The Home For Wayward Ladies (27 page)

“Then I defer to your wisdom.”

“Better that than my age. Keep in mind that I may be old, but I can still get it hard. If you look me up on the Mohs scale, I rank just above diamond. If the two of you need another horn in the devil’s twosome, I’m right across the hall.”

“I’m going to ignore that and thank you again for your generosity.”

“It’s my pleasure. Watching young love blossom makes me feel immortal.” Despite that claim, his mortality seems to falter as he clings to the handrail to make it up the stairs. When he reaches the top, his chest rises and falls like Ann Miller after a tap routine. I catch the kiss he blows to me within my clammy hand. 

I stop in the powder room to splash cold water on my face. The decorative safari theme makes me eager to return to the hunt. This time, however, I intend to catch my prey. My knees knock so I chide myself in the carved tusk mirror. “Get it together. Just because Hunter is the only person that will ever truly understand you does not make this that big of a deal.” I chew enough mints to burn a hole in my stomach and slap my face for good measure. I haven’t been part of anything so deranged since Alice Ripley won the Tony Award.

Hunter doesn’t hear me approach when I return to the veranda. His attention is expended on another friend. A deer has wandered up. It must have come through Robin’s garden. Hunter has lured her in with leftover sliced apple from our cheese tray. He poses like Snow White as she nibbles from his hand. “You beautiful creature, so elegantly bathed in the moonlight; you are the essence of gentility.”

I blurt out, “The same could be said of you.” Hunter and the deer are both startled but only the deer decides to flee.

“Eli, you nit, you’ve scared her off.” He sinks back down in the cushion of the porch swing. “Say you’re sorry.”

“Not on your life. If I had to apologize for every time I scared someone away, I’d owe half the East Coast a call. But you’re still here, Hunter. And if you don’t invite me to come sit down next to you, I might get the impression that you think I’m a leper. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

He pats the open seat on the swing without a hint of reserve. As I land, I put my arm around him. At first it feels all wrong. He squirms like a toddler being sat for his portrait at Sears. But once he settles in, everything feels fine. Perhaps the alcohol will muddy his better judgment. I assume it already has when I feel his hand on my knee.

This is a moment I will choose to remember; before anything right could turn wrong and my feelings about the consequence are justified. When courage has more ambition than sense. When true love will conquer all.

“You and Robin make quite a pair,” he says.

“I hope that’s not an accusation. I don’t want it to get around that I’m into necrophilia. Who knows? He seems to understand us, what lies ahead. And maybe I understand him too. I mean, look around- this is the original Home for Wayward Ladies.”

Hunter breathes it all in before he can respond. “It’s so kind of him to let us stay. I almost couldn’t make it through my shower tonight at staff housing. Eli, there was black mold growing out of the tile. Really, that could kill someone. Just you wait. In eight months, that pregnant girl is going to give birth to the Toxic Avenger.”

I chuckle at the image of Carolyn singing scales while feeding a baby that has two heads. And then, without any of the anticipated fanfare, I realize the time has come for me to be brave. I clear my throat and tell him, “Hunter, I’d like to talk to you.”

He looks apprehensive as he fidgets with the strap of his watch. “We are talking, silly.”

“No,” I reply. “I want to talk about us.”

“Eli, please…”

“Hunter, don’t. If you have nothing to say, then the least you can do is listen.”

“I don’t need to listen when I already know what you have to say.”

“Then let’s stop playing pretend. I need to know- is there a chance that you might learn to love me the way I have always loved you?”

His shoulder becomes raw granite beneath my hand. “Chance is something best left to the roulette wheel.” He pulls my arm from around his waist and places it back at my side. “Booze always did make you horny.“

“Don’t reduce me to my libido. The way I feel can’t be blamed on booze. Look around you, Hunt. Robin had to bite his tongue for years. That secrecy bought him every pleasure known to man, but even after he married the man of his dreams, he was forced to live his life alone. That’s the way things used to be for the gays. But that was the old generation. It doesn’t have to be that way any more. People like us have voices now and they’re begging to be heard.”

“Eli, control yourself. That generation isn’t dead- it happens to be sleeping upstairs. And, furthermore, I don’t see how being forced to live our lives like an open book honors the sacrifice of those who made it possible. No disrespect to the Marys that broke down doors at Stonewall- I am glad they fought for the freedom it takes to be a Lady. But with that freedom comes great responsibility. We’re expected to keep marching forward until we get equality for all. Because of that mission, we can never go back to the time when secrets were still sexy. Frankly, that makes me feel robbed. Eli, you know how much I love you. You know how much I have always loved you ever since the moment that we met. I’ll never forget it- our freshman year at Mackinaw. It was the day before fall break when our scenic design professor wouldn’t let us leave until we’d tied a couple hundred scraps of muslin to a cargo net for the backdrop of some children’s show. By the end of the afternoon, we were the only two remaining. And since you were afraid of heights, I had to climb to the ladder while you stood below. From our first encounter, my stability was in your hands. Eli, my darling, there are things about me that you do not know- instabilities that make my footing far less assured. We can’t both climb the same ladder, for who will stand below to make sure the other doesn’t fall?”

“That’s the exciting part, Hunter: no matter what happens, up or down, we’d get to do it together. What do you say?”

Hunter’s face turns beet red like he’s forgotten how to breathe. He fans himself so feverishly that if he had feathers he would fly. He stands abruptly and the motion of the swing pushes me further away. “I need to get to bed,” he says. “Right now. We have an early morning and I need my rest. You should consider doing the same.”

“Please, don’t go,” I call after him, but he is already gone. His exit leaves me no choice but to give way to chase as I follow him up the stairs. I am out-run by his muscular legs by a mile. For a few yards, I’m close enough to feel like an ogre clipping at his heels. I’ve almost caught up by the time I reach his bedroom door. I wedge my hand in the frame to stop him from slamming it shut. I know he sees my fingers there. Still he draws the door back and releases it on me in a crunch. I see a flash of white. I do not scream, for I do not feel any pain. At least not the kind I’d been expecting.  

The mangled nubs protruding from my palm are inconsequential when compared to Hunter’s tears. They drip off his chin and collect on the collar of his shirt. Without hesitation, he tells me, “This is what your love has caused. I am not afraid of you; not even now. But that doesn’t mean I’m not afraid of me. And if you had a lick of sense, you would be too.”

With my hand out of the way, the door is closed with no kiss goodnight. I hear it lock. Thankfully, I can still bend my fingers, even if they do hurt like a motherfucker. Rooting through the bathroom vanity, I find enough Hydrocodone to euthanize a horse. I pop a couple of dolls and slug them back with what’s left of my own spit. I pocket what’s left over. They’ll come in handy tomorrow when I’m stuck playing piano for at least half the day.

For the first time since I’ve arrived, the house is still. It allows me to hear my own heart, which, after my dismissal, has decided to keep beating. Wandering the darkened halls, I become a denizen among the ghosts. They lead me to the library- a home for characters less tragic than I. Longingly, I stare at the bindings of a million books. I dream to set their pages free, that I might disappear into the tumult of a story more meaningful than my own.

32

NICHOLAS

Three Weeks Later

If it weren’t for some asshole having blown up the World Trade Center, I wouldn’t have to be inconvenienced by checking my bags. Believe it or not, I pack economically. I consider it direct genetic conditioning from my ancestors who could only carry a few artifacts to the New World after getting raped across the ocean by the Cossacks. Nowadays, the restrictions put in place by the TSA make my well-groomed life a living nightmare. The Supreme Court should grant me a pardon. Don’t they know that I can’t be seen in public if I don’t have continual access to a gallon jug of pomade wax?

As soon as I land in LaGuardia, I switch my phone back on. Within seconds, my pocket’s vibrating. It’s Hunter. There isn’t any time; he has to be ignored. Don’t get me wrong. I haven’t stopped worrying about my most delicate Lady’s welfare for a second. But this tour is taking the piss out of me. I’m too exhausted to play sheriff and, more or less, he’s handling matters well enough on his own. The last time we spoke, he spent thirty minutes telling me about how Eli deserved to get his fingers smashed in a door after trying to play grab-ass. Good for Hunter, learning how to fend for himself. I listened to every word he had to say and hung up before we even got around to discussing me. It seems that we’re both learning. But now isn’t the time to shoot the shit. Currently, it’s of utmost importance that I locate baggage claim and catch the Town Car to my next appointment. If Hunter has something of substance to say, he’ll call back. He always does.

I follow the mass of the massive tourists to the appropriate chute. My bag has been marked with a pink ribbon bright enough to be spotted in a monsoon. All I have to do is wait for it to get spat out on the conveyer. As I do, my pocket vibrates again. This time, it’s Danny. For him, I always take the call.

“My sweet Baboo!” His voice is almost a comfort. Almost. 

As I continue to wait, I can’t stop my feet from habitually pacing. A circular pattern appears in the carpet beneath them. “Yes, dear, what is it?”

“No salutation? Someone must have left his heart in San Francisco. How was your flight?”

“Not worth it,” I reply. “I don’t know why you didn’t book me more engagements on the West Coast. Those homos have great taste. They ate me up with a spoon. Just look at my fan page. It’s exploding like a pigeon trying to digest rice.”

“Then it most certainly was worth it. Darling, once we see where we stand financially, we can always send you back by popular demand. And if you maintain this crummy attitude, the next time we may just leave you there.”

“I’m sorry,” I tell him, even though I’m not. “I don’t mean to be a cunt. What’s doing with you, baby boy?”

“Frenetic as ever. But there is news to report. I just got off the phone with my lawyers. It’s official- the estate granted me the rights I’ve been pursuing. Go on- congratulate me.” 

It’s hard to gush over something that I’ve thought was a bad idea since its inception. I try not to sound too affected when I reply. “Danny, what wonderful news! Mazel Tov. Maybe you’ll take me out to dinner tonight so we can celebrate.”

“A dinner only lasts one night. I want to make memories instead. Now that this deal is sewn up, I can take a little break. I’ve spent the afternoon researching cruises. It looks like there are still bookings available for this weekend that sail out of New York. What are your thoughts on the Bahamas?”

As I resume my pacing, I consider how fortunate I would be to sit still long enough to get a tan. However, the casino on an ocean liner is too big a gamble for my present constitution. “Danny, my body is so out of whack that I haven’t made big potty in a week. With all this jet setting, I can understand why Amelia Earhart bumped herself off. A cruise sounds lovely and I appreciate the offer, but my feet need a minute on solid ground. Speaking of which, I don’t see a driver waiting. Did you not hire me a car?”

“It will be much easier on all of us for you to take a cab. Tell the driver to take you to the Visitor’s Center in Times Square. That’s where Seth Rudetsky records his show for XM.”

“Fine,” I say, lamenting how my Town Car privileges have been unceremoniously revoked. “What’s on my schedule after the interview?”

“You don’t pick up again until Gay Pride in three weeks. That is, unless you take me up on my offer to let me fuck you on a boat so I can see if we make waves.”