Little Did I Know: A Novel (40 page)

“One last thing, JB,” I said. “Please give this note to Mrs. Barrows.”

I quickly scribbled a few words on my notepad and handed it to JB. Without asking, she unfolded the yellow page and read my words.

Dear Mrs. Barrows
,

Thank you for attending our performance this evening. We are sorry your friends couldn’t join you tonight, but it does not matter to us here at PBT. We will be at our best.

I had signed it Spartacus.

At 8:40, a mere ten minutes later than our usual curtain time, the orchestra hit its downbeat. Lizzy Barrows sat alone, front row center. I knew the show would be terrific, no matter how hard she tried not to like it. Predictably, she was a dead duck from the moment the overture began to play.

One of the lessons I had learned so far during this remarkable summer was that nothing was what it seemed. Maybe down deep people are different from what they show on the surface. Perhaps the rumors and innuendo you hear in passing about a young girl you have fallen for are just that: pure fabrication or all-out exaggeration of the truth. I was past the midpoint of my hundred days, and I sensed that as I accelerated to the finish line, lessons, awareness, and the collapse of a grandiose pedestal awaited me. The simple truths of those who had been part of, even intimately aligned to, my maturation would show their true selves, their true character, their true aspirations.

We did the show and everyone was Joe DiMaggio wearing the armor of Spartacus. They played it for all it was worth. They raced home, knocked over the catcher, and the umpire called them all safe. The crowd would have roared and cheered their effort, but there was only a single fan in attendance. Lizzy Barrows looked like a million dollars. Her hair was lush, her legs were long, and she wore that pink lip gloss that would slay even the strongest of men. She never once laughed or even smiled. She offered no applause. She was a beautiful mannequin. The cast rose above it all and hit the ball deep into the summer night, and it has yet to come down.

At intermission Mrs. Barrows walked to her car, took something out of the trunk, and put it in her handbag. She checked her makeup in the visor mirror. She walked over to the concession stand and bought a rum and coke from Veronica and left a $5 tip. No words were exchanged. I watched closely to make sure Veronica had not sneezed in her drink. The house lights blinked, and Lizzy returned to the same seat she’d held earlier in the evening.

Act 2 played out with the same energy and result as act 1. The show was electric, but it did not generate a single response from our lone attendee. I watched from the back of the theater and truly wondered how fucked up this whole charade had become. It must have taken enormous discipline and resolve to behave in such a manner, and tremendous, unbridled commitment to see the whole thing through to the end of the show.

The show was over and the curtain call began. Suddenly Mrs. Barrows stood up and applauded. Gently at first, as the minor players took their bows, then with growing intensity as the principals made their way on stage. Finally, as the complete ensemble filled the stage and acknowledged the orchestra, Lizzy Barrows was cheering at full voice. It was shocking in its suddenness, and yet it was an emotional release for all of us who had navigated through this unique set of affairs.

The cast was beaming and they all started to applaud in return. Elliot cued the orchestra to play “You’re the Top,” and in disbelief I watched as the company sang this famous Cole Porter song to our former nemesis. It went on and on and on. Then Lizzy Barrows climbed the three steps onto the stage and asked that the music stop. Elliot, who never missed a cue, did as instructed and the cast stood silently in wait. I stood next to JB in the back of the theater.

Veronica tiptoed in, took my hand, and whispered in my ear, “Great show tonight, honey.” I got goose bumps. If someone had asked me to say something right now, I would have come up mute.

Lizzy Barrows spoke. “Thank you all for tonight. You are all truly wonderful. Your performance could have only been given by people who are blessed with lots of generosity. A gift you cannot teach but perhaps I could learn. I came here tonight with a great deal of mad inside me. You made it all seem dumb and left me ashamed. I will come back this summer often and I will bring my friends, so they can experience the joy you have all given me tonight.”

There was not a sound in the building. Nor even a breath of wind or rustle of leaves from outside.

“Mr. Secunda,” she continued, “I would like to give you all a gift. I don’t sing or dance and all the stores close early here in Plymouth, so please take this gesture of my appreciation to enjoy your collective day off tomorrow. Divide it between yourselves and consider that dinner is on me.” She handed Secunda a stack of hundred-dollar bills, shook his hand, kissed a couple of the girls on the cheek, and exited into the house.

The orchestra played another hit song from the show, the famous “I Get a Kick Out of You,” and the cast sang along. Secunda passed out hundreds until everyone had received one, and then he gave the rest to the orchestra and crew. Lizzy Barrows drove off the compound honking her horn to the music. As she disappeared into the night, the orchestra faded out.

I didn’t get it at all. This woman had come into our house to do damage, to hurt our community. She’d betrayed our trust and then left the hero, showered with song and applause. Was it the money? Were my friends and coworkers so easily bought? Where was their pride?

I wasn’t going to forget her intentions, no matter how many hundred dollar bills she threw my way. To trust her because she now appreciated our talent and ability to create joy? Please just blow me. She was still a black widow. She was still someone who looked to create chaos and woe. I would share my dismay with my friends. I would pay for my own dinner. At least I wouldn’t choke on my loss of integrity.

I thought our day off had truly come not a moment too soon. I also noticed that it had been raining. Once again, Mr. Capra was right.

W
e headed east into a new day, the morning haze disappearing under blazing, neon-yellow July sunshine. It was going to be a hot one. Many of us had piled into my blue birthday van while others followed in a cavalcade of auto shows of years past.

Our destination was Provincetown. A small town at the end of the Cape, so close to king’s country you could fish in the English Channel with your rod and reel. Provincetown had many stories to share from its varied history. If not for an argument aboard the
Mayflower
, the Pilgrims would have set foot along the shores of P-town and the rock up north would have never found its way into our history books.

The original Pilgrims splintered and many moved onto whaling fortunes and lives of true religious choice. The village that baited the anger and quixotic nature of the ocean had been leveled by myriad hurricanes. Numerous murders from years past to present remain unsolved. Perseverance, courage, guts, and a love of this land with its unending kaleidoscopes of pastel beauty continued to rebirth the small community.

It was home to artists and writers, from the early poets to the great American playwrights Tennessee Williams and Eugene O’Neill. It housed restaurants of eclectic genius in the culinary delights. It nurtured young artists whose work was sold in tiny galleries. It was a town of timeless artisans who toiled in leather and pottery, silver and glass. The fishing community was vibrant and operated as if time had stood still.

Most recently, Provincetown was home to the alternate lifestyles that emerged in the late sixties. Gays and lesbians lived as they wished in P-town, without concern as to the judgments of the cities and towns they left behind. Whether they stayed the summer, a weekend, or a lifetime, it was a small town with no boundaries. It danced all night every night, fueled by the freedoms it offered to all who chose to partake.

We had stopped at Race Point on Cape Cod to play in the largest sandbox imaginable. The dunes were otherworldly. The sands bled into the horizon. Then, just as you gave up hope, looked for an oasis or camel to take you home, the ocean appeared. Just steps away from the last hill, you were back on planet Earth and in desperate need of a swim.

We threw Frisbees and footballs, rolled around like puppies. We abandoned responsibility, carousing like kids during recess. Those of us who had coupled this summer held hands, stole kisses, and cheered our friends as they frolicked with abandon. The undiscovered love affairs, those that had done no more than simmer so far, edged toward boiling point in the morning heat. James had gotten everyone stoned on the drive, and everything seemed new, fresh as wet paint. It felt as if this was all for us. We were privileged, special, touched by some higher being, for mere mortals could not possibly engage in such wonder without divine assistance.

Veronica and I grabbed every moment zealously, almost desperately, as though I was headed overseas to war. I held her hand and heard my friends laugh loud and strong, and the waves took me places I had never been nor imagined.

We found our way to a late breakfast at the seaside Lobster Pot. Seated at long, simply dressed picnic tables that overlooked the Provincetown harbor, we were in a postcard of schooners, deep blues, cloudless skies, and history. We ate eggs Benedict with crab meat, and downed spicy Bloody Marys and fresh longneck clams that had left their sandy homes only minutes before meeting us.

We walked the main hub in town and perused the stores on old Commercial Street. We window-shopped jewelry, leather, crafts, and sex emporiums that made us blush and roused our curiosity at the same time. We stood in front of a place called The Toys of Eros. Its window was filled with male mannequins in leather and strap-on dildos, thousands of colorful beads on strings, and invitations to check their selection of cock rings. A sign offered a discount on edible underwear. Other mannequins wore leather metal-studded collars attached to leashes. There were handcuffs and sex toys whose function I couldn’t imagine.

Janet was the most eager to cross the threshold into perversion. I wondered what ASK was thinking. Veronica suggested we go in and I said yes, but my heartbeat quickened as I thought,
Well, let’s learn some new positions
. As long as my ass was not involved.

Veronica, ASK, Janet, Kellie, Secunda, and I entered the store. Everyone else went to the nearest bar. Any bravado I might have possessed disappeared when I saw a mannequin with a strap-on dildo fucking another one from behind. “Awkward” was a poor way of describing how I felt. I did notice, however, that I was better looking than either of the mannequin men. Why did I think that important?

The clerk was soft and pasty. He wore black jeans and a black T-shirt from under which his little belly protruded. His belt was studded, and connected to one side was a chain that found its way into his front pocket. He needed a shave or a better attempt at a goatee. He wore an earring in his left ear and had a pin on his shirt that said “
ROGER
.” He greeted us with a big smile and a sincere “Can I help you?”

“What are these blue beads?” I asked with a touch of fear.

Roger was pleased to answer. “They’re anal beads.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“Well, what do you do with them?”

“You stick them in your anus,” Roger replied matter-of-factly.

“Well, of course you do. Where else would you put them, honey?” Veronica said as if someone had suggested you take aspirin for a headache. “We’ll take them. What color would you like, sweetie?” I picked red to match the color of my cheeks.

My group was in animated conversation with other salespeople, so I needed to pass the time. “And this?” I asked Roger as I pointed to a circular leather piece somewhat larger than a cigar band.

“That’s a cock ring.”

I stared blankly.

“You attach it to your erection and pull it tight,” he explained.

I winced. “Why would you do that?”

“Because when you come, it’s much more exciting. In fact, some people think it makes your penis larger.”

“Oops,” Veronica said, “my guy here doesn’t need that, but we’ll take one for our friend over there.” She nodded toward ASK.

Roger seemed to look at me in a new light; I was extremely uncomfortable and wanted to leave.

Veronica pointed to a lovely sort of gemstone in a sapphire blue set like a stud for an earring. Roger anticipated her question. “That’s a stud for your scrotum.”

“I don’t have a scrotum,” Veronica answered quickly.

“Well, women often use them on their nipples or their labias.”

My stomach turned and I wanted to throw up. I no longer found any of this funny.

“Why would anyone stick a stud in their scrotum?” I asked. “Why not stick your cock in the fireplace or light a match and burn your pubic hair off?”

“Well, that would hurt,” said Roger.

“But sticking a pin in your scrotum doesn’t? Wow, let’s have some fun tonight, Veronica. I can stab you in the vagina and you can give me a puncture wound in my testicles.”

She giggled at my agitation. I offered a “thank you” to Roger as I left the shop. I wanted to get to the street before I puked. Maybe I was a homophobe or a prude, but anal beads didn’t sit right with me. I smiled at the unintentional pun in my head.