“It’s a figure of speech, meaning to live in shame and in secret, which is not a good thing.”
He seemed to ponder everything I had said. “So, men like you… us… can be ourselves outside of our homes and clubs?”
I nodded.
“And we can tell other people who aren’t… like us that we’re… like us?”
I smirked. “Unless we’re in the deep South.”
He seemed stupefied. “And a man can marry another man?”
“And a woman can marry another woman.”
He grinned at me. “I may like 2020 after all.”
“It’s not all good. Gay people can be imprisoned and executed in some countries. Here in the US, violent hate crimes against us are on the rise, and we can still be fired for being gay in over half the states.”
“I never had a problem with being fired, since I never worked.”
Ignoring him, I said, “So-called ‘religious freedom’ laws drafted by conservatives and upheld by their judges limit our rights in some states to be served in public, even in medical institutions.”
“Is that because of your dark skin?”
“No, it’s because I’m gay… a homosexual.”
Freddy cocked his head. “In my day, homosexuals were quite popular in restaurants and social clubs.”
“I’m guessing you never traveled to a red state.”
“What’s a red state?”
“Somewhere you don’t want to go if you’re gay.”
He folded his arms over his wide chest. “Look here, my boy, about what I said. Your dark skin is perfectly fine with me.”
I raised my eyes to the chandelier. “I don’t need your permission to be a person of color.”
“Neither did the singer Josephine Baker.”
“You were friends with Josephine Baker?”
Freddy nodded. “The Black Venus was popular with both gentlemen and ladies. Her motto was, ‘Live and let live, and share the living with me.’” He chortled in nostalgic recollection.
“I’ll bet the evangelicals disagreed with her.”
He shrieked. “Ah, vicious, puritanical, and humorless people! They made whoopee illegal.” He smirked. “But I caught quite a few of them sneaking the claret in the speakeasies.”
“Nowadays, many religious conservatives are closet gay yet support so-called ‘gay conversion therapy,’ which is still legal in many states.”
“You mean trying to convert someone to become a homosexual?”
I sighed. “You can’t convert anyone into a certain sexuality or gender identity. We are what we are.”
He pondered what I’d said. “I believe you’re right.”
“Gay conversion therapy tortures gay men in an unsuccessful effort to try and turn them straight… heterosexual. It often leads to self-hatred and suicide.”
“Can’t they just pretend to be heterosexual, as we did?”
“Freddy, how do you identify?” I couldn’t believe I was asking a ghost his sexual orientation.
“I identify as a man about town.” He grinned at me.
I leaned my elbows on my knees. “In 1948 a scientist named Kinsey created a scale with zero being gay… homosexual, and six as straight… heterosexual. Where would you put yourself on that scale?”
He seemed to think about it. “In public restaurants and clubs, I appear to be heterosexual. But in private, and in my heart, though my family never knew, I’ve always been homosexual.” He seemed uncomfortable. Sitting in an armchair, he motioned toward the baby grand. “Play something for me.”
Not accustomed to being ordered around, I said, “I teach my students to say please when they ask for something.”
“And they should. Spare the rod and spoil the child. Now play, won’t you?”
I gave up and headed to the baby grand. After sitting on the bench, I played “Embraceable You.”
When I finished, Freddy applauded, joining me at the baby grand. “Andre, you play beautifully. Almost as well as Oscar Levant.” He giggled. “Poor Oscar was incredibly jealous when Jacob wrote that song for me.”
I cocked my head. “Jacob?”
“That’s George Gershwin’s real name.”
“And he wrote ‘Embraceable You’ for you!”
He nodded. “In 1928. Jacob and I looked dashing in our tuxedos at Oscar’s soirée. You see, Oscar and Jacob were an item of sorts at the time. When Jacob and I danced together in Oscar’s ballroom, poor Oscar became insanely jealous.”
“But you said a jealous husband shot you.”
“And he did.” Freddy chuckled. “Oscar didn’t have the guts, my boy.”
I tried to sort out Freddy’s remarkable claims. “You also said Cole Porter wrote ‘Night and Day’ for you.”
“Which drove choreographer and dancer Nelson Barclift absolutely batty. In his box at the theater, poor James told me I was the bee’s knees, which sent Barclift into a rage.”
“But Barclift didn’t shoot you.”
“Good heavens, no. I’d have overpowered him easily enough. Play another tune for me, will you?”
Frustrated with my query, I selected “Puttin’ on the Ritz.”
After the last note, Freddy clapped wildly. “Well done, Andre! Israel would certainly approve.”
“Israel?”
“Irving Berlin.”
“I know… he wrote that song for you.”
Freddy sat next to me on the piano bench. “In 1929. Irving played it for the first time at a ball thrown by the architect Addison Mizner. When Israel announced that I was his inspiration for the song, had Addison not built the house himself, he would have thrown me through a wall.”
I exhaled deeply. “Because Mizner was with Irving Berlin?”
“Now you’re in the trolley.”
“But Mizner didn’t shoot you.”
“Of course not. Addison wouldn’t know how to handle a gun. Look here, Andre, if this arrangement between us is going to work out, you’ll need to keep up.”
I became exasperated. “Which jealous husband shot you?”
“Can you guess?”
I wracked my brain for the names of celebrities of the period. “There was that dancer and actress flapper, Louise Brooks. Wasn’t her husband in the mob?”
He glared at me. “The Chicago crime family had bigger fish to fillet than me.”
“How about the famous designer. Was it Coco Chanel’s husband?”
He laughed wildly. “Coco wasn’t married.” He winked at me. “She was a bearcat.”
“Did the author F. Scott Fitzgerald shoot you?”
“Of course not! Scotty was a good egg, even though he was half-seas over most of the time. And Zelda! Nobody went near her. She was too depressing.”
I’d had enough. “Then who was it?”
“I’ll say only this.” His silky voice softened. “He could have been very high up in government. And while his wife and I were friends, in truth he might not have been jealous over my friendship with her. Instead, he might have been envious over my relationship with the head of the FBI.” He giggled contentedly.
I gasped. “You had an affair with J. Edgar Hoover?”
“Didn’t Eddy wish.”
I rested my hands on my head. “I’m getting a headache.”
“I have the perfect cure: tomato juice, an egg, Worcestershire sauce—”
“Freddy, stop.”
“What’s wrong, my boy?”
“What could possibly be wrong!” I stood and paced around the living room. “It isn’t every day a ghost appears in my apartment.”
“How do you think I feel?” He followed me. “I went from lord of the manor to ghost of the renter.”
“Still, here you are, my personal ghost. I’m off now for summer, but I return to school in September. What will I do with you then? What will I do with you now?”
“Look here, I’m not a pet.”
“Then there’s the fact that you seem to have been involved with every celebrity in the Roaring Twe
nties and Thirties.”
He waved me off. “They were interested in me.”
“And you’re conceited, arrogant, and you were born with a silver spoon in your mouth.”
“There is no cause for insults, especially after I’ve been so pleasant to you.”
It dawned on me. “How will I explain you to my colleagues, friends, and my aunt?” I headed for the door.
“Where are you going?”
“We need to find out if other people can see and hear you. I’ll be back soon.”
He posed at the fireplace. “While you’re gone, I’ll get reacquainted with my home.” Freddy laughed wickedly.
Chapter Three
I RACED down the hall to Victor’s apartment. After banging on his door, I realized he wasn’t there. So I hurried down the stairs in search of Aunt Nia. When I arrived on the first-floor landing, I spotted Victor and Alexander Popov standing in front of Alexander’s door. My best friend looked handsome in a light lemon hoodie and jeans. Alexander looked dignified in a gray business suit. Since I didn’t want to interrupt them, I stood in the stairwell to listen.
Victor stared down at his red sneakers. “Are you legal counsel for any Broadway shows?”
Alexander spoke into his narrow chest. “I’m afraid not. But I represent my sister’s other business outlets.” After an awkward pause, he added, “And my brother-in-law’s novels.”
Victor seemed hopeful. “Are any of them optioned for film, television, or stage?”
Alexander shook his head, and thin blond hair sliced the air around them. “But if that should ever happen, I can let you know.”
“That’s nice of you.”
“It’s easy being nice to someone who’s so nice.”
“You think I’m nice?”
Alexander nodded.
“I think you’re nice too.”
“You do?”
Victor nodded, and their eyes finally met. “As an actor, I meet a lot of people who are focused on themselves and their careers.”
“A lot of lawyers are as well.”
“But you’re different. You really listen.”
“Listening isn’t so hard.” He grinned. “If the person you’re listening to is fascinating.”
Denis Sokolov opened the door to his apartment. His thick dark hair was unkempt. “Alex, I thought I heard you out here.”
Alexander pointed to his door. “No music.” He explained to Victor, “Denis needs quiet to write his novels. So I don’t play my music while he’s writing.”
I assumed Aunt Nia was happy about that too.
“What kind of music do you like?” Victor asked Alexander.
“Show tunes. And soft rock.”
“Me too!”
Denis eyed Victor. “Who’s your friend, Alex?”
Alexander made the introductions. “Victor Martinez, 3C, meet my brother-in-law, Denis Sokolov, 1A.”
Denis gave Victor the once-over. “How long have you lived here?”
“About a year,” Victor replied.
“I write a lot. I don’t get out much.”
“Unlike my sister, who’s at a business meeting.” Alexander explained to Denis, “Alexandria had promised Victor an audition for her Broadway show. It… didn’t work out.”
Denis said with a smirk on his handsome face, “Imagine my wife going back on her word.” Then he turned to his brother-in-law. “When you’re through here, knock on my door. We need to talk.”
Alexander nodded.
After Denis nodded to Victor and disappeared into his apartment, Victor focused back on Alexander. “I noticed your brother-in-law called you Alex.”
“Short for Alexander.”
“But when I camped out… waited for your sister outside her door, he called her Alex too.”
“Alex is also short for Alexandria.” He smiled at Victor. “Well, I should talk to Denis. I hope you get cast in another show.”
“Thanks. Me too. And I hope your upcoming legal cases go well.”
“Thanks.” When Victor stood stationary, Alexander asked him, “Is there something else?”
Victor said, “No. Well, it’s just… sometimes you… wear your sister’s clothes.” He added quickly, “I think people should dress however they like. It’s all drag anyway. Or at least it’s a drag shopping and picking out clothes.” Victor swallowed hard. “I know it’s none of my business, but since we’re sort of neighbors, I—”
“I’m not trans or a drag queen or a cross-dresser.”
“What are you?” Victor blushed. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“It’s okay. I like wearing my sister’s clothing.” Alexander added, “I did it all the time as a kid. Alexandria wore my clothes too sometimes. It was fun… for both of us.”
“I have two sisters back in Florida. I love them and everything, but I’ve never worn their clothes. They would have killed me if I had touched them anyway.”
Alexander smiled. “When I wear my sister’s clothes, I feel… empowered. As if I’m headstrong and resilient—like my sister.”
Victor’s dark eyes widened. “I hope you don’t think I’m out of line talking to you about this.”
Alexander took his hand. “Actually, I think you’re sweet.”
Denis opened his door again. “Excuse me. Alex, we really need to talk.”
Alexander smiled at Victor. “I hope to see you again.”
“I hope to see you again too,” Victor replied.
Once Alexander had gone into 1A and shut the door behind him, Victor walked backward toward the landing, still staring at the door. His broad back landed against my chest and he screamed. Spinning around, he realized it was me. “Andre, are you trying to give me a panic attack?”
“I was looking for you.”
“Well, you found me. What’s up? Besides my blood pressure.”
“I need a favor.”
He covered his ears. “I’m not lugging anything else up from the basement.”
I moved his hands to his sides. “I need you to come to my apartment for a minute.” As we climbed the stairs, I said, “In the hall just now, I noticed you seemed into Alexander Popov. He seemed into you too.”
He laughed too heartily. “Andre, I barely know the guy.”
I needled him. “But do you like him?”
“Are we kids in your class at school?”
“Stop evading my question.”
“Yes, he’s gorgeous, kind, friendly. And a successful lawyer. What’s not to like?”
“The dressing like his sister thing doesn’t bother you?”
“Of course not. People should wear whatever makes them happy.”
I couldn’t resist. “Does Alexander make you happy?”
He pushed me away.
As we arrived at my apartment, I remembered the reason I sought out Victor. I slowly opened the door and led him inside. As Victor and I stood in the entryway, Freddy watched us—standing in front of the balcony. I cleared my throat. “Victor, are we alone in my apartment?”
He cocked his head at me. “Is that a trick question?”
“Please, answer me. Are you and I the only people in my living room?”
“It’s not your apartment or your living room,” Freddy said. “It’s my sitting room.”
I glared at Freddy. “It is my apartment.”
“Of course it’s your apartment.” Victor glanced around. “But something looks different.” He made his way into the room. “Your statues… and the mural are gone. So are the throw pillows on the chaise.” He gasped. “Were you robbed?”
I marched over to Freddy. “Where did you put them?”
Victor replied, “I didn’t take them. What would I want with your statues, mural, and throw pillows?”
Freddy raised his chin at me. “As I told you, they don’t belong here.”
“Freddy, put those things back now!”
“Who’s Freddy?”
I realized Victor couldn’t see him. “Uh… um… I didn
’t say ‘Freddy.’ I said, ‘Frankly, put those things back now.’”
“I told you I didn’t take them!” He glanced over at the chairs. “And why did you move the armchairs?”
“I didn’t!” I dragged the armchairs to their former position, opposite one another.
“I’ll only move them back,” Freddy said.
I was so angry I forgot Victor was in the room. “You do and we’ll bring the player piano back to the basement.”
Victor threw his hands up in the air. “You want us to bring the player piano back to the basement?”
Freddy studied Victor. “Are you and Victor… special friends? A pity for Victor, given your lack of interior decorating skills.”
“My interior decorating skills are just fine. You don’t have any taste!”
Victor, the actor, did a double take. “You’re the one who talked me into bringing that piano up here. It’s not my fault if now you think it doesn’t fit in with your other furniture.”
Freddy asked, “Is Victor going to give you a muzzle? How does that work with two gentlemen? Who wears the ring?”
Still fuming, I said to Freddy, “They both wear the ring. But I’m not marrying Victor.”
Victor scratched his thick locks. “Of course you’re not marrying me.”
Freddy tsked. “Not very bright, your friend, is he? And he doesn’t seem interested in you, Andre. I’d search for another husband.”
“I don’t want another husband. I don’t want any husband,” I replied.
“That’s very fortunate for you.” Freddy sniggered. “With your poor design sense, quick temper, and lack of interest in necking, I doubt anyone would marry you. I certainly wouldn’t.”
I came face-to-face with Freddy. “I wouldn’t marry you if you were the last person alive—or dead!”
Victor asked, “Did I do something to offend you, buddy? If it’s that important to you, I’ll help you move the piano back downstairs.”
Freddy placed a large hand on his narrow hip. “This blather is boring me. I’m retiring to the pianola.”
“Please do!”
Victor groaned, took a deep breath, and headed to the pianola. “Let’s get this over with.”
I came to my senses and remembered Victor was with us. “Please concentrate, Victor, and answer my question.”
Freddy snickered. “Good luck with that.”
The Player Page 4