Sure of You (13 page)

“At Prue Giroux’s.”

“What’s that?”

Chloe smirked. “I don’t think you wanna know.”

Russell gave his wife a brief, admonishing glance.

So, thought Mary Ann, she hates her too. Things were looking better all the time.

“She’s kind of a local party girl,” Brian told Burke.

“Yeah,” Mary Ann said dryly. “Kind of.” This was just enough, she felt, to let Chloe know she concurred without causing Russell further distress. Prue, after all, had been buying his dresses for years. She could see why Russell wouldn’t want to appear disloyal. He had no way of knowing, really, which of these people might blab to Prue.

“I’m a real idiot,” Russell told Burke. “When you told me about her, I just didn’t make the connection.”

At first Mary Ann thought he meant Prue. Then it occurred to her that Burke must have briefed the Rands about the local talk-show hostess he wanted for his new venture. In a moment of abject panic, she realized that Russell was dangerously close to spilling the beans.

“O.K.,” said Chloe. “Who needs a drink? Let’s see if we can rustle up a waiter for these people.”

“Uh…right,” said Russell. “Of course.”

He had the unmistakable look of someone who had just been given a swift kick under the table.

Half an hour later, in the john, Chloe said: “Look, I’m sorry about ol’ dummy out there. Burke told him not to bring up the talk-show stuff.”

“It’s no problem,” said Mary Ann. “Really.”

“Have you told him yet?”

“Not yet.”

Chloe fixed her lips in front of the mirror. “It’s a fabulous opportunity.”

“Yeah. I know.”

“Burke is so smart. He really is. I don’t think you can go wrong with him.” She blotted her lips together once or twice, then turned and cocked her head apologetically. “Sorry. I know it’s none of my business.”

“No,” said Mary Ann. “That’s O.K.”

“It’s scary to move, isn’t it? Gets you right in the gut. I felt that way exactly when Russell asked me to marry him. I mean, I knew what a life it could be, but all I could think of was how
foreign
everything would be. It’s so stupid, isn’t it?”

“You seem so collected,” Mary Ann remarked. “I can’t imagine that.”

“Sure,” said Chloe.
“Now
. Three years ago…forget it.”

“Actually,” said Mary Ann, warming to her, “I’m pretty good about kicking over the traces. I did it when I moved here. I came here on vacation, and just…you know, had a few Irish coffees…”

Chloe giggled. “And didn’t go back?”

“Nope.”

“Damn. I’m impressed. Where was home?”

“Ohio,” said Mary Ann. “Cleveland.”

“Well, no wonder!”

Mary Ann laughed uneasily. “Really.”

Chloe stuck out her hand. “Akron.”

“You’re kidding!”

“Nope.”

“But you seem so…so…”

“Like I said, it takes a while. It didn’t hurt to know Russell, of course. I was Geek City before I met him. Stringy hair, awful skin…and this honker on top of it.”

Mary Ann felt a mild protest was in order. “C’mon. You have a beautiful nose. Like a Spanish aristocrat.”

“Try Lebanese.”

Thrown and a little embarrassed, Mary Ann changed the subject. “And you really met him at Betty Ford?”

“Yep.”

“That’s such a romantic story.” And what a movie it could be, she thought. She makes him clean and sober. He makes her beautiful and rich.

“It was just an administrative position. I wasn’t a therapist or anything.”

“Still,” she said. “You befriended him in his hour of need.”

“Yeah, I guess so. So what’s the deal with your husband? He hates New York, huh?”

She nodded grimly. “More or less.”

“Well, it’s not like you wouldn’t have contacts and everything. Burke and Brenda know practically everybody, and if you need help—you know, finding a co-op or something—Russell and I would be glad to help.”

Perhaps for the very first time the package she was being offered became vividly clear to her, and it was almost too much to take. Real fame, bright new friends, a home that would be her salon. She could see the place already: big pine cupboards, an antique harp, paper-thin Persian carpets against bleached floors. Something in SoHo, maybe, or just down the hall from Yoko at the Dakota…

“That’s so sweet of you,” she told Chloe.

“Not at all.” Gazing into the mirror, Chloe swiped at the corner of her eye with her little finger. “We could use some new faces.”

“That’s great to know. That dress is genius, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks.” Chloe turned and smiled at her. “I can’t wear it at home. Ivana Trump has one just like it.”

“Bad luck,” said Mary Ann. She was dying to ask what Ivana Trump was really like, but thought it might sound too hungry, too much like a desperado.

When they returned to the table, Mary Ann found Brian regaling the men—Michael now among them—with his current pet opinion. “I mean, give me a break, man. I’m no Republican, but the woman is being ragged about not dyeing her hair. In the old days, dyeing it was the scandal! What the fuck is going on here?”

Russell Rand, she noticed, made a valiant effort at laughing. Brian had a way of demanding too much from his audience when his turn came for center stage. It put people on the defensive, embarrassed them. He had no way of knowing this, of course, and she had never thought of a nice way to tell him.

That was her problem now, wasn’t it?
A nice way to tell him
.

“Where’s Thack?” she asked Michael as she slid into her chair.

It was Brian who answered. “He pooped out on us.”

“His stomach’s bothering him,” Michael added.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “Hope it wasn’t the spring rolls.”

“No.”

“He dropped you off?”

“Yeah.”

They’ve had a fight, she thought. It was just as well. Thack would only have made trouble.

“You haven’t met Chloe,” she said. And she touched Chloe’s shoulder lightly, just to prove to Michael she could do it. “Chloe Rand, Michael Tolliver.”

They greeted each other across the table. Michael was clearly captivated.

“Anyway,” said Brian, blundering on, “Barbara Bush is a whole shitload better than that bitch we’ve got in the White House now. All she ever does is have her hair done and con free dresses out of designers.”

Dead silence all around.

Brian looked from face to face for reinforcement.

How typical of him, she thought. If he’d thought for half a second before shooting off his mouth…

“Oh,” said Brian, looking at Russell Rand. “I guess this means you…?”

The designer managed a thin smile. “It wasn’t a con, really.”

“Well…it’s good advertising, at least. I mean, the people who like her are probably the ones who…anyway, it doesn’t imply a personal endorsement on your part.”

“I’m very fond of Mrs. Reagan, actually.”

Brian nodded. “Well, I don’t know the lady.”

Mary Ann gave him a look that said: No, you don’t, so shut up.

Russell Rand remained gracious. “She’s gotten kind of a bum rap, you know. She’s not at all the person she’s perceived to be.”

“Yeah, well, I guess, since I can only go by things generally available to the common man…”

“I don’t blame you for thinking that way. I really don’t.” Brian nodded and said nothing. Michael sat perfectly still, staring at his Calistoga and looking mortified.

Somebody had to lighten things up, so Mary Ann said: “Can’t take him anywhere.”

“Not at all,” said Russell Rand. “We’re all entitled to our opinion.”

“Thank you,” said Brian, speaking to the designer but casting a quick, sullen glance in her direction.

A Bad Dream

T
HE DREAM WAS STILL VIVID AS LIFE WHEN MICHAEL
stumbled out to greet the dawn. A thick coat of dew covered the deck, and he was reminded of how Charlie Rubin once referred to this phenomenon as “night sweats.” Below, in the neighboring gardens, the wetness on the broad, green leaves suggested deceitfully that the drought had passed. Only the garden of his dead neighbor told the truth, its ravaged tree fern blunt as a crucifix in the amber light of morning.

He lifted his eyes until they jumped the fence and fled into the valley below, where a thousand Levolored windows were ablaze with sunrise. Sometimes, though not at the moment, he could see other men on other decks, watching the valley like him from their own little plywood widow’s walks.

What he loved most about this view was the trees: the wizened cypresses, the backyard banana trees, the poplars that marched along the nearest ridge like Deco exclamation marks. There were some, of course, the cypresses in particular, that could only be appreciated through binoculars, but he knew where they were just the same.

Suddenly, a flock of parrots—forty strong, at least—landed in the fruitless fig tree of the house next door. While they screeched and fussed with their feathers, he stood stock-still and debated waking Thack for the event. He had never seen them this close to the house.

“Wow,” came a voice behind him.

Thack stood in the kitchen doorway. Clad only in Jockey shorts, his smooth body looked heroic in the morning light, but his thinning, sleep-bent hair muddled the effect, lending it a comical, babyfied air.

“Should I come out?”

“Yeah,” said Michael, “but make it graceful.” He couldn’t help but feel vindicated. He’d been raving about these creatures for almost a year now, without so much as a flyover to prove to his lover that he hadn’t been hallucinating.

Thack joined him at the rail. “Noisy little fuckers.”

“Yeah, but look how beautiful.”

“Not bad.”

“They used to be pets,” Michael told him.

“That’s what you said.”

“See those little ones? Those are the parakeet groupies.”

In the midst of this appreciation Harry scampered onto the deck, causing the birds to ascend in a whirling flurry of green.

“Well, good morning,” said Michael as he scratched the poodle’s rump.

Thack knelt and joined him, studying Michael’s face before he spoke. “Don’t be mad at me,” he said.

“I’m not mad.”

“Yeah, you are.”

“Go back to bed,” said Michael. “It’s too early for you.”

“Nah,” said Thack. “I’m up now. I’ll make us breakfast.”

It was oat bran, Sweeney style, black with raisins. They ate it at the kitchen table, while Harry watched them.

“Well, how was it?” asked Thack.

“Fine. They were nice. She’s really an extraordinary-looking woman.”

“I’m sure.”

This could have been snide, but Michael decided that it wasn’t.

Thack poked at his cereal for a while, then asked: “Did he drop any hairpins?”

“What do you mean?”

“C’mon. You know what that means.”

“I know, but…in this case…”

Thack sighed impatiently. “Did he just assume that everyone knew he was gay, or did he spend the whole evening playing breeder?”

“It wasn’t really one way or the other.”

“Did you tell him you were gay?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because, Thack, it didn’t come up. Besides, I’m your basic generic homo. Who needs to be told?”

“He does. He needs to be surrounded by fags and told what a fucking hypocrite he is.”

“I thought we were done with this,” said Michael. “Is there more milk?”

“In the refrigerator.”

Michael brought the carton to the table and splashed milk on his cereal.

“The thing is,” said Thack, “he was famous for being gay.”

“Not to me he wasn’t.”

“Oh, c’mon. I heard about it down in Charleston. Everybody in New York knew about him. He fucked every porn star in town.”

“So?”

“So now he’s out selling wedding rings and singing the praises of heterosexual love.”

“It’s his profession, sweetie.”

“O.K., but it doesn’t say shit about his character.”

Michael was beginning to get irked again. “You don’t know him,” he said. “Maybe he really loves her.”

“Right. And maybe she’s got a dick.”

“Thack…people get married for all sorts of reasons.”

“Sure. Money and image, to name two.”

Michael rolled his eyes. “He’s got much more money than she does.”

“And he plans to keep it too. Can’t have America knowing he’s a pervert.”

“They’re doing an AIDS benefit in L.A.,” Michael reminded him.

“Uh-huh. Welded at the hip, no doubt. A nice liberal married couple helping out the poor sick gay boys. Only you can be damn sure they won’t be mentioning the G-word.”

“Why are we arguing?” Michael asked. “You know I agree with you. Basically.”

“Why’d you go, then?”

“Look, it was question of not busting up the party. Mary Ann obviously wanted to go.”

“No, that’s a cop-out. You wanted to go too. This shit matters to you.”

“O.K.,” said Michael. “Maybe it does.”

Thack sulked for a moment. “Well, at least you admit it.”

“Admit what? That I was curious? Big deal. Thack, I can’t go through life being some sort of Hare Krishna for homos. I just can’t. I’d rather find out what I have in common with people and go from there.”

“Fine. But what you have in common with Russell Rand you could never talk about in public. Not if you wanted to be his friend.”

“Who said I wanted to be his friend?”

After a long, brooding silence, Thack said: “She should never have bullied us into going. She invited us to her house for dinner, and then she just let Burke take over. It was fucking rude.”

“I agree with you,” Michael said calmly. “It could have been handled better.”

This seemed to placate him. Eventually, Thack began to smile.

“What is it?” asked Michael.

“She told Brian that Burke has a little dick.”

“Brian told you that? When?”

“Yesterday at lunch.”

“It’s not true,” said Michael.

Thack gave him a sly look. “How would you know?”

“We double-dated to the mud baths in Calistoga. Him and Mary Ann and me and Jon. They have a girls’ side and a boys’ side, so we ended up in…you know, adjoining vats.” He shrugged. “It was kind of glopped with mud, but it looked fine to me.”