There was harmony again after supper when Frannie, DeDe, Emma and the twins romped together on the lawn. Frannie took new delight in her grandchildren, these precious almond-eyed sprites who called her “Gangie” and frolicked on American soil as if it had always been theirs.
When DeDe and the children had retired, Frannie repaired to her bed with a Barbara Cartland novel.
Shortly after midnight, she heard a moan from DeDe’s room.
The matriarch clambered out of bed, made her way down the hall, and listened outside her daughter’s door.
“No, Dad. PLEASE, DAD … NO, PLEASE DON’T … OH, GOD HELP ME! DAD! DAD!”
Frannie flung open the door and rushed to DeDe’s bedside. “Darling, it’s all right. Mother’s here, Mother’s here.” She rocked her daughter in her arms.
DeDe woke up and whimpered pathetically.
In the next room, the twins were sobbing in unison.
Letter from the Road
DEAR MARY ANN AND BRIAN,
Greetings from Motown! The tour is going great so far, though I have failed to meet anyone even remotely resembling_______ ______. Yesterday morning, on the flight from Lincoln, we had a whole 737 to ourselves, so all hell broke loose. Mark Hermes, a fellow baritone, put on a wig, scarf and apron—and two teacups for earrings—and impersonated the stewardess while she did her oxygen mask instructions. She loved it. The flight people have all been fabulous, as a matter of fact—especially the two hot Northwest stewards we had (not literally, alas) on the flight between Chicago and Minneapolis. One was gay, the other questionable. Naturally, I fell for the questionable one.
Lincoln, believe it or not, has been the high point so far. The local homos threw a lovely little potluck brunch for us in Antelope Park. (In fact, I’ve been to so many potluck functions that I’m beginning to feel like a lesbian.) The main gay bar in Lincoln is called—is this discreet enough?—The Alternative. It is the scene of much bad drag. White boys impersonating Aretha Franklin, etc. Most of us opted for the alternative to The Alternative—a joint called the Office Lounge. It was stifling in there, so we took off our shirts after we’d been boogying for a while. A major no-no. Apparently there’s a law that says you can’t take your shirt off in Nebraska.
The chamber singers were supposed to appear on Channel 10 in Lincoln, but the station manager canceled at the last minute because he didn’t want to “rub people’s faces in it”—whatever “it” is. By and large, though, people have been pretty wonderful. The audience at First Plymouth Church was about fifty percent old ladies. Old ladies can always tell “nice young men” when they see them.
The audience was skimpy in Dallas—possibly because the Dallas morning News refused to print our ads. Our consolation was a private swim party thrown at the fashionable Highland Park home of a gay doctor named—I’m not making this up—Ben Casey. Some of the boys did an impressive nude water ballet to the music of “Tea for Two.”
We stayed at the Ramada Inn in Mesquite, Texas—the town that gave hairspray to the world—and we were a smash hit at the Denny’s there, where a waitress named Loyette (pronounced Low-ette) thinks we’re the biggest thing since the death of Elvis. Oh yes—we ran out of hot water at the Ramada Inn. One-hundred-and-thirty-five faggots without hot water. Not a pretty scene. As luck would have it, the friendliest place in town was the steam room at the First Baptist Church—an enormous complex that covers about four square blocks of downtown Dallas. A lot of organists hang out there, if you catch my drift.
After the Minneapolis concert, a bunch of us went to a bar called The Gay Nineties. Apparently it’s been called that for years, even when it was the city’s oldest strip joint. It has three separate rooms—one for leather types, one for disco queens, one for preppies. I wandered around aimlessly, having my usual identity crisis. Ned, of course, sauntered into the leather section and racked up so many phone numbers that he looked like the bathroom wall at the Greyhound station.
David Norton, one of our tenors, had twenty members of his family show up for the concert in Minneapolis. That’s been happening a lot, all over. Lots of hugs and boo-hoos backstage. Also in Minneapolis, I met an old couple—both in their eighties—who came up and thanked me in the lobby after the concert. They were brother and sister, both gay, and they’d driven all the way from their farm in Wisconsin to hear us sing. They had thick white hair and incredible blue eyes and all I could think of was the “eccentric old bachelor and his spinster sister” who used to live down the road from us in Orlando. We talked for about fifteen minutes, and we hugged when we said goodbye as if we had known each other forever. The old lady said: “You know, when we were your age, we didn’t know there was a word for what we were.”
As the song says—“Other places only make me love you best.” Next comes New York, Boston, Washington and Seattle. A big hug for Mrs. M. Tell her the brownies were perfect.
In haste,
MICHAEL
P.S. I have it on the best authority that the chorus will be returning to the city in the vicinity of 18th and Castro at 5 P.M. on Father’s Day. If you can make it, I’d love to see your shining faces in the crowd. Make Brian wear something tight.
P.P.S. Dallas men wear their muscles like feather boas.
Her Wilderness Like Eden
LUKE’S FAVORITE BIBLICAL QUOTATION CAME FROM Isaiah:
For the Lord will comfort you; he will comfort you; he will comfort all her waste places, and make her wilderness like Eden, her desert like the garden of the Lord.
Prue entered the passage in her notebook, then read it aloud again. “That makes such perfect sense, now that I think of it.”
“What?” asked Luke, looking up from his cot. He was stroking one of the chipmunks with his forefinger.
“That quote. This place. You’ve made this spot your garden of the Lord. You’ve made this wilderness like Eden.” True, the rhododendron dell wasn’t exactly a wilderness by most people’s standards, but the metaphor worked for Prue.
Luke smiled benignly. “You could do it, too.”
“Do what?”
“Change your wilderness into a garden.”
Prue’s brow furrowed. “Do you think I’m living in a wilderness?”
He let the chipmunk down and laid his hands to rest on his knees. “That’s for you to decide, Prue.”
The sound of her own name stunned her. She was sure he had never used it before. “You don’t know that much about me,” she said quietly, trying not to sound defensive. Why did she suddenly feel like a butterfly on the end of a pin?
“I know things,” he said. “More than you know about me. I’ve read your column, Prue. I know about the thing you call a life.”
She didn’t know whether to feel flattered or indignant. “Where?” she exclaimed. “How in the world did you …?”
“How in the world did a hermit get a copy of Western Gentry magazine?”
“I didn’t mean it like that, Luke.”
He seemed amused by her disclaimer. “Yes you did. You can’t help it. You’re a woman who worships material things. I don’t mind, Prue. Jesus found room in his heart for people like that. There’s no reason why I can’t, too.”
She reddened horribly. “Luke, I’m sorry if …”
“Sit down,” he said, patting a place on the cot next to him. Prue obeyed, responding instantly to a tone of voice that conjured up images of her father back in Grass Valley.
“It hurts me to see people in need,” said Luke.
Prue thought this was just plain unfair. Her Forum discussions often focused on the needy. “Luke, just because I have money doesn’t mean I don’t feel compassion for the poor.”
“I’m not talking about the poor. I’m talking about you.”
Silence.
“I’ve never seen such need, Prue.”
“Luke …”
“You need someone who doesn’t see the fancy dresses and the house on Nob Hill. Someone who refuses to be distracted by the myth you’ve spen
t such a long time creating….”
“Now, wait a minute!”
“Someone who really sees Prudy Sue Blalock, not the party girl, not the pathetic creature who spends her time bragging about how far she’s come. Someone who would have loved her if she had never left Grass Valley at all.”
“Luke, I appreciate your …”
“You don’t appreciate a damn thing yet, but you will. I’ll teach you to love God again, to love yourself as God made you, to love the little girl who’s deep down inside of you, aching to cast off those stupid, goddamn Alice-in-Wonderland clothes and tell the world what’s really in her heart. Look at me, Prue. Don’t you see it? Don’t you see it in my eyes?”
When she finally looked at him, all she felt was an uncanny familiarity, as if she had known this man all her life—or in a past life. She knew these features: the extraordinary cheekbones, the amber skin, the full lips, the strong hands that now cradled one of hers as though it were a wounded bird.
Tears spilled out of Prue’s eyes. “Please don’t do this,” she said.
“You can change,” he offered gently. “It doesn’t have to stay this way.”
“But … how?” Her heart was pounding wildly. Through the teary blur, she could see the chipmunks gamboling on the dirt floor. She felt as if she were in a Disney cartoon.
“You can start by trusting me,” he said. “You can trust me to love you unconditionally. On your terms. At your pleasure. As often or as little as you want. Forever.”
She knew in her heart that he meant it.
So she took his hand and put it where she needed him.
Adam and Eve
PRUE?”
“Mmm?”
“You like some coffee?”
“Huh-uh. Don’t get up yet. I’m fine.”
“You look fine. Beautiful.”
“Thank you.”
“What about your driver?”
“What about him?”
“You’ve been gone three hours. Won’t he worry about you?”
“He’s used to waiting. That’s what he’s paid for.”
“But … if he calls the police …”
“He won’t call the police. Why should he call the police?”
“No reason. It’s getting dark, that’s all. I thought he might worry about you.”
“It’s dark already?”
“Uh-huh.”
“If you want me to leave, I …”
“I don’t want you to leave.”
“Good.”
“If I had my way, you would never leave. We would lock ourselves away from that madness out there and … Jesus, that feels good.”
“Mmm.”
“Your hair is so soft. Like a baby’s.”
“Mmm.”
“I meant what I said, Prue.”
“Mmm.”
“Will you come back?”
“Mmm.”
“You wouldn’t lie to me?”
“No.”
“Good. Do that some more.”
“Mmm.”
“I know you can’t be seen with me. I know that.”
“Luke …”
“No. Listen to me. I know you. I know this isn’t easy for you. Just promise me you won’t torture yourself later.”
“Torture myself?”
“Feeling guilty. Punishing yourself for loving a man who could never fit into your world.”
Silence.
“That’s the truth, isn’t it? You know it, and I know it. What we have can only happen here. And never often enough. I know all that, Prue, and I accept it. I want you to do the same.”
“Luke, I would never …”
“Forget about never. Forget about forever. All I want, Prue, is a little now from time to time. Promise me that, and I’ll be happy.”
“I promise.”
“I can show you wonderful things.”
“You already have.”
“I think you should go now.”
“All right.”
“Don’t be afraid, Prue. Please.”
“Of what?”
“Us.”
“I’ll never be afraid of that.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Just come back, O.K.?”
“Soon.”
“I’ll be here.”
D’or
MARY ANN’S LE CAR BARRELED ALONG SKYLINE Drive on a June evening at sunset.
“God,” said DeDe, glimpsing the sea. “It’s so infernally beautiful, isn’t it?”
“It sure is,” said Mary Ann.
“It never goes away, you know.”
“What?”
“That. Or the memory of that. Even in the jungle … even in that jungle, there were things about California that never left me. Even when I wanted them to.”
Mary Ann hesitated, then asked: “Why would you want them to?”
“You didn’t grow up here,” said DeDe. “Almost anything can be oppressive given the right circumstances.” She smiled almost wistfully. “And salvation comes when you least expect it.”
Mary Ann turned and looked at her. “Surely you don’t consider Guyana your salvation?”
DeDe shook her head. “I was talking about D’orothea.”
“Oh.”
“I’d like to now, if you don’t mind. Does it make you uncomfortable?”
“Not at all,” said Mary Ann, lying only slightly.
“It makes Mother climb the walls.”
“Different generation,” said Mary Ann.
“Did you know her at Daddy’s agency?”
“Who?” asked Mary Ann.
“D’orothea.”
“Oh … not very well, actually. She just came in and out sometimes. She was our biggest client’s top model. Frankly, she intimidated the hell out of me.”
DeDe smiled. “She had a way with her. Has, that is.”
“She used to be friends with a friend of mine. A copywriter named Mona Ramsey.”
“They were lovers,” said DeDe.
“Yeah.” Mary Ann grinned sheepishly. “That’s what I meant, actually. Sometimes the Cleveland in me takes over.”
DeDe chuckled, eyes glued to the sunset. “You’re doing better than I ever did. I never learned about a goddamn thing until it actually happened to me.”
Mary Ann pondered that for a moment. “Yeah,” she said drily, “but what hasn’t happened to you?”
DeDe shot her a wry glance. “Good point,” she said.
“It’s a journalist’s dream,” observed Mary Ann, adding hastily: “I hope that doesn’t sound callous.”
“No. I’m aware of its potential.”
“There’s a book in it for sure. Maybe even a movie-for-TV.”
DeDe laughed ironically at the prospect. “Won’t Mother love the hell out of that? ‘Starring Sally Struthers as the Society Lesbo.’ Jesus.”
Mary Ann giggled. “We should be able to do better than that.”
“Maybe … but I’m prepared for the worst.”
Mary Ann looked earnestly at her passenger. “I’ll do everything I can to help.”
“I know,” said DeDe. “I believe that. But not until the month is out, O.K.?”
Mary Ann nodded. “I wish I understood why.”
“If I tell you, will you promise me that Mother won’t hear about it?”
“Of course.”
“She thinks I need the time to rest up, to get my bearings before the publicity begins. That’s true enough, but not the whole truth. The whole truth has always been a bit too much for Mother.”
Mary Ann smiled. “I’ve noticed that.”
“I need to talk to some people. People who might know … what I need to know.”
“Who? Can you say?”
“Temple members,” answered DeDe. “And people who knew him.”
“Jones?”
DeDe nodded.
“You could start with the governor,” said Mary Ann. “And half the
politicians in town. He was quite a popular fellow around here.”
DeDe smiled faintly. “I know. At any rate, I’m stalling right now, because I haven’t got all the facts. And I certainly don’t relish the thought of being branded as a nut case.”
“That would never happen.”
“In two weeks,” said DeDe, “you may have changed your mind.”
They parked to watch the sun go down in flames.
“I guess I changed the subject,” said Mary Ann.
“When?”
“You wanted to talk about D’orothea.”
“Yeah, well … there wasn’t much to say, really. Just that she cared for me. And made me laugh a lot. And the twins worshiped her. And she made love like an angel. And I wish she’d get her silly socialist ass out of Cuba and come home to me and the children. The usual stuff. Not much.”
“Until you lose it,” said Mary Ann.
“Until you lose it,” said DeDe. She watched the sea in silence for a moment, then turned to her companion. “I’m glad you’re here. You’re a generous listener. You take things in stride.”
Mary Ann smiled. “Billie Jean King helped.”
“Huh?”
“I guess you haven’t heard about that.”
“She’s a dyke, too?”
“Well,” said Mary Ann. “She had an affair with a woman. Does that make her a dyke?”
“It does if she did it right,” DeDe replied.
Gaying Out
THE WEATHER HAD BEEN RELENTLESSLY SUNNY FOR ALMOST a week, so Michael and Ned had their hands full at God’s Green Earth. Business was so brisk at the nursery that it was three o’clock before they sat down amidst the other living things requiring partial shade and contemplated their Yoplait.
“What do you think I should do?” asked Michael.
“About what?”
“The parade.”
Ned shrugged. “You’re going, aren’t you?”
“Sure. But what do I wear? There’s a big demand for the All-American look, and I pull that off pretty well. On the other hand, the Sisters of Perpetual Indulgence have asked me to be a nun this year.”
Ned spooned yogurt into his mouth. “Go for the nun,” he said.
Further Tales of the City Page 11
