In a flash she saw her daughter face down in the water. She ran over, saw the group of children at the picnic table about fifty feet away from the pool watching some insipid discount clown with a black greasepaint cross on his forehead—Jokers for Jesus, she was horrified to learn later. The clown had two puppets, a headless John the Baptist on one hand, and a fierce, Old Testament God with a warty face and wild hair on the other. She scanned the dirty, fat faces of the children, and, not finding Poppy among them went straight for the pool where her daughter was already unconscious. She didn’t know how she knew, but the knowledge, not where it came from, was what mattered. She’d always been suspicious of the Jesus-ridden Millers with their slow ways and absurd belief that Christ was some giant babysitter who wouldn’t let anything bad happen to their precious flock.
“Anna?” Greta said.
Anna looked over.
“Is Poppy okay?”
Anna shrugged. “Time will tell.” She sipped her wine. “She wants to come visit.”
“Oh?”
Anna turned her eyes back to the television. “What is this movie anyway?”
“That’s it? That’s all I get? ‘Time will tell’?”
“I don’t know what to say. My daughter and I have never been friends. Contrary to what Hollywood and Hallmark want you to believe, mothers don’t love unconditionally. No human relationship is without conditions.” She reached for the bottle of wine on the coffee table.
“But she’s your daughter.”
“Yes, she is. A daughter who did unforgivable things.”
“She’s your child, Anna. Nothing is unforgivable, right?”
Anna looked at Greta evenly. And how would you know, she wanted to say, not having a child of your own, but instead, keeping her voice calm said, “I think some things are. Unforgivable is a promise to a dying parent you simply don’t keep. To a father who adored her and called for her with his last breath. Unforgivable is making someone suffer because they’re waiting for you. That look in the eye, that look of hope every time the phone rings. Unforgivable is not getting on a plane.”
Greta squeezed her hand finally. “I hope you can work it out.”
In the morning Anna awoke to the smell of frying bacon and Greta’s voice on the phone in the living room. Greta had spent the night on the couch. The clock read eight-thirty. Anna was going to miss her nine-o’clock orchestra rehearsal. Her insomnia was catching up with her and playing Rachmaninoff right now seemed as impossible as running a marathon. She stretched beneath the sheets, let herself drift, knowing from the pitch and intensity of Greta’s voice that she was talking to her husband. She thought about Poppy, tried to imagine what could be so critical that she was willing to drive thousands of miles to see her. Something awful was going to happen, she was sure of it.
Greta came in with two mugs of coffee. Anna sat up. “What’s the good word?”
“I was just talking to Mike.”
“Where is he?”
“Home now.” She sat on the edge of the bed.
Anna sipped her coffee, didn’t speak. Greta’s face was soft and Anna saw that something had been worked out between Greta and Mike. She would be a mother, Anna knew now, and would be heartbroken in ways she couldn’t begin to fathom. In her mind, she saw Greta wearing a schleppy frock, her hair in pigtails. Saw her take her braids in each hand and tug, then watched as the braids became two children. Daughters. Greta would have two little girls. She looked at Greta now, her lovely hair and skin, her dreamy eyes. She would give anything to have a little of Greta’s wide generosity, to have even a fraction of her impulse to believe in the goodness of people.
Anna flicked on CNN to shake the dreams and daydreams from her head. Greta turned at the sound of the television. “I made bacon and eggs and French toast.”
“I’m getting fat,” Anna said. “Your food is turning me into a bus.”
“Yeah, right. Like that could ever happen. As a matter of fact, I’ve been thinking you might be too thin.”
Anna shrugged. “Are you going to see Mike?”
“Later. I told him he can take me to dinner.”
“You can come back here if things get too much. If you don’t want to stay there with him. You know that.”
“Are you sure?”
“Consider it your vacation home. Your exotic adventure land.”
Greta gathered her hair into a loose ponytail. “Come and eat. You need to eat this breakfast I made. I’m feeling queasy.”
Anna stared at the TV with its litany of hijackings and bombings and now a story of a cloister of nuns in southern France whose order was being disbanded—disordered would be a better word, she thought—because of the scarcity of new novitiates. She’d had a dream last night. Two dreams. One was of her granddaughter. The child didn’t have any skin. Or, she did have skin, excerpt it was black and baggy with decay. When Anna took her hand it stretched all the way across the street and still the child didn’t move. Anna walked frantically, tried to pull Flynn—who looked nothing like a girl at all, but had a horrible, malicious face—but she walked for miles and miles, tangling people in the grainy translucency of her granddaughter’s hand, the lines on her palm sticky as spider’s silk.
“I had the strangest dream last night,” Anna said, flicking the channel to local news to get the weather. She thought back to her first dream, a direct result, she was sure, of having read a P. D. James novel the night before about the human race dying out. “I dreamed I was the last person left on Earth and God was speaking to me and I refused to speak back. I was mad as hell about something.”
Greta rose. “Come and eat this giant breakfast.”
“Okay. On my way.”
Anna tucked into the breakfast without much appetite. There was no room, she decided, for anything other than the dread that was already filling her.
FOUR
STUART’S COAT
Jack and Stuart, two Marilyns in a sea of Monroes, were riding down Beacon Street on a rose-covered float behind the Elks and just in front of a high school marching band. It was the Fourth of July parade, and PFLAG—Parents and Friends of Gays and Lesbians—had sponsored the float to raise public awareness of “gays in the mainstream, being civic leaders and holding jobs as lawyers and bankers and teachers.”
Except that gays didn’t, of course, go into surgery or onto the trading floor dressed as a fifties sex goddess; this campy image was exactly what PFLAG was trying to overcome. The men were supposed to ride in the parade dressed in their typical work clothes, but there were no volunteers until somebody suggested dressing up, something like “fags in drag, and dykes on bikes.”
The president of the Boston chapter of PFLAG, a woman whose son had died of AIDS two years before, was incensed when she learned of the costumes. “You’re promoting a stereotype. All gay men love fashion and movie stars. All lesbians are butch and wear leather jackets.”
In the end the Marilyns had won out. “After all, if we’re going to be ridiculed,” someone said at the meeting, “we might as well be ridiculed as someone else.”
The lesbians were divided—more agreed with the president of PLAG than not, but still, many of them, having heard of all the Marilyns, planned to come as John F. Kennedy. As it turned out though, not one JFK had shown up, and all fifty men sang Happy Birthday, Mr. President, to no one in particular.
“It’s just like those bitches to bail,” Jack said, adjusting his breast, which had slipped out of his halter-top. At a prosthetic supply store, he had found shelf after shelf of breasts in all shapes, sizes, and colors. He had no idea women would need this many options. He shopped for two hours, finally buying five pairs, two of which were for Stuart, C cups in Ecru and Bisque. The first pair was a standard young shape, round and high, very Heidi of the Alps, the other clearly for an older woman: National Geographic low-riders, the profile like change purses sagging with quarters. He bought the same size for himself only in slightly darker tints: Barely Beige and Born to be Beige,
manly colors, Robert Mitchum shades. Just for good measure, he bought the pair of Rose of Sharon DDs he couldn’t decide about in the store.
Stuart was mad, of course, when Jack walked in with the bag of boobs.
“So what?” Jack said. “Don’t you think women buy them this way? The average consumer of these things must try a hundred and fifty pairs before she finds the right ones. It must be twice as hard as finding jeans that fit.”
Stuart pursed his lips. “They’re not socks, Jack. You don’t buy a pair and a spare.” He threw up his hands. “I give up. I’ll just put the extras next to the vaginal cream in case your sister visits.”
From the front of the float Jack scanned the crowd. Hector was supposed to be somewhere along the parade route, had promised he would show up, if not for the parade, then for the party afterwards at Jack’s friend Craig’s house in Beacon Hill. Jack had seen Hector a handful of times since that first night, though lately he went out of his way to avoid him. He was starting to feel too much, found himself wondering about Hector’s home life, fantasizing about him during the day and when he was with Stuart, which made him more ashamed than the actual cheating. Jack never fantasized about other partners when he was with a lover. And especially not with Stuart.
He glanced over at Stuart, slumped against the side of the float, his blond wig awry, his lipstick smeared halfway up his cheek. He looked so unhappy lately—no surprise, Jack thought, since though he’d been careful about where and when he met Hector, at some level Stuart must know.
Jack walked over to him. “You look like Marilyn during the DiMaggio years, darling.”
Stuart looked away. “I guess I’m about ready for this to be over. My feet are killing me. And I’ve heard enough shouts of ‘pervert’ and ‘fag’ to last a lifetime.”
Jack cupped his hands over Stuart’s breasts, kissed his waxy, Cherries-in-the-Snow lips. “How about that? Are we now lesbians?”
Stuart laughed half-heartedly. He wasn’t in the kind of mood Jack could jolly him out of. Jack knew it was best to just leave him alone. He sighed, patted Stuart’s augmented ass, and joined the Marilyns at the front of the float. The men were throwing chorus-line kisses to the spectators, taking turns standing in front of a small fan that blew their skirts up.
Jack scrutinized the faces in the crowd—sparser now, since they were nearing the end of the parade route. Hector, wasn’t here, probably had no intention of showing up. The stupid, worthless boy. Who did he think he was? He was getting a little cocky, Jack thought, knew the rich fabric of Jack’s attraction to him and played it down to the threads. He was getting bolder about asking Jack for money, had come to expect it, even. Jack always met Hector behind the Korean grocery, but never at a pre-arranged time. With one exception, whenever Jack wanted him, Hector was there. “Let’s go to your place,” Jack said the second to last time he’d seen Hector.
“Sorry, man. Can’t do it.”
Jack raised his eyebrows, but didn’t ask. Hector hadn’t offered any information either, which infuriated Jack so much that the next night, he adopted his best steely-nerved Robert Mitchum posture, left the house after Stuart was asleep, and drove by Hector’s corner in his BMW. He slowed down and waved. Hector walked hesitatingly toward him.
“Just wanted to say hello. I’m on my way somewhere.” Jack noted with pleasure, and not the shame he thought he’d feel, Hector’s slow glance at the car, the look of envy and hostility as he took in Jack’s Armani suit and Ascot Chang shirt. Just to be sure Hector saw the suit Jack flipped on the dome light, pretended to read a map, then waved and drove on.
Well, so what. It was pure physicality with Hector, that was all. Not love. Stuart was love. Sex with Hector was white-hot fire and ice mixing together and snaking up his spine in bright swirling colors. Being with Stuart was to be deliciously buried in a pile of leaves, Stuart’s love for him falling down piece by piece to cover him. Anyway, his libido the past few weeks wasn’t so strong. Something felt a little wrong, an edge of panic and desperation just beneath the surface of his days. It was partly physical—he was plagued by headaches, and his sleep dropped him off the steep cliff of horrible dreams—and in part just a garden-variety free-floating anxiety.
Jack tugged at the waistband of his pantyhose. The nylons were stuck to his skin, which only exacerbated the irritation and itch that had returned a couple of days ago. Last month, he and Stuart posed for a photographer friend who was putting together a book he was calling The Redneck’s Handbook. The photographer, Avery, provided costumes from Am Vets—Jack’s was a pair of Wrangler jeans and a black Megadeth T-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Stuart’s look was Saturday-night-on-the-town: too-blue jeans with a Harley Davidson belt buckle and a Hawaiian shirt opened three buttons down. There were individual shots, and one of the whole group of rednecks, enjoying a redneck barbecue surrounded by crushed cans of Coors and tarty, trailer-trash girlfriends with crayonish eyeliner and hair that looked like it was sprayed out of a can. The shoot was great fun, and they actually did drink all those cans of cheap beer. He and Stuart had a grand time.
Two days later, though, there was a message from Avery on the machine. “This is terrible, but don’t panic. When I was collecting the clothes after the shoot, I found a louse in a pair of pants. I’m not sure it’s anything, or if it infected all the costumes, but just to be safe I’m bringing over a bottle of Qwell.”
They checked themselves and everything was fine, but used the lice shampoo just in case. A few days later Jack had had some kind of allergic reaction. His crotch felt like it was crawling with fire ants, and the rash on his upper thighs and genitals had scabbed over and simply refused to heal. Stuart’s reaction was similar, though his rash faded in a day or two. Jack bought some anti-inflammatory cream, a drying talc, but so far, it wasn’t helping. In fact, he thought it might be getting worse.
“Jack!” one of the Marilyns called to him. “Somebody is trying to get your attention.” Jack walked over to where the man was pointing, scanned the faces of the crowd lining the sidewalk, his heart leaping and ready to forgive Hector his surliness, his secrecy, anything. But it was just Jane and Leila.
“Hi, darlings,” he said, blowing a Marilyn kiss, and standing in front of the fan so his skirt blew up to his waist. He’d found gorgeous black lace panties in the fat women’s store. Jane and Leila screamed with laughter.
“Are you up for Craig’s party, darling?” Jack asked, linking his arm through Stuart’s. The parade was over and the men were scattering. Jack smiled as he watched five identically dressed Marilyns walk into O’Malley’s, a blue-collar bar.
“Sure,” Stuart said. “A nice stiff drink is just what I want. Besides getting out of this absurd dress.”
He looked so sad, so dreamy and abstracted that Jack felt a wave of sickness rising from his gut, self-loathing and regret. Why was it that it was easy to forgive the people who surely didn’t deserve it, and so hard not to take the right ones for granted? Jack was making Stuart miserable, he knew, rejecting his sexual advances and ignoring his hints.
Stuart’s face was lovely, even through the cheap makeup and streaked rouge that looked welted, as though someone had slapped him. He didn’t know why being naked with Stuart right now seemed wrong. It had nothing to do with Hector, and Jack was as attracted to Stuart as ever—perhaps more than ever. If Stuart only knew how often Jack thought of him during the day, how many expressions of Stuart’s he found endearing to the point of heartsickness—the way he raised his shoulders slightly, tipped his chin down to his chest when he laughed, for instance—he would be astounded.
“Do you feel all right?” Jack asked. “You’ve been so quiet all day.”
“I’m fine. Just a little weary.”
“Should we maybe go home and have a quiet evening?”
Stuart glanced over, looked meaningfully into Jack’s eyes but saw at once that Jack’s idea of a quiet evening didn’t necessarily mean an intimate one. “No, let’s go to the party. I need
to shake these blues.”
The party was so crowded that it took Jack nearly an hour to determine that Hector wasn’t in any of the rooms. Curtis’s house was amazing: a three-story Arts and Crafts-style design, with spiral steps that wound up three floors. The upper rooms all had open views to the downstairs. Jack saw people on every balcony. The living room was circular, with parquet flooring and exposed brick walls and antique furniture. Over the fireplace was a painting that looked like an original Andrew Wyeth. Jack wasn’t in the mood, suddenly, for this high-pitched hilarity, the Twister game going on in the corner with the men in Marilyn lingerie, the loud shrieking music of the B-52s.
“I’ll go get some drinks. What do you want?” Jack asked.
“Vodka tonic.”
Jack wandered into the dining room, stopped at the spread of food—caviar, smoked salmon, prosciutto and three kinds of melons. He loaded up a plate, then loaded another for Stuart. Red Sturgeon caviar, it tasted like. This, too, was an awe-inspiring room: a Gustav Stickley breakfront and dining table, and, turning the corner of the carpet over with his toe, a real Oriental, he saw. His father would die if he saw this place, Jack thought, the dentil molding along the ceiling, the wide plank floors that looked like quarter sawn oak, the solid mahogany of the mantels. That was the one thing, the only thing, he had in common with his old man: like him, Jack was loved beautiful things, carpentry and well-crafted furniture.
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