Further Tales of the City (12 page)

F
OR ALMOST A WEEK NOW, FRANNIE HALCYON HAD BEEN
giddy as a schoolgirl. She believed in life again, in children, in sunshine, in motherhood, in miracles. And she longed, more than ever, to share her joy with the world.

“Viola called today,” she announced at lunch. “It was all I could do to keep from blabbing.”

DeDe frowned. “Don’t even joke about that, Mother.”

“I know, I know.”

“I need time, Mother. Viola would be on the phone to the
Chronicle
in two seconds flat. Please help me out on this, O.K.?”

“I got Mary Ann for you, didn’t I?”

“I know, Mother, and I appreciate …”

“I just don’t understand why you need a whole month, DeDe. Surely a week or so would …”

“Mother!”

“Never mind, then.” Frannie looked down at her spinach salad. “Have you talked to her today?”

“Who?”

“Mary Ann.”

DeDe nodded. “She’s coming by tomorrow.”

“She’s such a sweet girl,” said Frannie.

“She wants to tape me,” said DeDe.

“Oh … I see.” The matriarch contemplated her salad again. “About … your experiences, I suppose?”

DeDe looked faintly annoyed. “That
was
our arrangement, Mother.”

“Of course.”

“She’s promised not to release anything until the month’s up. I trust her.”

“So do I. Uh … DeDe?”

“Yeah?”

“You won’t be talking about the … business with D’orothea, will you?”

DeDe’s fork stopped in mid-air. She looked up, smoldering. “Mother, the
whole
business was with D’orothea. I lived with her for four years, remember?”

“You know what I mean,” said Frannie.

“Yes,” DeDe replied flatly. “I know what you mean.” She dug into her salad as if she were trying to kill something in it. “You’ve made your feelings quite clear about that.”

Frannie hesitated, dabbing the corners of her mouth with her napkin. “DeDe … I think I’ve been a lot more … accepting than most mothers might have been. I accepted those precious children long ago, didn’t I? I don’t quite
… understand
your friendship with D’orothea, but I would never presume to pass judgment on you for it. I just don’t think it’s something that warrants public discussion.”

“Why?” asked DeDe. She didn’t look up.

“It’s in poor taste, darling.”

DeDe set her fork down and looked at her mother for a long time before speaking. “So,” she said at last, her lip curling slightly, “I should restrict my reminiscences to
tasteful
things like cyanide and public torture. Super, Mother. Thanks for the advice.”

“You needn’t be snide, DeDe.”

“D’orothea Wilson helped save your grandchildren’s lives. You owe her a
lot,
Mother.”

“I know that. And I’m grateful.”

“Besides, I ended up with the gay Cuban refugees. I’m a
dyke on
paper,
Mother. It’s a matter of public record, for God’s sake!”

“Don’t use that word around me, DeDe!” Frannie fumbled for her napkin. “Anyway, the refugee people could have made a mistake, a clerical error or something.”

“I loved her,” DeDe said coolly. “That was no clerical error.”

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.

D
EAR 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,
M
ICHAEL

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.

L
UKE’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 spent 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.

P
RUE?”

“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.”