exertion. Part of myself is expired; too late for the resuscitator, bring the wagon. Too much of me is — Dead. Old Dead Man — he might know something! Worth a try, he thought. If he could make himself understandable on the telephone, Dead Man could take a message to the house. He reached for the phone.

  Hoot Gibson stood staring out the window, and then turned at Jay’s sudden movement.

  “Ah heah they’s goin-a be a mawch round the Capitol buildin’ this aftahnoon. Yew mind ’f ah go down an’ watch?”

  “No,” Jay said, dialing the long-distance number once again. If only old Dead Man can hear me, I’ll have to shout, I’ll have to — “Hey!”

  Hoot Gibson turned at the door.

  “Sarah. What about Sarah? She come in with you?”

  “She was dronk,” Hoot Gibson said with a grin.

  “All night? I talked to her last night, and …”

  “She slept a little, ah thank. In the front room. She was havin’ another when I left though. At it prutty early. Ah nevah seen that sweet thang carryin’ on that way. She can put it down when she’s uh mind to.” He turned and wandered out of the office.

  The conversation with the old man was not as bad as he expected. The trouble was that he had to shout. He had to scream whole sentences into the phone, long and involved explanations pitched at the top of his voice, and in the middle of this one of the secretaries stuck her head through the door, looking at him in amazement. “That’s right Dead Man! Just walk up to the main house if you can! See if anybody’s there! Ask them to call me! This is Jay, Dead Man, this is Jay! Ask someone to call into town! Ask Arthur to call … Arthur! All right? … All right! …”

  Outside on the Capitol grounds, groups of people were gathering beneath the trees. It looked very much like a huge old-fashioned picnic for a time, but then these early crowds were swollen by later arrivals carrying placards and banners, painted bedsheets and pasteboard signs. There were women and children sprawled out on the grass, watching from a distance and joining occasionally in erratic, short-lived marching formations and crazy snake dances. There were some old men with cymbals and an ancient bass drum and a tarnished trombone. There were several clusters of people grouped around speakers, who stood on the hoods of cars waving their arms. Jay watched fascinated from the second-story window.

  Another newsman called: “You going out to greet them? They’re a sweet bunch. You ought to get to know them.”

  “No thank you,” Jay said.

  “I’ve got a little thing here that needs some comment.”

  “I told you. The Governor’s not here. I don’t know where he is.”

  “I know, I know. It’s not that. There’s a Mexican here says he knows you and the Governor. Says you and Fenstemaker visited his place of business out in the ranch country a few days ago and had a party … a party at which, let’s see here, you deeded the state back to the Mexicans —”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that a dilly? He says you had a little dancing party at his bar and the Governor signed this proclamation — he’s got it right here, on brown wrapping paper yet — signed this thing giving the state back to the Mexicans.”

  “He’s out of his mind,” Jay said flatly.

  “He says he knows you.”

  “I know a lot of Mexicans, but he’s not one of them. The fellow’s got the paranoia. Treat him nice.”

  “Okay. Just checking. We’ll show him the tenderest solicitude. All these minority groups are neurotic. You know?”

  He returned to the window and watched the march around the Capitol building. There was a kind of cheering section being organized in front, and there were calls for Arthur Fenstemaker. He talked to more reporters and state officials by telephone. Evening began coming on, and the crowds out front were thinning, ready to disperse, threatening to be back on the following day and the day after until Arthur Fenstemaker made an appearance. The office help cleared off desks and went home. Two or three staff members remained with him for a time, but they soon followed the others. Jay sat in the Governor’s room; he sent out for a sandwich and poured himself some of the Governor’s whiskey. Mrs. Fenstemaker called. She had not heard from Arthur all day and was worried — there was no answer to the calls to the country place. Jay said yes he knew; he had been trying since the morning and would continue to check. He would call her back.

  He sat at the Governor’s desk and drank the whiskey. He switched on the television and watched films of the demonstration in front of the Capitol occurring earlier in the day. They had shots of the women and children and bedsheets and bass drums, and then there were clips from the party of the night before — the Governor with his arm around Vicki, waving at the cameras, Vicki flanked by two minor state officials, both of whom appeared to be competing for the best vantage point from which to look down the front of her gown. Another set of clips, better quality film, apparently furnished by the motion picture people, showed the Governor, Vicki and Edmund Shavers standing outside the prefabricated Victorian mansion on the location set in the desert. Then there was even a years-old photograph of him, Jay McGown, flashing across the screen, an old, grinning visage from out of the past, from his student body president days. Jay McGown, the announcer explained to him, was Miss Vicki McGown’s estranged husband and the Governor’s personal assistant.

  Jay sat back and sipped the whiskey, stuffing potato chips into his mouth, hypnotized by the screen. The personal catastrophe of Governor Arthur Fenstemaker seemed complete — total, absolute and final. Arthur couldn’t have done better if he had tried, Jay thought. Had he tried?

  He thought about the telephone. He had become so fond of the instrument during the course of the day, and now it had not signaled to him in more than an hour. He ought to call someone, he thought. Anyone. He called the country house, and there was no answer. He remembered Dead Man — Dead Man hadn’t called back — and he asked the operator to dial Dead Man’s number. Now there was no answer at Dead Man’s. He tried to think! Who could he call? Mrs. Fenstemaker? No, she was no fun, all sincere and defenseless. Who could he call — who in the whole wide world? He wished he could call Kermit. Old Kermit would have enjoyed hearing all about what had happened since he hanged himself. There was that fellow Ibáñez, the Mex; he could call him now but where the hell was he? Look here Old Mex, I’m really very sorry about this afternoon. I just didn’t know it was you, the real Ibáñez. Let’s have a look at that proclamation now. We might be able to make some adjustment.

  There was Victoria Anne. He would call old Victoria Anne, Annie, his sweetheart, his love, his unquestioning lover. Light a little candle, Annie, say a little prayer for me. He put the call through.

  “Yes?” said Shavers. Jay wondered why anyone would possibly say “Yes?” in answering a telephone ring. The thought of it evoked a vague antagonism in him.

  “Why should anyone possibly …” Jay began, and then hesitated.

  “Yes?” said Shavers irritatedly.

  “Victoria Anne McGown, please,” Jay said.

  “Who?”

  “Annie. My little girl. Part of me … The best of me.”

  “Who is … Jay? Jay is that you?”

  “Ed! Ed Shavers! How in the world are you? How’s Victoria Anne.”

  “She’s fine, Jay, we’re both fine. Just been in a couple of hours. Doing a little baby-sitting. She’s taking a nap. Just a minute and I’ll —”

  “No. No. Don’t wake her. I just … I was just … wondering if you got in okay.”

  “Fine. Everything’s fine.”

  “When are you expecting Vicki?”

  “Well don’t you know?” Shavers said. “Haven’t you talked to her?”

  “Haven’t seen her,” Jay said.

  “Oh. Well. Say … you been thinkin
g about that offer, what I talked with you about last night?”

  “All day long, Ed. Thought about nothing else all day long.”

  “Good! Good! What did you decide?”

  “I’ll tell you, Ed, it’s … it’s …”

  “Yes?”

  “It’s somehow slipped my mind what I was going to tell you, Ed. Call you back when I remember.” He broke the connection.

  He sat in the Governor’s leather chair and drank the whiskey. Be a man! What was it Sarah said? “Even if it’s a cheap imitation of one, be one. Can’t you get a little of it through osmosis or something?” He sat in the Governor’s chair, rubbing the seat of his pants against the soft leather, thinking about osmosis. Could you make a love, manufacture an emotion, the same way?

  The nice phone rang for him.

  “Yes?”

  “Speak louder I cain’t heah yew, who zis speakin’?”

  “Dead Man! How are you, Dead Man!”

  “Speak louder. Who zis speakin’?”

  “It’s me! It’s me, Dead Man! Jay! Jay McGown!”

  “Yew th’ one that called?”

  “Yes! That’s right, Dead Man! I’m the one!”

  “Yew bettah get out heah.”

  “What’s the trouble, Dead Man? What did you —”

  “Yew bettah get out heah, boy …”

  Fifteen

  THESE DREAMS … LIKE WHITESHROUDED men carousing through me, like great fat bears. Pursue me, through me, purple and swollen. I always forget on waking. Get up now (right now) and put it all down the way the psych prof told me (hold me!) else it will vanish in the light. Extract a lungful and impale the stuff on some exhibit board. For the authorities to see. All there is of me. Big bears and snails and tornado tails. And don’t forget the small dogs sniping with teeth like barracuda. Who’ll come to look? There’s a charade. Who in the whole wide world qualifies as my interpreter after it’s put down in black and white? These lapdogs munching and spangled wishbones growing from my breast? There’s Arthur, he’d know, he knows everything. I’ll write him a letter. I’ll lie here and write him a good one … I lie here now on my cushioned ledge, composing. Where to begin? Begin at the beginning — a little description first. It’s pleasant here, very très and very gay, my high blue vaulted room with the white stalks of wornout sunshine coming — No. At the beginning. Farther back, try to remember. There was this place some time ago, somewhere west of my love, those dreary wastes those trackless sands … How was that? Best I can do. I lie here now on my snug soft silken ledge, myself beside inside me. Sometimes I am like this and sometimes the other, straddling the ledge, my skirt pushed up, my navel showing. That’s when they come; I think they are several people, burrowing in the luxuriant folds of me, like bugs and slugs the way it was when we were digging toward China under those lovely latticed porch steps. Sometimes I feel down there and I am all soft and mossy, so pretty all over like the little girl said. When they come they come very softly, cats on fat bear’s feet; they’re very quiet about it and nice in a way and I only cried out once. And that was in the beginning. It was funny how I got here, I don’t think I’ve ever told myself. I’m on the ledge mostly, my clothes pushed up over my head, but sometimes I get down and walk around. Some. Times. There were times I remember thinking Jay would come with the others but he never found the ledge. Such a nice place really, a really lovely ledge with a view of the lake and the olive farms and bluebonnets painted on the ceiling. There was this sweet man brought me here; he’s beside me now as I write; I feel the length of him against my legs. He always goes first before the others. And he’s the only one who ever really gets inside, crawling back on his hands and knees, gasping for air, like a nice baby. I remember Jay used to try. But he never had such a nice ledge as this one and there were always people watching. I’ll bring Jay up here with me sometime soon and hold him against my breast, my heart thumping like the first time, and he won’t have to know about the other; this other, he must be leaving soon, taking the bears and lapdogs with him. Sometimes I get down and walk around and mix myself a gin, but this other doesn’t. He just lies here next to me, sleeping. He’s been strangely inarticulate of late. Perhaps that’s how it’s supposed to be, (I’m not sure; I’m new around here like I said). I’m wide awake. Those dreams. I don’t remember any now and I was going to write them down, pulsing through me, inside-out me, all those scattered buttends. I recall a little of the first time. There was that blond girl, she wanted up here with him I know, the way she was hanging around, and he chose me and was nice, the way I know Jay would be if he could only find himself a ledge. It’s very quiet now; I can hear this old house groaning and a night bird outside my window, serene and peaceful, and feel the silk pajamas against my skin, my skin all Vicki-perfumed. You have to look for it, Arthur told me, you have to look for beauty and grace, and I tried, I tried so hard with my eyes closed and the sweet taste of somebody at the corners of my mouth …