Flavor of the Month (117 page)

“Mother, the show this week got the highest rating
any
show ever got. It’s…”

“It’s a freak show, is what it is. And fuck the ratings. Fuck the
ratings
, Hyram. Tell me about
sales
.”

“Well, you have to expect a little dip…”

“Hyram, you really are an asshole. Even considering the possibility that you could take over for me is the only big error of judgment I ever made. Except, of course, for this fiasco. Don’t you get it, Hyram? The line is over. Finished. No woman will ever buy that shit again. We sell dreams, Hyram, not nightmares. The party, as they say, is over.”

“But we have close to a hundred million dollars invested in that stuff.”

“Take your losses like a big boy, Hyram.”

“Mother, are you crazy? We’ll get a replacement for Lila Kyle. We’ll change the print-ad copy. We could even get rid of the other two. But we
have
to keep the line, Mother.”

“Pull our sponsorship. Cut our losses. Start over on this one, Hyram.”

He stood up. “Forget it. I’m not going to eat this loss. Not in my first year as president. Mother, I mean it: I’ll fight you on this. I’ll take it to the board. I’ll press the issue, Mother. They won’t see it as you do.”

“Yes they will, Hyram. And they’ll remember who brought this idea to them. Don’t do it. You’ll be sorry.”

But he did. And then he was.

Jahne sat on the veranda of Sharleen’s house, among the wrapped furniture and crated kitchenware. The two friends had been silent for some time. The sun was setting over the smog of the Valley, creating a spectacular sunset.

“It’s the pollution and dust that make the colors,” Jahne said.

“So, then, even dirt is good for something.”

“And I thought all that garbage written about us was useless.”

“Hell, no. We wrapped our dishes with a lot of it. And in Wyoming we’ll use it for starting fires and mulching the garden.” Sharleen grinned. Then she looked back at the sunset. “Sure is pretty. Nice to know there’s a chance for one every night.” She sighed. “I still can’t believe that Lila is dead. She ain’t gonna see another sunset. I mean, it’s all so weird. I still can’t believe she was a man.”

“Well, I guess she wasn’t, really, was she? I mean, she had some of the equipment, but that didn’t make her a fireman, if you know what I mean.”

“Speaking of mean, now we know why she was. I guess she was a really unhappy person.” Sharleen shook her head. “What did her mother
do
to her?”

“I want to know what
Marty
did to her. I mean, she had to be pretty good at faking to make him think she was a woman. I’ve sometimes faked my orgasms, but not my gender.”

“Huh?”

Jahne looked at Sharleen. “Haven’t you ever faked an orgasm?”

“Uh-uh. Well, why would I do that?” Sharleen asked. “What’s the point?”

“Oh, to take the pressure off you, or him. To end it if it’s boring. To, well, you know.” Jahne found herself looking into Sharleen’s blank face.

“I surely don’t. I haven’t slept with many guys, but I never faked how I felt in my life. It would be like a lie, and at a very bad time to lie.”

“I think you’re right, Sharleen, but I think most women do.”

Sharleen shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t understand about sex,” she said.

“Join the club.”

“I felt so ashamed about me and Dean for so long, it’s hard to get used to it bein’ okay. Plus, even when it wasn’t supposed to be the right thing, it always
felt
like the right thing. Sometimes it was the
only
thing that was right.”

“You’ll get over the guilt. Just keep telling yourself he’s not your brother.”

“Well, even if he
isn’t
my brother, he still
feels
like he is,” Sharleen said. “That’s what I like. That we’re like blood kin, you know? We really
know
each other. But now I ain’t ashamed. I know what other people still might say, and think, but I don’t care. I really don’t. Because I
ain’t
shamed. What we done, what we are, felt right. It
is
right.” She looked up at Jahne.

“What
you
think is the most important thing, Sharleen,” Jahne said.

“Well, yes, but I’d like you to understand.” She paused. “See, it’s like this: Sex with men, with other men, always felt like there was two different kinds of us in bed. Their kind and our kind. Even with Boyd, and then with Michael McLain, it always felt like it was a kind of two-part contest.”

Jahne thought of Michael, of Sam, and nodded.

“Well, with Dean it don’t feel like that. It don’t feel like his turn and my turn. It don’t feel like no contest. It’s just
us.
…We’re
both
us, both the same. It ain’t as excitin’ as with Michael, I admit that. And for a while I got confused. But now I know one thing: it may not be the way sex is supposed to be, but the way it is with Dean is the way I like it.” Tears stood in Sharleen’s perfect eyes as she searched Jahne’s face.

And Jahne, all at once, was hit with such a strong wave of…of envy, she realized with a start of surprise. Because the strife, the battle, had always been there, between her and her lovers. The battle for possession, for dominance, for freedom. The battle of the sexes. And because always, following the excitement, there had been disappointment, loneliness, or betrayal. Always. They were never really on my side, she thought. Except maybe Neil. Neil was on my side, but he wasn’t exciting enough, pretty enough for me. I never slept with him. And now it’s probably too late for Neil. And maybe it’s too late for me.

She looked at Sharleen, up front and beautiful as she’d always been, simple and straight and right as rain. She thought of all the advice she’d given Sharleen, of how she’d condescended to her, and she very nearly blushed.

“What are you going to do?” Jahne asked Sharleen.

“I reckon me and Dean are goin’ to take up my friend’s offer. We’re goin’ to move out to Wyoming with Dobe. He and us are partners on a big spread he bought out there. Dean and me’ll get married later.”

“So, you’ll just walk away without looking back?”

“Why, sure. And feel lucky. It could have been you or me got shot.”

“But won’t you miss it? All the excitement, and the attention…and the money?”

“Oh, heck. It ain’t ever the way it seems.
You
know that. Seems that there ain’t much money. So much went in taxes and fees. And there’s such a big mortgage on this place that lots went on interest and what all. Seems that only Mr. Ortis made money. I won’t miss him. And I missed my stepmother more once I found her than I ever did when she was gone. I’ll miss the
idea
of fame some. Wouldn’t be human if I said I wouldn’t. But I won’t really miss any of this…” She turned to look out the window at the hills spread below them. Then she looked back at Jahne. “I’ll miss
you
,” she said, “but I hope you’ll come to visit.”

“I will,” Jahne promised.

“What about you? You stayin’ on?”

“I have a few things I still have to take care of.”

“And then what?”

“Then I don’t know.”

“You’d always be welcome on the ranch, Jahne.”

“Thanks.” Tears filled her eyes. She probably didn’t deserve a friend as kind as Sharleen, but she was grateful she had her. She’d better lighten this up, or else she’d be sobbing all over the two of them. “So,” she said, “no more Crimson, Cara, and Clover.”

As if she sensed Jahne’s mood, Sharleen tossed her head and whistled. “Oh, hell, sure there is. We’re takin’ the three bitches with us!” She laughed, and turned to stroke the head of the first dog that ran to her side.

Jahne dressed carefully, as if for an important audition. But what role is it that you are trying out for? she asked herself. Good friend? A bit late for that. You haven’t played that role opposite Neil in a long time. Lady Bountiful? Isn’t that a laugh? You’ve never been a lady, and for the last year at least you’ve been spiritually and emotionally impoverished. What Neil must need is a real good psychiatrist and an even better lawyer, not some one-trick pony. Well, at least you can write a check. That might help him, though he may be beyond help now.

Probably Neil won’t even have a clue as to who I am. He won’t know that I’m Mary Jane. Well, that I
was
. And why should he when you don’t? she asked herself. He might not even agree to see her. She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror of her marble bathroom. She wore a becomingly casual pair of the jeans Mai had made for her, and the big sweater that she had worn with Sam on their vacation in Northern California. She stared at her reflection in the mirror: tall, willowy, her perfect face a shining oval, her thick, lustrous black hair cascading down from her widow’s peak, her lips full, her face a valentine. She still was amazed by her own looks. She looked like one of the people who’d always looked down on her. Back in New York, so many people had. Except Neil. She sighed.

Another one of the privileges of fame, Jahne thought as she walked down the green-tiled hallway of the Los Angeles County Jail. Only relatives and attorneys are allowed access to prisoners. And, of course, the occasional reporter willing to pay out a few bucks. Or a movie star.

“A close family friend” was how she had put it, and the prison official asked for nothing except the autographed photos she had been smart enough to bring, along with two tickets to a sneak preview of something or other that she’d received a week ago. He had looked her over carefully, and she was certain he was looking for the grisly scars. Well, he’d get a full report from the hefty female guard who’d searched her
very
thoroughly before she allowed Jahne to cross through the barred doors onto this corridor that led to the visiting room. Jahne had to announce herself as “Jahne Moore,” of course. Would Neil even speak to her?

She left the security room, dressed neatly again, and began to walk down the hallway. She winced at the unbelievably harsh overhead lights, the green-checkered tile, the institutionally two-toned walls.

She entered the small, private room the guard pointed her to. It was almost completely filled by a scarred wooden table and four mismatched chairs. Neil was sitting in the fifth, his narrow back turned to the door, dressed in an orange jumpsuit. He turned to her, his face more feral than ever, his eyes more deeply sunk and hooded. He surveyed her, not moving a muscle of his body or face.

Then he stood. “Veronica!” he said, and as he held his arms out to her, his eyes filled with tears.

It was hard to believe that he recognized her so quickly, despite the surgery, the time, and the dislocation of this strange venue. But perhaps that was the magic of love. Neil had loved her, had known her, and he still did. She hugged him, then took a seat next to him at the table.

“I’m sorry that it took me so long to find you,” Jahne was explaining. “I looked. I really did. But your number wasn’t listed and I…”

“That’s okay, Veronica,” Neil told her sweetly. “I forgive you.”

He seemed normal, if a little subdued. How do you talk to an old friend who has become a murderer? Should she avoid the issue?

“What happened?” she asked gently.

“They made a mistake. It was all wrong.”

“What do you mean?” He’d been filmed by a dozen cameras doing the deed. Surely he wasn’t going to claim innocence.

“I wasn’t supposed to be Jughead. I was supposed to be
Archie
. The one everybody liked. That was the mistake. But it’s fixed now. Roger fixed it. It wasn’t my fault the girl was shot. Someone screwed up. Johnny Burton. He wasn’t supposed to. I was. Master of ceremonies. Me. Forgive me, master.” He looked at her, his mad eyes glittering into hers.

“I’m sure you’ll be forgiven,” she whispered.

“Great!” he shouted into the air. Then he turned to her again, a crafty look on his face. “And then I’ll get my show back? Because I can’t take too much more of this shit. Not being recognized, getting no respect. I can’t take too much more.” His voice had risen; now, abruptly, he put his head down on his arms and began to weep. “You don’t know what it’s like,” he cried. “You don’t know how it feels to be so close, so close to that love. And to lose it. To lose it all.”

“I do, Neil. I do.”

She patted his shoulder as softly as she could. They sat together as he wept.

“I’m so sorry. What do you need?” she asked. “I’ll get you anything they allow you to have.”

“I have everything I need.” He lifted his head from the table and wiped his eyes.

“What about a lawyer? I could help with…”

“My sister’s girlfriend is a lawyer. Diana. And there’s Roger. Roger will take care of everything.”

“Neil, I want to help. I…”

His face changed from a vacant, soggy smile to an animal snarl. “Not Neil!” he yelled at her. “Archie. I’m Archie now. Really popular. Everyone likes me.”

“Okay. Okay, Archie,” she said, to calm him down. His face had scared her. Was he crazy? Did he really recognize her? “So, Archie, are you treated well here?”

“Treated well? Hey, I’m the most popular guy at Riverdale High. I was elected president of the senior class. Reggie ran against me, but
I
won. It was unanimous. Even Reggie voted for me in the end.”

Jahne tried to laugh at the feeble joke, but it wasn’t easy. “Archie, I’m just so sorry about everything. About your show getting canceled, and about the…”

Neil sprang up, overturning the chair. Jahne jumped at the sudden movement, more startled than frightened. The door opened fast, and a big black male prison guard stood over them. Neil looked over at him. “Hello, Veronica,” Neil said. Then he held out his arms, and his eyes filled with tears.

As Jahne walked down the corridor, away from Neil and his broken mumblings, she had to use all her acting strength not to sob out loud. He hadn’t known her. He didn’t know what day it was, or what had happened. Apparently he had started calling
everyone
Veronica, or so the assistant warden said. He was locked into his own private prison of pain. His guilt was even worse than his madness, and, from time to time, when he came out of the paranoid fog of his delusions, the pain and terror in his eyes were worse than the ravings of his conspiracy theories. For the first time, Jahne could see why people sought the comfort of madness.