The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

  “Sure. Sure.”

  I wondered if there was another breakfast table conversation like this one going on in all of America.

  “I guess a few thoughts that come to mind are that some of what you said, Jerry, was about homosexuality in general and some of it was about marriage in particular. They were good points, but remember, marriage is the specific topic. But, okay, nevertheless they are interwoven. Sorry, I’m just trying to get my thoughts together. Oh yes, I remember now, you can have marriage without children, first of all. For homosexuals that would in fact be an inherent biological restriction, obviously. The inability to have children. And no law could change that. But that wouldn’t be society’s problem. It would be the personal problem of the couple, wouldn’t it? I suppose regarding adoption by homosexuals, well, I would have to agree with Jerry. I’m not sure what effect that would have on children. I would think not a very good one. It would be very hard on them. Unfathomable, really. Having two mothers and no father? Introducing your friends to your parents? I can’t even imagine it. It’s a different world. And that leads me to my next point. Changing the law does not change people’s hearts. Maybe society would be even less accepting of homosexuals if they got married. I think society would be angry if you want to know the truth.”

  “Right. There goes the neighborhood. And Western Civilization along with it. What’ll these homos want next?” I chimed in.

  Barbara immediately rebutted me. These damn lawyers. “Or maybe society would be more accepting of gays getting married rather than, quote, living in sin like we all are right now. Marriage would be declaring that homosexuals want to do the right thing; contribute to the stability of society. It is preferable to promiscuity, isn’t it?”

  This sounded like an attack on gay men to me, only I shut up about it, seeing as Jerry was right there.

  “Aren’t the four of us all ‘married’ right now, in a sense? And isn’t it working pretty well?” Barbara continued.

  “Yeah, it works great when we keep it a secret from everyone. Try putting it out in the open. But let me ask you this, Barb: Do you want more laws to tell you what to do?” I was originally going to keep my snoot out of this mess. It all seems pretty academic to me, but I found the thought coming to my mind nevertheless.

  “What do you mean, tell me what to do?”

  “I mean laws work both ways. They can giveth and they can taketh away. So right now, in your so-called marriage, if you want to split, you split. If you’re really married, that’s called divorce. That means lawyers, government. You might even have to take a trip down to Mexico to get that squared away. Right now, if you were to—to put it delicately, stray—that would be called, to put it delicately, straying. No ten-yard penalty. But if you were really married, my dear, that would be called adultery. You see what I’m saying?”

  “So, in some ways you’re saying we have even more rights now. And less burdens.” I forget who made this point.

  I shrugged and kept quiet. Let ‘em connect the dots themselves.

  “Well I must be honest,” said Barbara, standing up. “These are sentiments which I cannot believe I am hearing. How can we—the four of us, of all people—not be on the same page here? I don’t know, this concerns me.” She looked a little pale as she lit a cigarette.

  “Barbara, it’s okay. Not everyone has to agree,” said Jerry. “We don’t have to be homogeneous here—oh, excuse the pun.”

  This prompted a little laughter and a few wisenheimers shouting out, “I’m homogeneous!”

  “Well, if you ask me, you’re all putting the cart before the horse. And incidentally, I once read in Ripley’s Believe It or Not that a man married a horse. Supposedly they were very happy, too,” I said. “Had three children. All with big ears, thick eyelashes and long faces. But here’s the thing about marriage for homosexuals. It’s not reality and never will be. We have to live in the real world. This discussion is all a lot of talk about nothing when we can’t even go to the local bar and strike up a conversation with the guy sitting on the next stool over without fear of arrest. Boys and girls, all I’m saying is, first things first.”

  Dot Johnson

  “Jerry!” I called, moving as fast as I could in my best work heels. I had just parked and was heading toward the entrance of The Farmers Market on 3rd. As he turned his head, I could see that it wasn’t Jerry after all. I slowed my pace, that odd feeling hitting my stomach when a person realizes that perception is not meeting reality. “Oh, I’m sorry. I thought you were someone else.” The man looked me up and down, quickly, but not so subtly. It was enough to make me cross my arms. His square-jawed face took on a slight air of perversion.

  “You’re sorry?” Then he whistled one of those one-note cherry bombs, as he folded his arms across his chest, grinned, and planted his feet like a tourist settling in for a view. “I’m sorry my name’s not Jerry. But even better—it’s Al.”

  I hope this doesn’t sound stuck up, but this kind of thing happens all the time. And sometimes I’m just not in the mood for it. But I guess that’s just the way it is. Boys will be boys. It’s part of what makes the world go ‘round. I suppose without this sort of persistent male behavior, man, as a species, would die off. I guess it’s instinct and each sex plays its part. Only my part for now was not going to do anything to ensure the future of mankind. “Well Al be seeing you,” I said, effecting my best Myrna Loy, as I skirted around him towards the produce ahead.

  “Dot!”

  Now how in the world did he know my name? I wasn’t sure if I should turn around or not, but curiosity got the better of me, so I did. I looked right at Al, and then past him.

  “Dot!” This time it was Jerry.

  Surprised, I waved. “Jerry, hi!”

  “So that’s Jerry, huh?” said Al with a wry smile. “Well, you can’t blame a guy for trying,” he said as I maneuvered my way around him. And I didn’t—blame him, that is.

  “See ya, Al,” I said, heading toward Jerry.

  It was a pleasant surprise. I always enjoy talking with Jerry and rarely have the opportunity to do so without other people around. We exchanged brief pleasantries and began our marketing together.

  As we walked, I noticed that Jerry seemed a little down but tried not to show it. He seems to take things hard and has trouble letting go. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he was still thinking about that talk we had all had about gay marriage. He has that kind of mind where he has to wrestle with issues for a long time before he can move on.

  I’ve tried to gently remind him that not everything has a clean, definitive, consistent answer. Life is full of gray areas. But nevertheless, I think it’s hard on him. It seems to eat him up.

  As we passed by the strawberries, I noticed that Jerry seemed to be staring off into space. It gave me a chance to really look at his face. To study it. I don’t think Jerry is much for small talk. No, I think he likes, or maybe he has a need, to be more precise, to have real conversations. So I decided to be direct as I linked my arm in his and whispered in his ear. “Some of the greatest men in history have become consumed by a relentless pursuit of answers.”

  I pulled back to a comfortable distance, and Jerry smiled. “Any of them happy?”

  You got me there, I thought. I pulled his arm to slow the cart. Then I turned toward him and looked into his eyes and smiled. “Jerry, I don’t think you should change a thing about yourself. I doubt you could if you tried. You, Jerry Ripley, are a thinker. You analyze. And you come up with answers. That’s not a bad thing.”

  Jerry looked away.

  “Who came up with the idea for the duplex, huh?” I continued.

  “I did,” he said with playful modesty, getting my point.

  “Being different isn’t easy. But it can be more interesting.”

  “Well, I must be fascinating because this stuff tears me apart,” he said with a laugh. He was try
ing.

  “What stuff?”

  “Life,” he said. “I don’t know. Sometimes I wish I could be more like Cliff. Nothing ever bothers this guy. To tell you the truth, I’m amazed by him. He loves life. He always has something to say—never at a loss. And everything just rolls off his back.” By the time he was done, he was smiling. And crying.

  Looking at him made me tear up, too. I just wanted to take Jerry in my arms and take care of him.

  Instead I pulled him over by the side of a remote aisle so we could dab our eyes—away from the other shoppers. When we were done, we looked at each other. It was an amazing feeling. I felt like I was looking into his heart. And we smiled. And that turned into uncontrollable laughter for what seemed like five minutes—though I’m sure it was shorter—culminating in a long hug which seemed to grow tighter and tighter.

  “Dot,” he said.

  “Uh, huh.” I said it softly, his hug so tight it was honestly hard to breath. But I didn’t mind.

  “Don’t you ever feel like something is missing in your life?”

  Looking back, I’m amazed at how I had seemed to block everyone else out. I had forgotten I was in public, and a strange feeling came over me by the time I remembered.

  As we finally broke our embrace, Jerry pulled me back in and kissed me on the lips. Without thinking, I kissed him back, hard. And for a brief moment we fed on each other like hungry teenagers before abruptly stopping.

  It was then that I finally looked around. Most of the other shoppers seemed to be focusing only on their own immediate tasks at hand, although I did notice a few furtive glances.

  “Sorry,” Jerry whispered. “Cliff, Cliff doesn’t like to hug much.” He looked down.

  I told him it was okay, and we continued our marketing.

  “One pound of ground beef, please,” I told the man at the counter.

  Then I turned to Jerry. “So how do you think the duplex is working out?”

  “Pretty well, overall. It’s taken some getting used to, and I sure wish we hadn’t had that incident in the backyard with the Kenworths during the party.”

  “Well, I don’t think anything’ll come of it. Besides nothing’s perfect. I’m sure our next party will be even better.” I could tell by his face that the very idea of another party anytime soon made him positively ill. I suppose I should have known better than to have brought it up.

  “How about with you? I mean with the duplex and all?”

  “I think things are going well. It’s very nice living away from home.” Then I lowered my voice. “And I just love Barbara. You know she has to have everything just so, but she’s wonderful to live with. Just the whole thing—your idea, I mean—has been incredible. The way it’s allowed us to live. It wouldn’t have been possible without you, Jerry.”

  He smiled. I had hoped that this would make him feel good.

  We talked some more and again I noticed his face.

  “You know, Jerry, most folks are as happy as they make up their minds to be.” The moment I said it I realized I how preachy I sounded. I hoped not, but I had minored in history and found these kinds of phrases frequently popping into my head. That didn’t mean I needed to say them, of course. Maybe Jerry didn’t want my advice. I hoped he didn’t mind too much.

  “That sounds familiar.”

  “Do you know who said it?” I guess it was the teacher in me. I was on a roll and apparently couldn’t stop.

  “Um, Mussolini?”

  We both laughed, and I told him it was Abraham Lincoln, which somehow seemed amazingly anti-climactic.

  “Here you go, Miss.” It was the butcher.

  I thanked him, and Jerry and I continued on down the next row of vegetables. Slowly strolling and talking.

  “Dot Johnson? Is that you?”

  I looked to my left and made out the face immediately. It felt as if no time at all had passed.

  “Marion Thomas!” I said, probably a little too loudly.

  We hadn’t seen each other since our junior year of high school. She seemed almost more bubbly now than she’d been in eleventh grade, and to be honest, it was contagious, and almost immediately we were squealing like schoolgirls, barely catching ourselves from getting too out of hand.

  “It’s actually Marion Bright, now,” she said, practically whispering to make up for our exuberant outburst just seconds ago. I looked at her a moment, my mouth open and caught in the middle of a newly forming smile.

  “I know, I know,” she said looking upward and shaking her head a little. “It’s a great name around the holidays anyway. I almost didn’t marry the guy because of it!”

  Then she laughed, and I did, too.

  “And these are my two little ones, Gary and Lisa.”

  “Hello, Gary. I knew your mommy when she was just a little bit bigger than you are now,” I joked. Gary, who was about four, swung his leg back and forth and beamed. He was dressed as a little cowboy and couldn’t be happier with his gun and holster.

  Lisa was in a carriage. Two months old and cute as a button. “Ohhh. My gosh, she is so cute, Marion.” I felt my face melt. “Hi, Lisa, hi, baby. Why, aren’t you just the sweetest thing?” We both looked down on her and couldn’t help smiling.

  Then Marion cleared her throat and curled her mouth upward in a subtle way, looking toward Jerry. I excused myself and introduced her.

  “So, how many children do you two have?” she asked.

  “What? Oh, Jerry’s not my husband.” My reaction was instinctual, and I hoped I didn’t sound too adamant.

  I noticed Marion looking at my ring. “Oh, my husband’s at work,” I continued quickly. “Jerry lives next door.”

  I saw Marion looking at our single cart. I have to admit the whole thing started to feel awkward. “We just ran into each other,” I added. Then I told her about my “husband,” Cliff, and how we were newlyweds and did not have any children yet.

  We continued to chit-chat and catch up, but the whole time I just could not take my eyes off of little Lisa. She was so beautiful.

  “Would you like to hold her?” Marion finally asked. I told her I would. She felt so good in my arms. And she smelled so good, too. I really didn’t want to let go.

  “Bang! Bang!” It was Gary shooting the watermelons.

  “Well, that’s my cue. I really should get going,” said Marion. Then she invited me to an upcoming get together she would be attending with some of our old girlfriends. All of them were married and would be bringing their children. All but Sylvia, who was expecting. “I really hope you can make it. The girls would love to see you. And all the children get along wonderfully.”

  Then we said our goodbyes and went in different directions.

  Barbara Penczecho

  It was kind of a slow day at the office today, so I was able to knock off early, which was a rare but nice occurrence. Dot was doing some marketing, so I had the place all to myself, another nice but rare occurrence, mainly because it gave me some time to think.

  Lying on the sofa in a pair of house pants, I quietly sipped lemonade mixed with gin. I always like to cut my lemonade with a little gin, so no one will smell the lemonade on my breath. Someone once said that to me. Sounds like the kind of thing my father might say, though he never would, seeing as he never drank anything but beer. But anyhow, it is his kind of humor.

  You know, if I was back home, I would never be able to lay on the sofa by myself and just think like I am doing now on account of the fact that there was always somebody around. Always. I never had any privacy at all until I moved out. God, I miss everyone back home. You pay a heavy price for not getting along with other people.

  But for all that, my life is good here. I cannot complain. I love Dot to pieces. And the boys, too. Dot reminds me of myself in some ways. I mean, how I was when I first moved out. It has been nice showing her how to live on
her own away from her mother. It has been an adjustment for me too, of course. I like to do things a certain way, and all of a sudden now we have to talk about those things—decorating, cleaning, and such. But I usually get Dot to see things my way. It also takes a lot of diplomacy, sometimes having to tell someone how things should be. But it has nevertheless turned out nicely.

  In the beginning, there was a lot of resistance from Dot’s mother, but I am now happy to say she seems to have accepted things. I think there is less judgement from her as well, which has allowed Dot to relax and find her own way now that she is no longer on a mission to prove something to her mother. For this I am grateful. It has really lowered the strain between them, and I get the feeling they have never been closer, which is nice.

  But overall, this whole duplex notion has legs. Just the idea that I can live in peace with the woman I love, why, that alone is too good to be true. And the party we recently had was a load of fun. It felt like freedom. There were a few snags, as is usually the case in most social settings. A couple of loudmouth bigots that I had to throw out. They just made me snap. I don’t know what it is. What gives people the right to treat people badly just because they are Negroes? Especially homosexuals of all people. You would think they would know what it is like to be treated unfairly. It really burns me up.

  But that is the story of my life. Trying to smuggle in strays as a child. Trying to thwart bullies. I certainly do not mean to make it out like I am a martyr, but it just seems like I am always involved in some kind of cause. Always taking a stand. It is very tiring if you want to know the truth. And it is not something I enjoy. But it is something I just seem to do.

  Even the day after the party. We, the four of us, got into a big discussion about homosexual marriage all because someone left a magazine behind. I do not consider myself some subversive radical, but do you know that no one else was on my side? I mean, look at how the four of us live in this duplex. Like married people! And there was still a question about whether or not homosexuals should be able to marry—among this group, of all people? I am even taking stands here among kindred spirits, for cripes sakes.