Music from Another World

by Robin Talley

  Tammy looked at me with quizzical eyes. I turned away.

  She feels guilty. She feels sorry for me.

  She has a perfect, happy life in the Mission, and I’m the same boring, sheltered girl I’ve always been down in District Eight. It would be selfish of me to interfere with all the great things that are happening for her by trying to drag her back into my messy world.

  Tammy’s moved on. I’ve got to do the same thing.

  We climbed onto the bus in silence. As soon as we were crammed into our spots on the floor again, I shoved the letter into the bottom of my backpack, crumpling it up into a ball. Twenty minutes later, when Tammy’s eyes drifted closed, I took my diary back out so I could write this down.

  We’re getting close now, though. People are starting to wake up, and Tammy’s stirring, too. I’ll try to write more later.

  Yours, Sharon

  Friday, September 22, 1978

  Dear Diary,

  Oh, my God. Oh, my God. What a day this was.

  It first got intense during the demonstration this afternoon.

  “VOTE NO ON PROPOSITION 6!” I shouted, waving the sign over my head at the cars passing by. “SUPPORT HUMAN RIGHTS FOR ALL!”

  Our group had packed the narrow sidewalk. Behind us stood the high-school gym where Harvey was getting ready to debate Senator Briggs, and across the street was a bored-looking photographer from the local paper. He’d snapped a few pictures of us before lowering his camera and lighting a cigarette.

  Evelyn was annoyed that he was staying so far back, but I didn’t mind. I knew getting covered in the press was part of changing hearts and minds, but if I was going to show up in a newspaper holding a sign that read DEFEAT THE ANTI-GAY REFERENDUM, I’d prefer that the picture be from far away.

  A passing car honked its horn, but I couldn’t tell which side the driver was on. I waved, anyway, then turned back before I could see him pass the opposite end of our block.

  There was another crop of protestors there, and they had signs, too. HOMOSEXUALITY IS A THREAT TO THE SURVIVAL OF THE UNITED STATES and A YES VOTE ON PROP 6 IS A VOTE FOR THE SANCTITY OF THE AMERICAN FAMILY and other cheery slogans. The photographer had snapped plenty of pictures of them already.

  “The debate starts in thirty minutes,” Evelyn called from behind us. She’d been running back and forth all afternoon between our group of demonstrators and the makeshift campaign headquarters we’d set up by the bus. “Harvey wants everyone inside in fifteen.”

  “Got it,” Tammy called back. She was standing next to me, holding a sign she’d made. It read WE ARE YOUR CHILDREN on one side, and on the other, she’d painted two overlapping blue-and-purple women symbols. “Is he coming out for the cameras?”

  “No.” Evelyn wound through the group toward us, passing out glass bottles of soda along the way. Behind us, people were starting to come up the walk toward the gym. Regular people, here for the debate. I wondered if they were with us or against us. “He’s in with the students. A dozen stayed after school to talk to him in the library, and the music teacher, too.”

  I wondered if I’d have the nerve to stay after school and meet Harvey Milk in the library. Not that it mattered, since my school would never let him inside in the first place.

  I do hope I’d have the nerve, though.

  “Well, if he’s not coming, we have to do something to get the press’s attention,” Tammy muttered. “The story’s going to be all about the other side.”

  I saw what she meant. The photographer had crossed to the opposite end of the lawn again, and now he was snapping photos of a scowling middle-aged woman in a blue floral dress, holding a sign that said MY CHILDREN HAVE THE RIGHT TO GROW UP IN A DECENT COMMUNITY! YES ON 6!

  Next to the photographer, another man was leaning in to talk to the woman, scribbling on a notepad. We couldn’t hear them from this distance, but I’m sure she was giving that reporter lots of quotes about decency, and how we didn’t know anything about it. He hadn’t come over to talk to our side yet.

  “I have an idea,” I said as the photographer glanced up, looking around for his next shot. I bit my bottom lip and waved to get his attention. When I caught his eye, I took Tammy’s hand.

  She drew in a quick, sharp breath, but she caught on fast. She threaded her fingers through mine as the photographer bounded toward us, the reporter close behind him.

  The lens zoomed in, and I clung to Tammy’s hand that much tighter, lifting my sign so it would be easy to read. If these pictures showed up in any of the San Francisco papers, I didn’t want to think about what my mom would say, let alone the nuns at school, but I ordered myself to let go of the fear.

  Tammy squeezed my hand. I squeezed back—and that was when I realized I didn’t have to be afraid. It had gotten to be a habit, but it was one I could break. Especially with her beside me.

  I lifted my chin boldly and looked straight at the camera. I squeezed her hand again, and it felt glorious.

  The photographer snapped away, his lens focused right on Tammy and me, as Lisa stepped forward and smoothly introduced herself to the reporter. He asked her why we were demonstrating and she recited the talking points against Prop 6 with poise and precision, telling him about human rights and the First Amendment and how Briggs’s initiative would cost thousands of taxpayer dollars that should be spent on textbooks and school supplies instead.

  I tried to make sure my face looked serious for the photos, as if I was thinking hard about the First Amendment, instead of being wholly absorbed in the sensation of holding Tammy’s hand.

  When the photographer finally moved on to get some shots of Leonard and Dean, I exhaled. I thought I’d be relieved, but to my surprise, I was exhilarated.

  “Well done, you two.” Alex grinned. “Way to play to the press.”

  “That was brilliant, Sharon.” Tammy beamed at me. She hadn’t let go of my hand. “You’re a genius. Did you see that lady’s face when the reporter walked away from her? She probably—”

  When Tammy pointed back to the other group of protestors, her smile faded. She jerked her hand away from mine so hard it hurt.

  “That’s—” Tammy stammered, her breath coming fast. “It’s Carolyn.”

  “What?”

  Then I saw her, too.

  A girl about our age was walking through the group of pro-Prop 6 demonstrators. She had long red hair styled in soft Farrah Fawcett-Majors curls, and she was wearing a yellow wrap dress that probably cost more than our VW bus. She couldn’t have looked more different from Tammy and me in our protest T-shirts and jeans.

  “What’s she doing here?” I whispered. Suddenly, the distance between their group and ours didn’t seem so wide.

  “No idea. But there’s no chance she’s here alone.”

  Tammy was right. A new group of people was filing in among the protestors down the lawn. A mix of teenagers and adults, all dressed in Sunday school linen and lace, passing out pamphlets and brochures.

  “There’s Carolyn’s mother,” Tammy muttered. “And Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch from the church board, and... God, half my church is here. Oh, shit—that’s my sister. And my other sister, and my nephew. There’s Uncle Russell, and...oh, damn it, Sharon, that’s my mom...”

  It wasn’t hard to pick them out of the group. Behind a tall, wide older man who carried himself as though he was by far the most important person here, there was a cluster of blond women, two of them holding babies. A little blond kid toddled along behind them.

  And emerging from the back of the group was Aunt Mandy, strolling toward the school in a Chanel suit and heels, her lipstick painted in such a perfectly straight line it must’ve been gearing up to cut someone.

  “They haven’t seen us.” I turned back to Tammy, but she’d already gone sheet-white. My heart was pounding fast, too, but I had to stay calm. This time, I had to help her. “Move to the
back of the group. You can slip away to the bus once you’re out of sight. They won’t ever have to know you were here.”

  Tammy didn’t move. She didn’t even blink.

  I turned back to the group. Aunt Mandy was striding as quickly as ever, but she’d veered off from her original course.

  She was coming our way.

  “Holy shit.” Peter pushed through the others until he was at our side. “Isn’t that your aunt, Tammy?”

  “Is it?” Alex leaned in. “God, she looks worse than you said. I’m going to go get it, in case...” Alex disappeared before I could figure out what she was talking about.

  “Come on.” I stepped in front of Tammy, trying to block Aunt Mandy’s view. “We’ve got to hide you—”

  “Pardon me, sir.” Aunt Mandy’s simpering voice was just a few feet away, and the sound of it brought my fear racing back. She was talking to the reporter, but we might as well have been in my living room all over again, with Aunt Mandy pouring poison in my mother’s ear.

  If it was that hard for me to hear her voice, I could only guess how Tammy felt.

  “I want to introduce myself,” she was saying. “I’m Mrs. Amanda Dale, wife of the Reverend Russell Dale from New Way Baptist Church in Ocean Valley. I wanted to let you know that my husband and I are available for interviews to offer up the Christian viewpoint on the militant homosexual element assembled here.”

  The reporter replied in a low voice I couldn’t make out. Aunt Mandy clearly hadn’t seen Tammy yet, but the distance between them was far too short, and Tammy’s cheeks were pale.

  Maybe she was in shock. Maybe I should push her to the back of the group.

  I glanced at Peter, trying to silently ask his opinion, but before I could do anything Tammy darted past me. The reporter was still talking, but Aunt Mandy’s eyes flicked over in our direction.

  Just as the reporter turned to the photographer, Tammy stepped out into full view. Aunt Mandy’s eyes widened, her lips narrowing.

  The rest of our group went quiet. I didn’t hear the pro-Prop 6 protesters making much noise, either. Until—

  “Tammy?” The voice came across a distance, but the word was clear. Carolyn sounded as if she’d just seen someone climb out of a grave. “Is that you? What happened to your hair?”

  Tammy glanced in Carolyn’s direction, then looked away fast. Her gaze landed on the group of blond women, and I caught the moment she made eye contact with her mother for the first time.

  Mrs. Larson held Tammy’s gaze. She looked scared, disappointed, and remorseful, all at the same time. It wasn’t all that different from the way my own mother looked at me this morning.

  That woman at Gay Freedom Day, with the I LOVE MY GAY SON sign—could she possibly be real? Are there mothers like that? Or is that only a fairy tale kids like us want to believe?

  “Tammy.” Aunt Mandy abandoned the reporter—who as far as I could tell wasn’t that interested in talking to her, anyway—and charged toward us, that sick smile sliding onto her face. She swept her gaze right past Peter and me, as though we were insects she didn’t need to bother stepping on. “I hope you aren’t here to cause trouble for your mother.”

  Tammy stared, her breath coming in heaves. Aunt Mandy glanced around, as though realizing for the first time that the rest of us could hear her, too.

  “You know, your uncle and I never stopped praying for your salvation.” Her smile widened. She and Tammy were the same height, but only because Aunt Mandy was wearing heels. “It may not be too late for you to accept God’s love.”

  “What’s going on?” The new voice sounded jarringly similar to Tammy’s. It was her mother, hurrying up to stand beside Carolyn. The younger blond women—Tammy’s sisters—were following behind her. “Tammy? You...you’re here?”

  “Mom.” Tammy’s voice was a tiny squeak. Her lip trembled, her eyes softening.

  “You ran away. We didn’t know—We didn’t mean to—After what happened, we...”

  Mrs. Larson trailed off, and Tammy shook her head. I don’t think she could’ve spoken if she’d wanted to.

  “I must say...” Aunt Mandy’s voice rose up, sensing her advantage in Tammy’s paralysis. “Your friends here, these avowed sinners—” she glanced at me again for the briefest of seconds, and my fists clenched at my sides “—they’re weak. It’s sad, really. They’re selfish, focusing solely on pleasure, because they don’t understand the sacrifices we Christians have made. But you know better, Tammy.”

  “Yeah, well, if you want, we can pray for your salvation next. If you think God’ll listen to a bunch of avowed sinners, I mean.”

  Everyone froze. Peter turned toward me, slowly.

  It took me a long moment to realize I’d said that out loud.

  I bit my lip. They were all looking at me now.

  Tammy. Her mom. Aunt Mandy. My friends behind me. The reporter and photographer were watching, too.

  I lifted my chin.

  “You’re the one who’s selfish.” I locked my gaze on Aunt Mandy. Her smile twitched. “We’re out here because we believe we have the right to fall in love. You’re here because you hate people who are different from you. Who do you think God would agree with?”

  “Young lady, don’t you dare speak His holy name,” Aunt Mandy hissed. “You’re talking about things you don’t understand—”

  I cut her off.

  “Your gay niece understands love a lot better than you ever have.” I raised my voice for the whole group to hear as the reporter scribbled on his pad. The camera clicked, then clicked again. “You’re nothing but a bully. You want to talk about sacrifice? How about all the people here who’ve been cast out by their families because of who they are? You think you’re the one who’s given something up?”

  Aunt Mandy stared at me. For once, she seemed to be at a loss for words.

  In the stunned silence, Alex tapped Tammy on the shoulder. She was carefully balancing a very large object in her arms. “Hey, I brought—Do you want...?”

  Alex was holding a collage. An enormous one, at least three feet across. The background was a massive black-and-white photo, a shadowy image of neat cursive handwriting on thin black lines.

  It was the check register, blown up twenty times its actual size. In the foreground, set against the photo, was a drawing of a woman with perfectly coiffed hair and immaculately straight red lipstick. Her head was tipped back with laughter, and she held a pitchfork in her hand. The drawing was outlined in thin, precise lines, leaving her image transparent, so the handwriting behind her came through.

  The drawing was of Mrs. Amanda Dale. That would’ve been obvious even if she weren’t standing right next to it, but now the whole crowd was looking back and forth between the collage and Aunt Mandy, making the connection.

  The line at the top of the blown-up check register read New Way Protect Our Children Fund, and below it were handwritten entries showing payment after payment. Posh Hair Lounge and Ocean Valley Golf Club were right at the top. Half a dozen lines down were five payments to K-ROY Los Angeles.

  Cut-out words were pasted across the image, too, the same way Tammy had used them in the collage on my bedroom wall. Another poem, sort of. I picked out SINNER and LIAR and GREED, but the one that appeared most was HYPOCRITE. It popped up in at least three different places. Running sideways up a pitchfork tine was another set of pasted-on words: THOU SHALT NOT STEAL.

  “Thanks, Alex.” Tammy took the collage from her and smiled at me. “And thank you, too.”

  Then she turned around and lifted the collage, waving to the pro-Prop 6 protesters hovering on their end of the school lawn.

  “Hey!” Tammy shouted. “If you ever donated to the New Way Protect Our Children Fund, come see what your pastor and his wife have been doing with your money!”

  For a second, I thought Aunt Mandy was going to snatch the co
llage out of Tammy’s hand, but she didn’t move. Maybe she already knew she’d lost.

  Carolyn’s mom was the first to approach us. At first I thought she was coming to yell at Tammy, but instead she peered forward, studying the collage.

  “What’s that?” Tammy’s mother leaned forward, too.

  “Your daughter’s a very lost child...” Aunt Mandy said, but now Mr. and Mrs. Murdoch from their church were stepping forward, too.

  “Could you tell me what this is all about, miss?” the reporter asked, coming up to me.

  “Tammy’s the one you need to talk to,” I told him. “Here, I’ll hold this.”

  Peter stepped up, too, and he and I each held one end of the collage so the church members could read it for themselves while Tammy told the reporter all about the check register, promising to send him the original copies she’d kept back in San Francisco. While they talked, Mr. Murdoch went up to Aunt Mandy and said something I couldn’t understand. It was clear he was furious.

  I couldn’t believe it. Tammy might have actually won.

  The reporter went over to Aunt Mandy and Mr. Murdoch, which was sure to be an interesting conversation. Tammy’s mother and her sisters went over to join them, too. The other members of their church were studying the collage as Tammy came up beside me.

  “Thank you.” She smiled, but her eyes were full of tears.

  “You’re the one who made this happen.” I smiled back at her.

  “Not true. If you hadn’t said what you did, I’d still be standing there like a rabbit in headlights.”

  She reached out to take my hand again, even though the camera wasn’t on us anymore. I gazed down at our intertwined fingers.

  Tammy must’ve seen the surprise on my face and pulled her hand away quickly. “Sorry. I shouldn’t assume, I—”

  I reached out and grabbed her hand again.

  “All right, Sharon,” Lisa said over my left shoulder, and laughter erupted behind us. I blushed redder than I’d ever blushed before.

  “It’s time to go in,” Evelyn called. “Sit in the front row of the bleachers if you can. We can’t let the other side get all the good seats!”