Significant Others

by Armistead Maupin

  “We invoke you, Great One … you whose names have been sung from time beyond time. You who are Inanni, Isis, Ishtar, Anat, Ashtoreth, Amaterasu, Neith, Selket …”

  There was nothing to do but retreat. As quickly and quietly as possible. He would find help elsewhere, but not here, for God’s sake, not here.

  “… Turquoise Woman, White Shell Woman, Cihuacoatl, Tonantzin, Demeter, Artemis, Earthquake Mother, Kali …”

  He crept away from the tribal fire, but Nature took note of him and acted accordingly. Dry branches crackled underfoot, young tendrils caught hold of his limbs, night birds screamed warnings to anyone who’d listen….

  And something large and terrible leapt from the shadows to strike a blow to the back of his head.

  Night Crossing

  SETTING THEIR SCHEME IN MOTION, MICHAEL AND THACK took Wren’s car and drove to the Guerneville Safe-way, where they bought a box of heavy-duty Hefty bags. When they returned to the hilltop lodge, Wren was smoking a joint on the deck, her eyes on the dark river below.

  “Any word?” asked Michael.

  She shook her head. “He’s not gonna call. I’ve got this gut feeling.”

  Michael wasn’t so sure about her gut feelings, but he kept his mouth shut. “What do you want us to do?” he asked. “Once we get there.”

  “Just find out where his camp is. Hillbillies, it’s called. Ask around for him. If he’s there, or somebody at least knows where he is, then I can go home.”

  “If we find him,” said Thack, “what do you want us to tell him?”

  Wren rolled her eyes. “Tell him to call my ass.”

  “He’ll wonder how we got in, won’t he?”

  She shrugged. “Tell him. He won’t report you. I can promise you that.”

  “And if he’s not there?” asked Michael.

  “Then,” said Wren, “we figure out something else.”

  “How do we get back?”

  “Through the gate. You’ll be O.K. on the way out. It’s a mile or so down to Monte Rio. Call me from that greasy spoon at the bridge and I’ll come get you.”

  “Got it,” said Thack.

  “I’m glad you do,” said Michael.

  Ten minutes later, she drove them to the river’s edge, parking in a neighborhood that seemed disturbingly suburban. Why, Michael asked himself, do people move to the redwoods to build mock-Tudor split-levels with basketball hoops over the garage?

  The nearest house was dark, so the three of them scurried burglar-like across the side yard until they found a sandy path leading down to the water.

  “See?” whispered Wren, pointing across the river. “There it is.”

  The Bohemian swimming platform and dressing rooms were a dark jumble of geometry in the distance. Michael estimated the swim to be no more than fifty yards. Easy enough, assuming the absence of crocodiles or unfriendly natives with blowguns.

  “According to Booter,” said Wren, “there’s a bridge above that ravine and a guardhouse a few yards beyond that. You can probably avoid both of them if you follow the ravine up from the beach.”

  “Are you sure?” asked Michael.

  She shook her head with a wry little smile.

  “Great,” he said.

  “They won’t shoot at you,” she said. “It’s just a club. If worst comes to worst, you can use Booter’s name, and they’ll send for him.”

  “They’re gonna know we’re not members,” said Thack.

  “Nah,” she replied. “There’s a thousand men in there. Nobody knows everybody.”

  Thack sat down on the sand and began to strip, stuffing his clothes into a Hefty bag. “If you want,” he said to Michael, “put your things in here with mine. No, forget it. It’ll be too heavy with the shoes.”

  Michael sat next to him and began to stuff his own bag. Thack had stripped all the way, so he did the same, willing away the last vestiges of his Protestant self-consciousness.

  Pale as moonlight, Thack waded into the river with his bag of clothes. When he was knee-deep, he turned and spoke to Wren. “Wish us luck.”

  “More like a bon voyage.” She laughed. “Shall I break some champagne across your bow?”

  Michael followed Thack into the water, which was warmer than he expected, but his skin pebbled anyway. The silt of the river bottom oozed up between his toes. “If we’re not back by sunup,” he said, “send in the Mounties.”

  “Ha!” said Wren. “Think I’d trust you with a Mountie?”

  “Keep your voices down,” said Thack.

  Wren clamped her hand to her mouth, then came to the water’s edge and whispered: “I’ll be waiting for your call. You have the number, don’t you?”

  “No,” Michael replied.

  “I do,” said Thack.

  Michael looked at him and said: “God, you’re organized. I bet you alphabetize your albums.”

  “Wait,” said Wren. “I forgot.” She poked through the high grass until she found the terry-cloth towels she’d brought, then handed them to Michael, who stuffed them into his Hefty bag.

  “You’re such a doll to do this,” she said.

  He shrugged. “Life’s been boring lately.”

  “It’s Hillbillies,” she said. “Don’t forget.”

  “I won’t.” He waded out to join Thack again. They commenced a sort of tortured sidestroke, dragging their bags beside them. When they reached midriver, puffing like steamboats, they looked at each other and burst into laughter.

  Wren was still watching from the shore, a dead giveaway in her white Bermudas.

  A Debutante Reason

  RECLINING TOPLESS ON HER COT, POLLY BERENDT folded her hands behind her head and said: “Something weird is happening down in chem-free.”

  Also topless, but sitting on the ground, DeDe asked: “What do you mean?”

  “Well, when I went out to pee, I saw this huge huddle of those black-shirt girls. I mean, more than I’ve ever seen in one place. They clammed up when I walked by, like I’d just walked in on a cabinet meeting or something.”

  “I don’t even wanna know,” said DeDe. She was finished with Security and their nasty little intrigues.

  Polly chuckled. “They probably found somebody with a Stevie Wonder tape.”

  DeDe didn’t get it. “What’s the matter with Stevie Wonder?”

  “What else?” said Polly. “He’s male.”

  “C’mon.”

  “Sure. It’s a violation of women-only space. No records with male singers. Read your regulations.” Polly rolled over, propping her head on her elbow. “You know what I want?”

  “What?”

  “A burger. With lots of cheese and pickles and blood pouring out of it….”

  “Yuck,” said DeDe.

  “Well, it beats the hell outa this place,” said Polly. “Did you try that phony meat tonight?”

  DeDe smiled grimly. “Sloppy Josephines.”

  “When are these girls gonna drag their asses out of the sixties? That’s what I wanna know.”

  DeDe turned and gave her a big-sisterly smile. A lucky combination of sunshine and lantern light had turned Polly’s taut little tummy the color of the rivets on her 501's. DeDe observed this effect with appreciation but without passion, like an art-conscious matron perusing a Rembrandt.

  And she was a matron, compared to this kid.

  “You don’t remember Kennedy, do you?”

  Polly rolled her eyes. “They always, always ask that.”

  “Well, excuse me.”

  “Why was he such a big deal, anyway? He made it with Marilyn Monroe. Big deal. Ask me if I remember the first moon landing.”

  “O.K…. Do you?”

  “No.”

  DeDe groaned and threw a sweat sock at her. “You little turd.”

  Polly cackled triumphantly. She reminded DeDe of Edgar somehow. After he’d dropped a worm down Anna’s back.

  “The thing about the sixties,” said DeDe, feeling older by the minute, “is that it wasn’t so much a
time as it was … a transformational experience. Some people did it then. Others waited until later.”

  “Like, wow,” said Polly, mugging shamelessly. “Heavy.”

  “Fuck you,” said DeDe.

  Polly smiled at her. “So when did you transform?”

  DeDe thought about it, then said: “The spring of nineteen seventy-seven.”

  “So specific?”

  “I joined the People’s Temple. In Guyana.”

  Polly looked stunned. “Jesus,” she said.

  “We got out, of course … before … all that.”

  “You and your lover?”

  “Mmm. And the kids.”

  “They must’ve been babies,” said Polly.

  “They were. They don’t remember anything.”

  There was a long silence. Then Polly said: “Why did you go?”

  “I don’t know.” DeDe gave her a rueful glance. “It was D’or’s idea.”

  Polly digested that, then said: “Like this, huh?”

  DeDe nodded vaguely. “I guess so. I have a mind of my own, believe it or not.”

  “I believe you.”

  “She’s strong, so I let her be strong. I like it that way. Most of the time.”

  Mischief flickered in Polly’s eyes. “Is she the one who lights the charcoal and grills the steaks?”

  DeDe wasn’t sure how to take that, but she laughed, anyway. “The tuna,” she said, correcting her.

  “Oh. Right. No red meat. I forgot.” Polly nodded solemnly. “And she’s the one the kids obey?”

  “What is this?” asked DeDe.

  “I’m just curious.”

  “Yes, you are.”

  “Well, we’re friends, aren’t we? I just wanna … share.” Polly smiled. “Like in the sixties.”

  DeDe popped the top on a Diet 7-Up. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Polly.

  “Why not?”

  “It sounds like my seventh-grade English teacher.”

  DeDe took a sip. “You hated her?”

  “No,” said Polly. “She turned me on.”

  “Don’t make me self-conscious, O.K.?”

  Polly stared at her for a moment, then shook her head slowly and said, “Boy!”

  “What?” asked DeDe.

  “DeDe the Debutante.”

  This irked her. Why did everybody get to fire off this potshot? Debutantes—no, reformed debutantes—were probably the last oppressed minority on earth. “Look,” she said, “I took off my shirt, didn’t I?”

  “You did,” said Polly quietly, “and breast fans everywhere are grateful.”

  DeDe groaned at her.

  “But,“ said Polly, “you took it off for a debutante reason, not because you’re really comfortable that way.”

  “C’mon. What the hell does that mean—a debutante reason?”

  Polly shrugged. “You took it off because D’or took hers off, and you’re afraid that Sabra’s gonna take hers off pretty soon. So you beat her to it.”

  “Oh, please,” said DeDe.

  “It’s so obvious,” said Polly. “It’s the Pillsbury Boob-Off.”

  “Will you stop? In the first place, Sabra Landauer would never take hers off in a million years.”

  “O.K…. So you took yours off to prove that you’re better than Sabra.”

  “I did not.”

  Polly picked up an apple, polishing it against the leg of her 501's. “So where is she now?”

  “Who?”

  “D’or.”

  “At the Holly Near concert.”

  “Is she with Sabra?”

  “Probably,” said DeDe.

  “You think they’ve been doing it?”

  DeDe thought exactly that, but she refused to give shape to her fears.

  Polly took a bite of the apple, chewed and swallowed. “You know what?”

  “What?”

  “You should fake her out, pretend to be fucking around yourself.”

  DeDe gave her a doubtful look. “With you, I suppose.”

  “Sure. I could be real convincing.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  Polly turned and grinned at her.

  “I could never be that petty,” said DeDe.

  “Force yourself,” said Polly. “There are big stakes here. Sabra’s wrecked a few marriages in her time.”

  DeDe didn’t want to hear this. “She’s not all that good-looking,” she said.

  “Yeah, but she’s rich.”

  “I’m rich,” said DeDe.

  “She’s rich and famous,” said Polly. “And she gets to do everything. Broadway openings, limos all over the place, personal friends with Lily and Jane …”

  “Thanks,” said DeDe. “Thanks a lot.”

  Polly studied her a moment, then sat up and pulled on a celadon sweatshirt.

  “Where are you going?” asked DeDe.

  “I’m outa here,” said Polly. “There’s a burger out there with my name on it.”

  DeDe felt deserted again. What would she do? Go back to her tent and wait for Anna to return from her quilting class? Should she be there, looking useless and alone, when D’or returned?

  And what if D’or didn’t return?

  Polly hopped to her feet and began searching the tent for her socks. “Come with me,” she said. “I won’t be gone that long.”

  “Well …”

  She handed DeDe her shirt. “C’mon, Mama. Let’s get dressed and go to town.”

  Name-Dropper

  ACCORDING TO JIMMY, THE MOST IMPOSING SPIDERS were female, and this one certainly fit the bill. Fat, furry and crimson-bellied, she dangled from a fragile trapeze, weaving her macramé only inches from Booter’s sunburned face.

  He was in a tent; he could tell that much. His mouth tasted foul, and his head was throbbing. His feet were bound together, and his hands were tied behind his back. He was lying on his side, facing the spider.

  His first thought was: “Weaving spiders come not here.”

  That was the Bohemian motto, but he drew no comfort from it now. At the Grove, the phrase meant dealmaking was prohibited, no business on the premises.

  Here, it meant nothing.

  Here, that spider could weave where she wanted.

  He’d been conscious for almost five minutes when he heard a woman’s voice outside the tent. “Where is he?” she asked.

  Someone hissed for quiet.

  “We have to call the police.”

  “Sure. Turn him over to men.”

  “I don’t care, Rose. We have to.”

  He heard boots scuffing against earth, then saw the tent flap move, revealing a woman in a black T-shirt. She held a walkie-talkie in one hand, and her head was shaved to varying degrees, forming a sort of topiary garden on her scalp. She squatted on her haunches to examine him.

  “Listen,” he said, “whatever you think I did—”

  “I don’t think. I saw.”

  “I was in a canoe,” he said.

  “I know that.”

  “I fell asleep. I must have drifted.”

  “Did you enjoy the show?” she asked.

  So they had seen him watching.

  “Answer the question,” she said.

  “It was an accident,” he said. “I didn’t know where I was. I went up there to ask directions.”

  “You’re lying,” she said.

  “Don’t tell me I’m lying!” How dare she talk to him like that? Who, after all, had clobbered whom?

  “What’s your name?” she asked.

  He hesitated. What if she called the police? He could clear himself, of course, but what sort of indignities would he be forced to endure? “I don’t have to tell you that,” he said at last.

  She appraised him coolly for several seconds before dropping the tent flap and walking away. He hollered, “Wait!” but got no response.

  She came back about fifteen minutes later.

  “Thirsty?” she asked.

  He was and sai
d so.

  “I’ll have some water sent by for you.”

  “Wait a minute,” he said. “Don’t go.”

  “What?”

  “You’re making a very big mistake, young lady.”

  “Yeah?”

  “I know how it may have looked to you, but I’m no Peeping Tom.”

  “O.K. Then who are you?”

  “I’m a member of the Bohemian Club. We’re up the river a bit. I don’t want to make trouble for you, but—”

  “I asked your name.”

  “Manigault,” he muttered. “What?”

  “Manigault. Roger Manigault.”

  “Sure.”

  “Well … I don’t have my wallet with me.”

  “As in Pacific Excelsior?”

  “Yes!” He literally sighed with relief. Thank God she knew about business! “That’s me!”

  “That’s you?”

  “Yes! I’m not the sort of man who—” She cut him off with a wild bray of laughter. “Booter. They call you Booter?”

  “Yes. Now will you please untie—”

  “Reagan’s friend?”

  “Well … I know him…. I wouldn’t exactly say—” She dropped the tent flap and went howling into the night.

  A Dream Come True

  THANKS TO BOOTER, DINNER HADN’T HAPPENED TONIGHT, so Wren postponed her journey home, stopping off at the greasy spoon near the Monte Rio bridge. Michael and Thack wouldn’t call for at least an hour, so why not settle her nerves with a basket of fries and a chicken-fried steak?

  The greasy spoon was a “family restaurant,” replete with squawling brats, cracked plastic menus and redwood room deodorizers for sale next to the cash register. She was debating dessert when a teenaged girl approached, wearing an expression of tentative fandom. “O.K.,” she told Wren. “If you’re not, you might as well be.”

  Wren put her fork down and stuck out her hand. “I guess I am, then. What’s your name?”

  The teenager, on closer inspection, seemed more like a young woman. She was short and wiry, with freckles and a sparkling pink-gummed smile. “Polly Berendt,” she replied. “I really can’t believe this.”

  “What?” said Wren. “That you found me eating?”