Drag Queen in the Court of Death (5 page)

"Ohmigod, Michael, how are you holding up, sweetie? Is this a nightmare or what?" Glori Daze enveloped me in a powdery embrace the moment I walked into the room. She must have been lying in wait, one ear on the buzz of conversation, the other on the creaking stairs outside the auditorium of the 519 Community Centre where the rehearsals for Wilde Nights were lurching along. It was two o'clock on a Sunday afternoon, still early in the day for this crowd.

"Welcome home, Glori," I said, extricating myself from the extravagant bosom. "You look wonderful."
"Fucking great homecoming this is," she snarled, flinging the diaphanous crimson shawl over one shoulder. "I can't believe this crap! Tell me I'm dreaming?"
"I'd love to, but unfortunately you aren't."
"Christ on a sequined cross! Why can't they let poor Luna rest in peace?"
"They can hardly ignore a body found on the premises," I remarked.
She drew back and looked at me more closely. "Honey, you don't look so good," she said. "Remember, this craziness has nothing to do with you."
"Tell that to the reporters parked on my front lawn," I said, heading determinedly toward the piano through the chaos of chattering queens in various stages of drag.
They were, for the most part, a clashing rainbow of sparkle and glint in home-sewn dresses and gowns, false eyelashes and heavy makeup. Those who had not used the occasion to go all out wore short tight skirts from Value Village or Goodwill, with brightly colored tops. All ages were represented, from the twentysomethings like Ellis to my generation, to pushing fifty really hard, like Glori. I guessed that the majority were under thirty-five. All were in the high heels needed to rehearse the dance numbers.
Ellis, in a blond wig and turquoise sequins, was working his recent contact with gruesome death for all it was worth, the center of a circle of admirers. What was he saying about those brief moments of chocking dust and horrified recognition? I wondered what it had done for his sex life.
As I sat down at the piano, I realized there were far more people here than needed for the numbers slotted for this afternoon's rehearsal. Not only that, but they were on time, something almost unheard of, according to Logan, who had been helping out long before I came on the scene. This could be because of the return of the now-famous Glori, but I suspected it was more about getting closer to the gory details of the skeleton in Ronnie's closet, through Ellis, me, and Jaym, who I now saw perched on the speaker in one corner of the room. He looked pale and in need of sleep. Where Ellis had bloomed as a result of his macabre experience, Jaym had withered, and I liked him the better for it.
I was sorting through the untidy pile of music when Ellis pranced up. "Miss Mope is really bringing me down," she said, indicating Jaym with a jerk of her blond head. "Shit, I'm so nervous! And it's not even my big scene today."
"You hide it well. Did you—"
We both turned as a shrill voice pulled all eyes to a tall, skinny figure in an acid green dress, absurdly high heels, and a bad wig. The dead black of the hair drained the haunted face beneath it of all color.
"Euww, she's not from planet fashion, is she?" Ellis murmured.
"...and I know I missed the first few rehearsals and all," the apparition shrilled, "but it's okay, really. Luna said I could just come in late and it'd be fine. I got my music right here." She pulled open a big handbag with a flashy clasp, balancing the weight of the thing on a skinny knee as she bent over, pawing through it with jerky movements. A compact clattered to the floor, followed by a lipstick and two bottles of pills. Jaym stepped forward, scooped up the stuff, and handed it back. All around us, the talk had died down to the sibilant hiss of whispers.
The skinny queen smiled. "Me and Luna, we go way back," she said and giggled.
"That's nice," Jaym said and dropped the stuff in her gaping purse.
"Who the hell
is
it?" Ellis muttered, staring.
I shrugged. I had no idea. I noticed Bob Keyes, the choreographer, slipping though the group toward her.
A loud clapping made everyone turn toward the improvised stage as Stan Wynkowski, a big solid guy in charge of rehearsals, shambled up to the microphone. A ragged silence fell. I still hadn't figured out how this show was actually being put together, or who was in charge of what. So far I had seen only bits and pieces of it, since I was one of three or four accompanists who volunteered time and patience to get this show up and running by the fall. It was a huge effort, and I had seen little to give me faith it would all come together this side of paradise. I could certainly understand why it was not an annual event.
Stan began by welcoming Glori back home with enough hyperbole to satisfy the biggest ego. As Glori preened beside him, I noticed the skinny queen in the acid green dress had found her music and now held it clenched in one beringed hand as she made her way to the platform. Bob tried to catch her arm, but she shook him off.
"Remember me?" she cried shrilly. "I'm Bianca Bombe, star of the Velvet Box Review." She held out one hand to Stan, the great rings flashing in the sunlight. Sweat gleamed on her forehead.
"Oh puleeze," said Glori.
"Me and Luna, we go way back," Bianca said, ignoring Glori. Her wide smile split her pale face with a gash of cruel color.
"Of course I remember you," said Stan, taking her hand gallantly. Bob moved up on Bianca's other side. "I remember when you and Luna La Dame and Glori Daze all appeared together back in the '70s. Great show."
"I'm going to do some of the same numbers here," Bianca said. "In your dreams," snarled Glori. "Bianca, you were washed up and thrown out with the rags twenty years ago."
"
I'm
not the one who was paid to leave town!" shrieked Bianca. "Luna and me stayed right here and founded the Trillium Court and—"
"Because no one wanted you anywhere else!" shouted Glori.
"Liar!"
"Ladies, ladies, that's enough." Stan's voice easily cut through the shrieks. "Bianca, this show is already cast, but I'll take your name down for the next one. Look, I'll make a note in the official production book right now." He flipped over a few pages on his clipboard and flourished his pen, then began to write. "We need stars like you, Bianca, for the next show. See?"
She watched his moving hand as if mesmerized by the letters flowing from it.
"The star," she said, nodding. "That's right."
"That'll be a first," said Glori.
Without warning, Bianca leapt forward with a scream. "Bitch!" Her purse flailed, her long, bony fingers reached for Glori's carefully made-up face. Glori grabbed the black wig just as Bianca's heel caught on the raised platform and she toppled backward. "Bitch!" she cried again. Tears streaked her makeup. Bob was struggling to lift her up as Stan bent over to help. Jaym patted Bianca's arm, his eyes pained. He took the wig from Glori's hands and put it back on Bianca's nearly bald head. It sat there uneasily, slipping to one side as she struggled to her feet.
Stan and Bob exchanged glances. "We'll call you a taxi," Stan said, steering her toward the door.
"
Was
she a star?" Ellis asked, looking at me.
I shrugged, watching the little group lurch its way into the hall. The steady hum of conversation had broken out again, growing louder as the doors closed behind Bianca and her entourage. Bianca Bombe. The person I remembered by that name had nothing to do with this wreck. She was vibrant and sexy, a loud, laughing vixen who loved practical jokes. She couldn't dance worth a damn, but her personality made you forget this while she was on stage. She must have been around Ronnie's age, which would make her about forty-two. She looked a lot older.
"Me and Luna, we go way back
." They had just begun to hang out together when I left.
"Ready when you are, Michael." Stan's voice pulled me back to the present. Glori was ready to launch into her first number. Her dusky, gravelly voice, roughened with decades of smoking and booze, brought back a few memories, too. She was still a good female impersonator, lip-synching her way through the traditional canon with flair. She could be down and dirty and funny as hell, but she lacked Ronnie's sly wit and originality, and I had often wondered why Ronnie had never left town to make his fortune as Glori had. After my recent discovery, however, it was beginning to make more sense.
Glori was duly applauded when she stepped down, but I thought the effort and the fight with Bianca had really taken it out of her. The thundering chaos that followed as the whole company lumbered into a dance number trying to follow Bob's agile steps was painful. Whoever thought all gay men can dance should have been there. I was glad when it was over and I could pack up my music and get out in into the fresh air—or as fresh as it gets in Toronto in June.
"Thanks, Michael, you're a doll," breathed Bob, rushing over before I could escape. He never forgot the niceties, and I appreciated that. I didn't appreciate the light kiss on the cheek. I hardly knew the man. I heard Ellis stifle a laugh as he watched my futile effort to escape.
"Any more of that and you don't get a lift home," I told him as we clattered down the stairs.
"It's okay, Michael. Jaym and me are going to grab a bite to eat with some of the girls, and then we're going to the 501. Speaking of bars, I saw you at Woody's the other night. I didn't know you played pool."
"I didn't see you there. Why didn't you come over?"
"Well, you were—oh how will I put this?—real engrossed." He grinned. "See you later. Come on, Jaym."
They swayed off down the street, big hair, sequins, and huge earrings reminding me of giant Barbies who had been on a long-delayed binge. I had meant to drop in on Logan, but the rehearsal had left me drained. I ransomed my car from the lot down the street and went home instead, parking in the lane behind Mrs. Goldstein's place and hopping the fence into my yard, just in case some intrepid reporter was still hanging about on my front lawn.
I was still ignoring the answering machine. People I hadn't heard from in years kept leaving messages of concern and suggesting get-togethers over coffee, drinks, a light supper at their place. They were even sending me e-mail, to my address at the Gay Blade BBS, which I also ignored.
I let the silence of the old house settle around me. I loved this place, my refuge. It was smaller, more intimate than the huge apartment I had lived in when teaching at Montmorency University. I no longer craved the space, or all the furniture I had collected for a while, trying to re-create the atmosphere I had grown up with and been denied by "disgracing the family" when I left my wife for Ronnie. At the time I wasn't aware of what I was doing as I haunted antique stores, but I could see it now, and I didn't need these props anymore. I had kept what I really loved: my father's sword, the old high-backed wing chair, the harvest table, the pine blanket chest I now used as a coffee table, three huge paintings I had bought in England, and the spinet harpsichord. Everything else was sold at auction. All I needed now were my books and the tiny garden out back, which I was slowly transforming into a place of rest and tranquility where there would be the constant sound of water spilling from a fountain into a small pool. I had to admit my simplifying process did not include the kitchen, which I had modernized completely, using up most of the money I had made from the furniture auction.
I spent the evening sitting in the sunporch at the back, ignoring the constant ringing of the phone as I plowed through rewrites for my book. I was so completely immersed in my task that it took a while to realize there was someone at the front door. I considered ignoring it, but surely it was too late for reporters. Whoever it was persisted.
"You win," I said, opening the door and frowning into the dimness. I had forgotten to replace the lightbulb again.
"Does that mean you lose?"
I straightened my shoulders. That voice was familiar. Young. Sexy. As I processed this information I recognized him as the twentysomething guy from Woody's a few nights before. "Ryan, isn't it?"
"Yeah. You gave me your card, right? Well, here I am."
I didn't know what to say.
"You said you need some work done in your garden? And some painting around the house?"
"It probably could do with some work," I hedged. I was not prepared for this. Part of me was still back in ancient Greece, which was not a good idea, in the circumstances.
"I came by earlier but you weren't home," he said, shifting his feet. "I'm real good with my hands."
"No doubt," I murmured, glad for the dimness as I felt the heat in my face.
"I can do a bit of carpentry and that," Ryan went on earnestly. "And paint too. And I grew up on a farm so I know about growing things." He moved forward into what little light there was and looked straight at me.
I shouldn't have looked into those hazel eyes. I saw the knowledge grow there, and I felt foolish standing protectively in the open door. We both knew that if I were going to send him on his way, I would have done it by now. What had ever possessed me to give him my card?
"I don't have no place to go."
I stepped back and waved him into the hall. He didn't need any coaxing. He scooped up his backpack and bounced into the house, grinning literally from ear to ear. His pleasure was infectious. His ass, in the tight jeans, was divine.
"You want some coffee? It's fresh."
"Cool. Hey, man, you wanna catch the phone?" "No."
He followed me silently to the kitchen. I could feel him watching as I reached for another mug, cut a few slices of pound cake, and set them on the table. I poured the coffee, and he added generous portions of sugar and cream. His hands were large and oddly delicate. An expensive gold link bracelet glinted on one wrist. He ate with concentration, slurping the coffee noisily as he looked around, assessing my brand-new kitchen with all its gadgets and appliances.
"Nice bracelet," I said.
"My mom gave it to me," he said, his mouth full.
"So, tell me something about yourself." I wasn't sure what game we were playing. The whole scene was unreal to me, the lateness of the hour, the persistent phone calls, his unexpected appearance in my private space, the way we avoided the real questions.
"I hate it when people talk like that! Like, I mean, what're you supposed to say?" He glanced at the phone. "Do you, like, hate the phone or something?"
"Not at all. I just don't feel like answering tonight. Tell me, why are you on the street?"
The kid looked hurt. "Hey, you gave me your fucking card."
"And now you're here and I asked you a question." I sat back and waited for him to spill the shabby story of his unhappy home life. It took longer than I expected, but there was nothing unusual about it when it finally came.
"So when my friend Brad split to the city to get a job, I came too," he finished.
"You have a job?"
"For a while I worked in a service station filling in for some guy who was off sick, and me and Brad shared a place. But then the job ran out and so did my money and then Brad's fucking girlfriend moved in, see, and they threw all my stuff out back in the rain. Some friend, eh?"