MEANWHILE, BACK IN TORONTO, Charles met a chubby, cheerful French Canadian named Claude, who adored food. They fell calorically in love, and opened their own business: Double C Catering, Ltd. It sounded more like a ranch than a cottage industry, but it soon flourished into a booming business, especially in catering corporate functions. Charles calls me once a month, and we talk like old, old friends, which one day we may become.
THE HAPPIEST ENDING OF ALL, as far as I was concerned, was the unconventional one. To have grown up on novels celebrating marriage as women’s ultimate achievement caused me to smile as I thought how pleased I was that Jennifer was not going to marry Douglas. Whatever their respective destinies, they were both better off alone searching for the pot of fool’s gold at the end of the neon rainbow. Regardless of my own satisfaction at the turn of events, I still had to tread softly with Mother, who took a few days to absorb the full impact of the idea that there really was to be no wedding. The Sunday following the party I went to lunch.
“I had so looked forward to seeing Jennifer come down the aisle on your arm,” she began over vodka. “You in your tailcoat, she in her Regency gown, while the organ played Wagner’s march from Siegfried.”
“That’s how it goes, Mother. We’ll never get to hear the soprano soloist sing ‘I know that my Redeemer spendeth.’ “
“Now I probably won’t live to see any of my grandchildren married.” She paused for a swallow of vodka that would have shortened the life of an elephant. “I had so looked forward to seeing Jennifer married, even though I don’t have a thing to wear.”
“I know, Mother, but Jennifer came to realize that Douglas wasn’t the right man for her, fortunately before she married him. I am quite certain you wouldn’t want any of your grandchildren to marry unless you knew for certain they would be as happy as you were with Father.”
“You know, dear, you’re absolutely right.” She brightened perceptibly. “Nobody could have had a happier marriage than Craig and I. Poor Craig.”
I knew I was shamelessly manipulating Mother’s memory, but I thought the end justified the means. She and Father had undergone the marriage of their generation, a chaste courtship followed by the compromises of conjugal life: two children followed in time by two bedrooms, a courteous, almost formal relationship, with no real intimacy at the core. But it was their marriage, and it would never have occurred to either of them not to see it through to the end.
After Father died, Mother slid gently into drink and nostalgia. Glimpsing backwards through a rose-coloured telescopic lens, Mother remembers her marriage as the paragon of unions. Who am I to disabuse her of this reassuring fantasy?
She took a swallow of her drink. “Something this morning, I can’t for the life of me remember what it was, reminded me of the time Craig and I took the train to Niagara Falls. Mildred was about two, so it wasn’t a honeymoon trip, you may be sure. Did I ever tell you the story?”
“No, I don’t believe so,” I fibbed. “But before you begin, why don’t I get us both another little drink?”
“Well, perhaps a small one.”
I returned to the living room carrying two belts of vodka and settled myself for the now familiar story. I knew that Mother was never more content than when reminiscing about Father, reliving what for her had become the Golden Age, which ended the year Father died. But as she related the well-told tale, she forgot her disappointment over Jennifer’s broken engagement. What the hell! I had a fresh drink, and Madame had made tourtière for lunch.
“Didn’t you stop over in Brockville to see Cousin Celeste?” I asked.
“You’re right. I had forgotten. But, Geoffry, you must have heard this all before.”
“So long ago I’ve forgotten the details.”
“You’re right. We did stop over in Brockville to see Cousin Celeste. She came down to the station wearing the most dreadful hat you have ever seen …”
PREDICTABLY, LOIS MARRIED THE MAN, in a small private ceremony at 15 Mayfair Crescent. She came down the grand staircase on my arm, wearing knee-length café-au-lait chiffon with matching picture hat. Off the record, the wedding gown was the one she had originally intended to wear to Douglas’s wedding. Her dressmaker had pruned the skirt (hemming chiffon must be hell on earth) and added a little something to the neckline to make it a touch more demure. Lois carried a huge spray of white orchids, and I had to admit she looked splendid. I looked pretty good myself, as Lois had asked me to wear my thrift-shop morning coat. Fortunately, my grey hair and deep lines prevented me from looking like a chorus boy in a 1930s musical comedy.
In Fifteen Steps to a Lovelier Wedding, Amelia Gates says the keynote of a second ceremony must be simplicity. Lois decided against potted palms and a striped awning, and compromised on baskets of long-stemmed white roses on each of the steps leading down from the landing. We paused briefly on the landing, just long enough for the guests to admire her legs, then came slowly down the stairs, carefully avoiding the roses, which were to be delivered after the ceremony to a palliative care hospital. For some mysterious reason the terminally ill are supposed to love fresh flowers.
The groom wore a double-breasted blazer and flannels, no doubt because a blue suit was too reminiscent of the chauffeur’s livery. He had turned out to be quiet, courteous, and dazzling when he smiled, an expression I had not heretofore seen. He was full of apologies for his hostile behaviour, and arranged for me to be reimbursed for the ruined tire.
And who should be standing in as best man but Patrick, carrying the wedding ring Douglas had designed. When it came to assembling the cast for the small ceremony, it turned out that Daniel Sanchez had no Canadian friends. Working as an undercover agent does not lead to male bonding. Even Officer Reynolds was in Winnipeg on a case, and Lois did not want Douglas, the ambivalent stepson, standing in as best man. (By apparent mutual consent, Douglas and I avoided each other during the reception. I may not wear my heart on my sleeve, but I have been known to carry my spleen on my shoulder. He picked up the unspoken message and kept his distance.)
I volunteered Patrick, knowing he would be happy to undertake the job if only for the wedding meal to follow, another buffet, this one featuring king crab and oysters, mercifully disengaged from their shells. By prior agreement, I toasted the bride.
“To Lois, who learned there is more to Columbia than coffee, and to Daniel, who found his good luck in mukluks. May they drive happily into the future.”
It was pretty corny, but I had popped a couple of Glenlivets before the ceremony, “a couple” meaning quite a few. Drinking and toasting don’t mix.
There remains to explain why I had presumed to volunteer Patrick as best man. The wedding took place on a Saturday afternoon, and Patrick and I were now spending weekends together.
Let me return to the night of the engagement party. After dozing off in my chair, I awoke just long enough to pop a couple of aspirins and stumble into bed. I slept until after ten the next morning, late for me. I felt a good deal better than I had any right to feel, although I was fully aware that last night had taken place. Coffee helped to get me going. I thought of going out for the Sunday papers, but the idea of all that snow made me stay put and risk an attack of news withdrawal.
I was just about to mix a Bloody Mary, only to take the taste of toothpaste out of my mouth, when the phone rang.
“Geoffry, it’s Patrick, a.k.a. Inspector Clouseau. We have a little business to transact. May I come over?”
“If you hurry you’ll be in time for the first Bloody Mary. Do you have any tomato juice on the premises?”
“Shall I bring it along?”
“Please, on the double.”
“Fifteen minutes or so, depends on the snow.”
Seventeen minutes and some seconds later the porter rang up. I gave the requisite clearance and opened the door of my apartment. Patrick stepped off the elevator heavily burdened. In one hand he carried a shopping bag, in the other an irregularly shaped package which could have been flower
s, had I not known better. After that true north ritual of peeling off gloves, pulling off boots, tucking the scarf into the sleeve of the overcoat, and blowing his nose, he crossed to the coffee table on which he laid the large package and a red plush box in the shape of a heart he had taken from the shopping bag.
“Candy and flowers for the host.”
“La, sir, I’m all pretty confusion.” I tore off the protective paper to discover the oddest-looking roses I had ever seen. It took me a minute to realize they were plastic.
“I’m sorry they’re a bit dusty,” he apologized, “but they’ve been in my basement locker for some months now, waiting for the right person. Unfortunately, my dishwasher is on the fritz, and a dishwasher is the only way to clean plastic flowers.”
“Is that right. Live and learn.”
“Open the box.”
“It says ‘Be My Valentine,’ but we’re in March. Can I think it over and let you know next Feb. fourteen?”
“Open it.”
“Let’s have a drink first. Ah’s so dry Ah’s spittin’ cotton. Let’s forget all those harmful additives and go for straight vodka and vitamin C.”
“Sounds good.”
I returned with two tumblers and confronted the large crimson box, whose curves suggested something vaguely obscene. Teasing off the lid, I found a piece of paper torn in four. On closer inspection the pieces fitted together to form a blank invoice with the heading Patrick Fitzgerald Associates, Inc.
“I may be dense, Patrick, but I fail to make the connection.”
“It means no charge for services rendered.”
“No, no! That won’t do at all. I engaged you to uncover and to discourage the person who was bothering me. And that you have done. I insist on paying.”
“And I insist it’s on the house. After last night’s episode of the Keystone Kops I couldn’t in all conscience accept a dime. But there’s more. You are aware, I am sure, of the significance of candy and flowers?”
“A courting gesture?”
“Correct. I make it a strict rule to keep relations with clients purely professional. But as of now you are no longer a client.”
“What am I, then?”
“I think the rest of the day will answer that.”
“God almighty! Now I’m being hassled by the detective.” But my flip remark could not stifle the surge of euphoria that swept through me like a powerful drug. “Do you want to finish your drink first?”
“Not really.”
“This way for a good time,” I called over my shoulder as I walked into the bedroom, “although I have to confess it’s so long since I’ve had sex I’ve forgotten who gets tied up.”
Turning back the covers, I found myself laughing out loud. Candy and flowers: a hideous valentine box and ghastly plastic roses, their awful tastelessness the result of far more thought and consideration than mere hothouse flowers and designer chocolates. And I found myself oddly, unexpectedly touched. Candy and flowers indeed!
But isn’t it true that love makes the world go square.
About ReQueered Tales
In the heady days of the late 1960s, when young people in many western countries were in the streets protesting for a new, more inclusive world, some of us were in libraries, coffee shops, communes, retreats, bedrooms and dens plotting something even more startling: literature – high brow and pulp – for an explicitly gay audience. Specifically, we were craving to see our gay lives – in the closet, in the open, in bars, in dire straits and in love – reflected in mystery stories, romance, paranormal and more. Hercule Poirot, that engaging effete Belgian creation of Agatha Christie might have been gay … Sherlock Holmes, to all intents and purposes, was one woman shy of gay ... but where were the genuine gay sleuths, where the reader need not read between the lines?
Beginning with Victor J Banis’s “Man from C.A.M.P.” pulps in the mid-60s – riotous romps spoofing the craze for James Bond spies – readers were suddenly being offered George Baxt’s Pharoah Love, a black gay New York City detective, and a real turning point in Joseph Hansen’s gay California insurance investigator, Dave Brandstetter, whose world weary Raymond Chandleresque adventures sold strongly and have never been out of print.
Over the next three decades, gay storytelling grew strongly in niche and mainstream publishing ventures. Even with the huge public crisis – as AIDS descended on the gay community beginning in the early 1980s – gay fiction flourished. Stonewall Inn, Alyson Publications, and others nurtured authors and readers … until mainstream success seemed to come to a halt. While Lambda Literary Foundation had started to recognize work in annual awards about 1990, mainstream publishers began to have cold feet. And then, with the rise of ebooks in the new millennium which enabled a new self-publishing industry … there was both an avalanche of new talent coming to market and burying of print authors who did not cross the divide.
The result?
Perhaps forty years of gay fiction – and notably gay and lesbian mystery, detective and suspense fiction – has been teetering on the brink of obscurity. Orphaned works, orphaned authors, many living and some having passed away – with no one to make the case for their creations to be returned to print (and e-print!).
Until now. That is the mission of ReQueered Tales: to bring back to circulation this treasure trove of fantastic fiction which, for one reason or another, has fallen by the wayside. In an era of ebooks, everything of value ought to be accessible. For a new generation of readers, these mystery tales are full of insights into the gay world of the 1960s, ’70s, ’80s and ’90s. And for those of us who lived through the period, they are a delightful reminder of our youth and reflect some of our own struggles in growing up gay in those heady times.
We are honored, here at ReQueered Tales, to be custodians shepherding back into circulation some of the best gay and lesbian fiction writing and hope to bring many volumes to the public, in modestly priced, accessible editions, worldwide, over the coming months and years.
So please join us on this adventure of discovery and rediscovery of the rich talents of writers of recent years as the PIs, cops and amateur sleuths battle forces of evil with fierceness, humor and sometimes a pinch of love.
The ReQueered Tales Team
Justene Adamec • Alexander Inglis • Matt Lubbers-Moore
More from ReQueered Tales
COMING SOON ...
Like People In History by Felice Picano
In a book that could have been written only by one who lived it and survived to tell, Picano weaves a powerful saga of four decades in the lives of two men and their lovers, relatives, friends, and enemies. Tragic, comic, sexy, and romantic, filled with varied and colorful characters, Like People in History is both extraordinarily moving and supremely entertaining.
First published to acclaim in 1995, winner of the Ferro-Grumley Award for Best Novel, Gay Times Best Novel of the Year and Finalist for Lambda Literary Award Best Gay Fiction, this 25th Anniversary edition for 2020 features a new foreword by Richard “Bugs” Burnett and an afterword by the author.
In The Game by Nikki Baker
Ginny and Bev. Always there for each other – friends since business school, where their black faces were lost in a sea of white. As Ginny observes, “Lovers don’t last, but friends can be forever.” Now Bev is in trouble.
In the Game is sharp, funny, and on the mark – the auspicious debut of a Black writer who brings us a fresh perspective on today’s diverse lesbian community. First published to acclaim in 1991, this new edition features a 2020 foreword by the author.
Mountain Climbing in Sheridan Square by Stan Leventhal
A series of discrete episodes among friends provide snapshots of one gay man's life. There are parties, concerts, dinners with every day life – and death – interwoven in the rich story-telling. An actress, a painter, a set designer, a wrtier – all sweating and surviving in Manhattan, all scoring their first successes. Part autobiography and part documentary, artfully written, it
details the lives of these creative people. Young and professional, they know there is more to life than money. There is trust and the sort of love that trades in deeds of kindness.
Leventhal's debut novel was welcomed warmly garnering a Lambda Literary Awards Finalist in 1988, this new edition features a 2020 foreword by Christopher Bram.
Murder and Mayhem by Matt Lubbers-Moore
An Annotated Bibliography of Gay and Queer Males in Mystery, 1909-2018. This bibliography set out to identify mystery novels that include a gay or queer male in whatever role the author assigned him. The project began after an interview with Drewey Wayne Gunn who had suggested an open source website to accumulate gay mysteries. This required a deep dive into Gunn's own bibliography about gay male sleuths, Anthony Slide's bibliography of gay and lesbians in mystery novels, Curtis Evans essays on gay and lesbians in mystery novels pre-Stonewall, and Ian Young's non-annotated bibliography of gay men in literature. Gunn's bibliography was the latest published in 2012. The hunt was on to extend a bibliography into 2018: searching publisher websites, Goodreads, Amazon, Facebook groups, Instagram hashtags, Twitter hashtags, and following many different authors.
An Original ReQueered Tales publication, this 2020 edition contains a bonus story by Arthur Conan Doyle.
Series Mystery
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