by Robin Talley
“I know your heart,” she said, “and God knows it, too. We know all your little secrets.”
I unfroze and sucked in a breath. She knew? How?
See, now I know Aunt Mandy isn’t superhuman, for all that she’d used the word “we.” As if she was God and the queen and some two-timing preacher’s wife from Ohio all at the same time.
Then, though, I was nine, and I was scared, and I’d just seen a guy’s naked butt in the middle of the afternoon. I believed her when she said she knew all my secrets.
It wasn’t just some guy, either. I know that now, too. It took me until the next Sunday at church before I placed him—he was George Tinley. His father was a board member, one of the church’s cofounders who’d worked with Aunt Mandy on the school-board elections years before. George went to UCLA, but he came back to town during his school breaks. After I caught them, though, he stopped coming around, and before long, his parents moved to Nevada.
I have no idea when George and my aunt first started sleeping together—whether it went on for months or years, or whether it was only that one afternoon. But knowing wouldn’t erase the memory of pissing myself, or the sight of my aunt’s legs around his waist.
Sorry if that was too graphic, Harvey. My heart’s pounding writing all this down. I haven’t thought about it, not this clearly, for years. I’ve been trying not to think about it.
I should’ve realized then what a fucking hypocrite she was. All I could think about was what she’d said, about knowing all my secrets.
I believed her, Harvey. For years. Part of me still does.
She can’t know the whole truth—I’ve kept this secret so well, for so long, it’s all I think about most of the time—but I can’t shake the feeling that in some bizarre, impossible way, she does. Sometimes I’ll talk myself out of it, but then I’ll catch her giving me a cold, dark look across the sanctuary, and a shiver will run through me as it all comes back.
She was right, too. No one would’ve believed me if I’d told.
Besides, who would I tell? My mother? Aunt Mandy’s big sister, the one who took care of her after their parents died? The one who brought her out to California, then watched without bothering to get involved as her 18-year-old sister married the 33-year-old Reverend Russell Dale and slowly took over the entire family?
For all I know, my cousin Eddie isn’t actually Uncle Russell’s kid. He was born not that long after I caught my aunt with George. Maybe my aunt’s been lying to everyone for even longer than me.
Or maybe she really is the Old Testament God in earthly form, and she’ll rain down her punishments on anyone who doesn’t do her bidding.
Which do you think is more likely, Harvey?
The check register’s still in my purse. Maybe I’ll keep it there for good. I bring my purse everywhere, so I won’t have to worry about anyone finding it.
Maybe I’ll start carrying this diary in there, too. That way I’ll know my secrets are always safe.
From now on, whenever I’m listening to someone talk about how my aunt is God’s gift to humanity, I can reach in my purse, feel that fucking check register with my fingers, and remember I have solid evidence that she’s anything but.
It doesn’t matter what she thinks of me. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks. I’ve wasted so much time being scared of her, Harvey. She’s the one who should be afraid of me.
Peace, Tammy
Wednesday, July 6, 1977
Dear Tammy,
I hope you had a good Fourth of July. Do you have a summer job? I’ve been babysitting for a few families in the neighborhood. There’s one on our block that has eight kids, and I spent the Fourth with them. They have a five-year-old named Jack who’s terrified of blue fireworks, but not any other color, so every time a blue one came, I covered his eyes with my hands. We were both laughing by the end.
I really liked reading about your big family in your last letter. Mine is so small, I forget sometimes that it’s not that way for everyone. It must be nice having all those sisters and aunts and uncles around.
Here’s my answer to the next question on the list:
What are your favorite hobbies?
I play softball in my church league. Or I did, up until last year, when our coach moved to Michigan and our team disbanded.
Also, I don’t know if this counts as a hobby, but have you ever listened to punk music? Last weekend I went to a punk show for the first time and I loved it. Have you ever felt as if you didn’t belong? I do, a lot of the time—well, most of the time—but that night the music was so intense, it was as if I didn’t have to worry about any of it anymore.
I haven’t told my friends. They mostly listen to Peter Frampton and Ted Nugent. But I wondered if maybe things were different in southern California.
Yours truly, Sharon Hawkins
P.S. Sorry, I know I just asked you questions that aren’t on the official list for the pen pal project. It’s okay if you don’t have time to answer. Going to that show the other night reminded me of how lonely I get sometimes. You know what, never mind, this probably sounds stupid.
Wednesday, July 13, 1977
Dear Sharon,
Are you kidding me?
You like punk? I don’t know anyone who listens to punk!
When you said you didn’t know Patti Smith, I assumed that meant you weren’t a fan, but this changes everything.
What bands did you see? Tell me every detail! I’ve never been to a show—punk bands don’t come to Orange County—but I want to see one so bad.
I only have a few albums so far, the ones the guy at the record store said were good, but after Patti, my favorites are the Ramones and the Dictators. Have you heard the Dictators’ version of “I Got You Babe”? It’s so funny. I like Cher—her show’s my favorite one on TV—but some of her music is kind of cheesy.
If you ever got to see Patti live, I think I might literally die. Her Horses album changed my life. Or maybe it’s in the process of changing it right now. I’m still a work in progress. Just knowing Patti exists makes me feel a little less strange sometimes.
Wow, I wonder what the odds are that we got matched up as pen pals when we seem to be the only two people either of us knows who likes punk. (Why don’t your friends listen to it, though? I thought it’d be huge in San Francisco.)
Anyway, speaking of works in progress, my main hobby is art. I make collages. My art teacher says collages aren’t real art, so I can’t turn them in for credit, which I guess makes it a hobby. It’s fun, though. Messing around with pencils and glue and magazines is a great way to tune out whenever I start worrying too much.
I don’t know if I have any other hobbies, unless you count volunteering with my church. Everything around here is kind of about church, one way or another. You’re Catholic, right? My uncle started New Way Baptist, the biggest church in our part of Orange County. People come from towns all around here every week to hear him preach and to sign up for whatever campaign my aunt’s working on. I work on the campaigns, too, sometimes with my youth group and sometimes on my own. For the past few months, I’ve been stuffing a lot of envelopes in my aunt and uncle’s den.
Sorry, this turned into another long letter! I promise I’ll try to keep it short next time.
Yours truly, Tammy
P.S. I forgot you asked about having a summer job. I just started training as a lifeguard at the country-club pool. I got incredibly sunburned on my first day and now I have to sit under an umbrella, which is embarrassing.
Also, I saw where you crossed something out in your last letter. Don’t worry, I didn’t try to read it. I looked back and saw that I crossed something out here, too, but I wanted to say that if there’s anything you want to tell me, you can. We’re never going to meet and we don’t know any of the same people, so we could talk about stuff we might not want to tell other people. If you wanted to,
I mean.
Wednesday, July 20, 1977
Dear Tammy,
How did Patti Smith change your life? Does your life need changing? It seems really cool already.
The day after I got your letter I got paid from one of my babysitting jobs, so I went straight to the record store and bought that Patti Smith album, Horses. I don’t know that much about punk yet, but I want to go to more shows. I think there’s a bigger club in North Beach, and I can take the bus there. If I ever find out Patti Smith is coming, I’ll write and tell you first thing.
Her album—wow, you weren’t kidding. Just looking at the picture on the cover was kind of shocking. I’ve never seen a girl who looked like her. I had to hide it from my mom before I’d even played it.
But the songs—wow all over again. Her words are almost poetry, only it’s really creepy poetry.
I’ve listened to the whole album all the way through I don’t know how many times, but I always hear words I didn’t catch before. Plus, her voice sounds strange, too. Almost like a man’s.
It’s as though Patti Smith lives in a different world, and it’s a scary world, but it’s also real in a way that this world isn’t. Do you know what I mean? It’s as if everyone else is so busy being fake all the time, but Patti Smith’s actually being honest, and it’s the first time anyone ever has been. She isn’t trying to pretend the world’s perfect and happy and shiny all the time.
Do you ever think there might be this huge worldwide conspiracy to convince us that our lives will be perfect if we just do what we’re supposed to do? I don’t know if this happens at your school, but here we get lectures about how important it is to tuck in your shirt to honor the Lord, and at dances, the teachers walk around with balloons that they slide in between couples while they’re dancing to make sure they “leave space for the holy ghost.” Once, in fifth grade, my friend Rhonda got her hand slapped with a ruler because a teacher heard her say “dang it” at recess.
The way they all seem to see it, if we follow the rules—don’t drink or smoke or have sex until we’re married, don’t wear skirts that show our knees, always go to church on Sundays—we’ll be rewarded with a house and a dog and a husband and children and a picket fence and all the other things we’re supposed to want. Except I don’t know if that is what I want. I’m allergic to dogs, for one thing. Plus, I’m sure my mother wanted all those things when she was my age, but she followed all the rules and my dad left anyway. What’s the point?
Wow. Okay, I’m sorry. I know you said we could be honest in these letters, but I’m still tempted to cross out some of what I just wrote.
It’s only that…it was kind of nice, putting all that down. I have a diary, but that’s mostly for writing about what I’ve been doing lately. This feels different.
So I’ll leave it. I should probably ask you not to put it in your report, but you don’t seem like someone who’d tell your teachers on me.
Shoot, it’s getting late and I haven’t even looked at the question list. Oh—favorite TV show. This one’s easy, because it’s the same as yours—Sonny & Cher. Or, well, I can’t stand Sonny, but Cher is hilarious. Even if her music is basically the opposite of Patti Smith’s.
My boyfriend says Sonny and Cher represent middle America’s response to the hippie movement. I haven’t told him I’ve started listening to punk yet, but he’ll probably have an opinion on that, too. He wants to be a psychiatrist, but he can’t afford med school, so he’s majoring in business at SF State.
Yikes, sorry, I’d better stop and go to bed or this will be our longest letter yet!
Yours truly, Sharon
Wednesday, July 27, 1977
Dear Sharon,
I really enjoy getting these letters from you. It’s interesting hearing about your life in San Francisco. I never would’ve thought teachers there would slap kids with rulers. Maybe your city isn’t as different from here as I thought.
Also, I liked what you said—about picket fences and all that. I know exactly what you mean. Exactly.
My school sounds a lot more similar to yours than I expected. Plus, it’s kind of hilarious that we’re both into Cher and punk music.
Would it be okay if I asked you another question that isn’t on the list? I want to know what it’s like having a boyfriend. I’ve never had a real one, I’ve only gone to parties and stuff with guys. My sister says the best thing about having a boyfriend is that you don’t have to worry about whether anyone will ask you to dances, but I hope she was joking.
Yours truly, Tammy
Sunday, July 31, 1977
Dear Diary,
I think my brother’s mad at me.
We were leaving church this morning, and it was gorgeous out. The fog had burned away while we were inside, and I peeled off my cardigan and slung it over my purse. I was wearing a new tunic dress, a yellow one with cap sleeves, and Mom frowned down at my bare arms.
I tried to come up with a strategy in case she ordered me to put my cardigan back on. I could tell her we were outside, and that I’d bought the dress myself, with my own money. Or that I was almost sixteen and what I wore was my decision, and besides, there was nothing inappropriate about wearing a cap-sleeve dress outside, even on the church steps.
But before Mom could comment on my arms, Mrs. Upton started talking about local politics.
“It’s these strange supervisor elections they’re having now,” Mrs. Upton said, fanning herself with a bulletin. She was my Sunday school teacher when I was in fourth-through-sixth grades, and somehow she looks twenty years older now than she did then. And she looked awfully old then. “District elections. I can’t keep track of the candidates anymore.”
“That police officer from our neighborhood is running,” Mom told her in the same voice she uses with students who are particularly slow at algebra. “The one who saved the family during that awful fire—Mr. White. He says he’ll clean up the city.”
“Oh, good. Someone needs to clear out all that revolting nonsense.” Mrs. Upton tilted her head meaningfully, and Mom tilted hers back in agreement.
I glanced around for Peter so we could roll our eyes. He’d been right behind us on the steps, but suddenly there was no sign of him. Mom and Mrs. Upton kept walking, still talking about politics, but I hung back, and a minute later I got a glimpse of my brother’s jacket behind a column off to the far side of the steps.
“What are you doing?” I asked when I reached him. He was alone in the narrow space between the column and a stained-glass window, his shoulders hunched.
“Nothing.” He glanced my way and sagged back against the column. “Just needed to get away.”
“I know what you mean. I can’t stand Mrs. Upton, either.”
“It’s not Mrs. Upton. It’s Mom.” He peered around the column, then added in a whisper, “I can’t believe she wants to vote for Dan White.”
“I’ve never heard of that guy. Aren’t there a ton of people running?”
“Yeah, but he’s the only one promising to get rid of social deviants.” Peter said the last two words in a high-pitched whisper. “He’d carpet-bomb the Castro if he could.”
“Wait, what?”
He shook his head. “It doesn’t matter. Can you believe what Mom said? About ‘cleaning up the city’?”
“What about it?”
“Come on, you know that’s code for getting rid of all those ‘disgusting homosexuals’ up in Eureka Valley.”
“How do you know? She could have meant anything. Most of the city is literally just dirty.”
“It doesn’t mean just anything. It never does.” Peter rolled his eyes. At me, though, not Mom or Mrs. Upton. “But you don’t get it, because it isn’t about you.”
I sucked in a breath. “I’m sorry.”
“You never even wanted to go back there with me after that one time. I asked you t
o come stuff envelopes for Harvey, but all you ever want to do is listen to those bands with the stupid names.”
That hurt, but he wasn’t wrong. Twice he’d invited me to join him at Harvey Milk’s camera shop to put together mailings with the other campaign volunteers, but I’d said no. I didn’t like being the only girl around a bunch of gay men.
But I hated the way Peter was looking at me. As if I’d failed him.
“I already knew Mom thought that way.” He tilted his head back, talking to the sky now instead of me. “It just sucks that she’s supporting this jackass.”
“Yeah.”
“I’ve got to go.” He pushed off the wall and turned his back to me. “Tell Mom I’m over at a friend’s for lunch.”
“Where are you really going?”
“It doesn’t matter.”
He left, stalking up the street in his church suit, heading north. Toward the bus stop.
I could’ve chased after him. Instead I went back to catch up with Mom, said goodbye to Mrs. Upton, and walked the rest of the way home, nodding along while Mom told me not to take off my cardigan until we’d left church grounds next time.
When we got home, I came straight upstairs to my room and got my diary out from under my pillow. I thought if I wrote this down I’d be able to sort it all out in my head, but I don’t feel any better now than I did when my brother first walked away from me.
Yours, Sharon
Tuesday, August 2, 1977
Dear Harvey,
I am so mad right now. I can barely write, I’m shaking so hard.
Aunt Mandy called a special youth group meeting for tonight. I didn’t think anything of it at first. We have a lot of meetings, and if they’re called in the middle of the week it’s usually because someone needs us to urgently plan a bake sale, and I get put in charge of making six different kinds of pie.
We met in our living room—we always meet at my house when Aunt Mandy doesn’t want to bother opening up the church—only to discover that the real reason she wanted us to meet was to plan a pep rally for the first day of school. Not for a sports team, though. No, no, she wants us to hold a pep rally about gay rights. Except she called it a pep rally about “militant homosexuality,” and she tried to act as if it was all our idea.
