When You Don't See Me (19 page)

“Y
ou know, this place wouldn't be so bad if you guys hadn't turned it into tent city,” Fred said. He cleared a place on the futon so he could sit down. When he moved stuff around, I caught a faint scent of soap and aftershave from Roberto's clothes. It was one of my comfort smells, even more than freshly brewed tea. Or Isleta and Emily after their baths. Probably a scent that evoked childhood wasn't all that comforting, in my case.

It struck me that I no longer noticed the things that had once bothered me about my apartment. The cramped space. The lack of privacy. The noisy fat guy upstairs. Morgan's snakes.

Fred watched while I tried to decide between two T-shirts. One had
Marvin the Martian
on it. The other had a publicity photo of my uncle-in-law, Daniel, with Tina Yothers at a fund-raiser called Bottle Blondes Benefit HIV/AIDS.

“Strange,” Fred said, staring at the second T-shirt. “On our TV set, she looked like a redhead on
Family Ties.
And now her hair's black.”

“It was meant to be ironic,” I said. “They're both natural blondes. Should I wear Marvin?”

“It'll make you look more like a kid,” Fred warned. “You don't want to go back to jail.”

“I was never in jail,” I said, pulling the Blondes T-shirt over my head. “Anyway, we're going to Club Chaos. We know the owner. Plus I won't be drinking.”

“You quit drinking?”

“You make it sound like I had to go through rehab.”

“At least you only
wear
Tina. Where's Roberto?”

“He'll meet us there. He had to set up a display after Drayden's closed.”

“Anything exciting happened at work lately?”

“What's with all the questions? Am I being interviewed?”

“Touchy. Must be the hormone shots.”

“You take hormone shots?” Kendra asked as she parted the sheets and joined us.

“So much for privacy,” Fred said.

“No. I take wolfsbane injections,” I said. “To protect me from Morgan when the moon is full.”

“I heard that,” Morgan said from the kitchen. She didn't sound miffed, though. Maybe, after seven months, she'd also become indifferent to annoying things about our apartment. Things like me and any other human who breathed her air.

“You should have gotten the soundproof sheets,” Fred said.

Kendra turned her back to me so I could lace her up. “This dress is hot,” I said.

“There's not a lot to it, though, so I figure I won't get too sweaty—”

“No, I mean
hot.
Sexy.”

“Thanks.” She sounded surprised, and it occurred to me how rarely she got a compliment from any of us. “I bought it a couple of years ago when I went to a party for Hugh Jackman.”

“Speaking of things wolflike,” I said. I pitied Fred for the expectant expression on his face. He hadn't learned that it was pointless to wait for Kendra's rest-of-the-story.

“And?” Fred finally asked.

“I don't know which shoes to wear with it,” Kendra said.

Adalla arrived sporting lots of hair and makeup. She went immediately to the kitchen to talk to Morgan. Kendra tried to eavesdrop, but they kept their voices low.

“Maybe they're lovers,” Fred whispered.

“I think they're witches,” Kendra said. When she saw my frown, she said, “I mean real witches. Like casting spells or cursing people.”

“If Morgan knew witchcraft, she'd have turned us all into toads long ago,” I said.

“Snake food,” Fred said.

I brushed my hair back with my fingers, put in another earring, threw a leather blazer over my T-shirt, and declared myself ready. Kendra still had to agonize over her shoes. Then we walked two blocks before hailing a cab so Fred could smoke a cigarette. He slid in next to the driver, and the girls and I had to sweat it out in back. Adalla whipped out a man's handkerchief and blotted her face. Kendra shifted uneasily between us and scratched at the laces on her leather dress.

“Where's this place we're going?” Kendra asked.

“Club Chaos,” Fred said. “They put on the best drag show in town.”

“I remember the first time Blythe took me,” I said. “I didn't act impressed enough. She then took me to several bad shows in other bars and clubs so I could understand the difference.”

“What's the difference?” Adalla asked. “If you've seen one cock in a frock—”

“Not true,” I said. “It's not just about a wig, dress, makeup, and a bitchy attitude. The performers at Club Chaos really get into their stage personas. Some of them lip-synch, but most of them dance and sing their own stuff.”

“And the stage patter is good,” Fred said. “They're funny.”

I didn't mention that Daniel and Martin had once performed at Club Chaos, long before their careers in television and theater took off. There were photos of them in drag in the lobby of the club. Daniel's sequined attitude surfaced now and again, especially when he was in a bad mood. But sometimes when he was affectionate, too. Blaine pretended to ignore us when we called each other Nicole and Danielle, but I thought he secretly liked it. Daniel had been known to tell Blaine to pull the stick out of his ass. Daniel was the only person I knew who was never intimidated by my uncle.

While Fred described some of the performers, I thought about the club's owner, Andy Vanedesen. Aunt Gretchen had been one of his best friends. He'd fainted at her memorial service. The rest of us had held our breath, expecting Daniel and Martin to jump on him for the drama. But Daniel propped him up. Martin borrowed an oriental fan from another of their friends and waved it furiously in front of Andy's face.

When someone offered him a cane in case he felt wobbly again, Andy pushed Martin's hand away and said, “Stop it. I just got a little
light-headed.
I'm
not
an old lady.”

“You're right,” Daniel said. “Nobody would ever call you a lady.”

I'd once heard someone say that Andy was a silly old queen, but I thought he was sweet. After Gretchen's service, I'd caught him sobbing into a dish towel in the pantry downstairs. Normally something like that would have sent me running in the other direction. Instead, I sat with him until he felt better. I almost envied him for being able to cry so hard.

Two years later, I still envied him. I looked down the avenue at the twin columns of light pointing skyward. I was glad Daniel and Blaine were in Spain. And I'd been relieved when my uncle told me that Kruger and Gwendy had taken Emily to spend a few days with Gwendy's family in Wisconsin.

“Wow,” Adalla said. “When you get closer, you can see that it's not just two lights.”

“It's over eighty, I think,” Fred said.

“Do any of you ever go to Ground Zero?” Kendra asked.

“Nobody calls it that but journalists and politicians,” I said.

“I went once,” Fred said.

“Not me,” Adalla said. She seemed mesmerized by the lights. “How many nights will they be lit up?”

“They'll turn them off at dawn,” I said. “Until next year.” When Adalla opened her mouth, I headed off what I was sure would be a suggestion that we go there. “The lights aren't set up at the World Trade Center site.”

“Where are they?”

“Battery Park.”

“I love the Village,” Kendra said as she watched a group of people cross the street. “I wish we lived here instead of Harlem.”

Adalla gave me one of her Kendra's-a-snob looks, but I pretended not to see it.

Andy himself hurried across the lobby to greet us when we went inside the club. He air-kissed me, bussed Fred on the cheek, and wiggled his fingers at the girls.

“Your friend is upstairs in Cybeeria with his date,” Andy said. “He said you'd all wait there before the second show.”

“Roberto has a date?” Kendra asked with a pouty look.

“He means Isaiah,” I explained as we took the stairs to the club's cyberbar. “Roberto may not make it before the show starts.”

We were still sitting upstairs when Andy joined us with a bottle of champagne. His eyes did a quick scan of the table to determine who was drinking alcohol. He'd probably heard about the night I got in trouble at Cutter's, something I would apparently never live down. Kendra, Adalla, Isaiah, and his date had drinks, but they were all legal. I'd been surprised that Fred hadn't ordered a martini. My stomach had been floopy all day, so I was sticking to water with slices of lemon.

“Just a little taste for each of you,” Andy said, motioning for a waiter to bring glasses. He sat down at the table with us. “Tell me who's who?”

“You know Fred,” I said. “Kendra's one of my roommates. Adalla's my weekend-in-the-park friend. Isaiah and I work together, and this is Isaiah's date, Luis. He's from Santo Domingo.”

Isaiah and I exchanged smiles as Andy purred over Luis, who was a striking man. Isaiah and Luis had met at church, where Luis was a tenor in the Full Gospel Gay and Lesbian Choir.

“Hi, everybody,” Melanie said as she came in and fell onto a chair. “It's so hot. It sucks the life out of me.” She waved away the champagne flute that Andy offered, looked at the hovering waiter, and said, “A glass of ice water and a Sprite, please.”

“What's the verdict?” Fred asked. “Did The Donald buy the sculpture?”

I'd always loved Melanie's bashful smile, and she flashed it now as she said, “You are looking at the proud creator of a metal sculpture that will be in some unspecified Trump office in some undisclosed Trump building.”

“Where none of us will ever be allowed to see it,” Adalla said.

“Nick and I will,” Isaiah said. “We've got friends in high places.”

“You make deliveries in high places,” Fred said.

“Or we're high when we make deliveries in places,” I said.

“I don't want to know,” Andy said. He stood, told us to enjoy the show, and spoke to other groups of patrons on his way downstairs.

“Anyway,” Melanie said, “I'm not the only one with big news. Don't you have something to share with the group?” She looked expectantly at Fred, who seemed puzzled. “Don't be modest. Dr. Mills told me about the offer.” Dr. Mills was Fred's uncle, BHSA's headmaster.

Fred's confused expression changed to discomfort, and he said, “He wasn't—that's not public knowledge yet.”

“We're not really the public, are we?” Melanie asked. “I mean, if you can't share good news with your friends…”

“What good news?” I asked.

Melanie ignored Fred's shaking head and said, “Fred got a book deal.”

“What?” I asked as everyone else at the table murmured some form of congratulations. “What do you mean, a book deal? Fred doesn't write.”

“Fred never told us that he writes, but Fred writes,” Melanie said. “He just got offered a fat advance—”

“Can we not talk about this now?” Fred asked. He absently patted the pocket that held his cigarettes. I could see he wanted nothing more than to have a smoke. I figured the only thing keeping him in his seat was worry about what Melanie might say if he left the table.

“My friend Josh Clinton has a book deal, too, for a collection of his photographs,” I said. “He's like you, all modest about it.”

“Modest,” Melanie repeated.

“But I think it's huge!” I went on. “I can't believe you, always pretending like you aren't creative. How did it happen? Did you send it to publishers, or—”

“It's his blog,” Melanie said.

I heard some tone in her voice, almost like she was mad, and I looked from her to Fred and back again. “Am I missing something?”

“Can we talk about this later?” Fred asked.

“For the past couple of years, Fred has been writing stories online. He has a Web log called baristabrew-dot-com. He writes about his job and his customers at Starbucks. Only he calls it ‘Brewbucks.' The blog is his own little blend of stories about New Yorkers, tourists, and people he knows.”

“That's great! Why didn't you tell us? I'm so proud of you.”

Melanie laughed, but it was a joyless sound. I looked around the table at everyone else. They seemed as confused as I was by Melanie's hostility and Fred's embarrassment. He'd obviously wanted to share the news in his own way at a time of his choosing. Although I didn't understand what the big mystery was, I didn't like seeing him uncomfortable.

“Congratulations, Fred,” I said, leaning over to hug him. “We'll talk about it later. We should go downstairs before somebody steals our table.”

Somewhere along the way Fred, enslaved by nicotine, faded out. He came back after we'd settled at a large round table near the stage. I smiled at him, but he still looked a little grim. Kendra leaned over and said something to him, and they traded seats. It left her next to the empty chair that Roberto would sit in if he ever showed up.