Jon shook his head.
“That I’d be paralyzed.”
“Michael, for Christ’s sake!”
“Not like this. Just from the waist down. That way, I could be in a wheelchair, and people would like me, and I wouldn’t have to worry about what they’d say when I didn’t get married. It seemed like a pretty good solution at the time. I was a dumb little kid.”
“You’re also a maudlin grownup. You can’t dwell on this stuff, Michael. It’s not healthy for you to … Hey, I almost forgot. Chorus Line is coming back. I sent for our tickets today.”
“Nice fake.”
“Goddammit, Michael! Will you stop being so … melodramatic! I hate to disappoint you, but you’re not gonna …”
“The word is die, Babycakes.”
“You’re not, Michael. I’m a doctor. I know.”
“You’re a gynecologist, turkey.”
“You like playing this scene, don’t you? You’re getting off on this whole goddamn Camille—”
“Hey, hey,” Michael’s voice was gentle, consoling. The flippancy was gone. “Don’t take me seriously, Jon. I’ve just gotta talk, that’s all. Don’t listen to what I’m saying. O.K.?”
“You got a deal.”
“You know what? They’ve got me on The Pill. I mean, they call it steroids or something, but it’s still The Pill. I’ve been tripping on that all morning. I’m on The Pill, and my gynecologist spends more time with me than my doctor does. Isn’t that a hoot?”
Jon smiled. “That’s pretty good, all right.”
“Maybe there’s a lot to be said for all this. I mean, for one thing, I can go for hours at a time without looking nellie. If they could prop me up or something, I’d be dynamite in a dark corner at The Bolt!”
Mary Ann arrived half an hour later. Michael winked at her in the mirror.
“Hi, gorgeous. Where’d ya get that Acapulco tan?”
“Hi, Mouse. Burke’s here too.”
“I see. Hello, Hunky.”
“Hi, Michael.”
“The coast is clear, kiddo. Not a rose in sight.”
The couple laughed nervously. “Mouse,” said Mary Ann, “I picked up your mail for you. Do you … want me to read it to you?”
“What is it? A pink slip from the Clap Clinic?”
Mary Ann giggled. “I think it’s from your parents.”
Michael said nothing. Jon cast a warning glance at Mary Ann, who instantly tried to backtrack. “I can leave it, Mouse … and maybe later Jon can—”
“No. Go ahead.”
Mary Ann looked at Jon, then back to Michael. “Are you sure?”
“What the hell.”
So she opened the letter.
Saving the Children
MARY ANN BEGAN TO READ:
Dear Mikey,
How are you? I guess you’re back from Mexico by now. Please write us. Your Papa and I are real anxious to hear all about it. Also, how is Mary Ann and when will we get a chance to meet her?
Everything is fine in Orlando. It looks like we’ll do fine with this year’s crop, even with the frost and all. The homosexual boycott may make orange juice sales drop off a little, but Papa says it won’t make any difference in the long run, and besides it won’t …
Mary Ann looked up. “Mouse … I think we should save this for some other time.”
“No. It’s O.K. Go on.”
Mary Ann looked at Jon, who shrugged.
“I’ve handled it for half my life,” said Michael. “Another day won’t make a difference.”
So Mary Ann continued:
… besides it won’t do anything but show Jesus whose side we’re on.
You remember in my last letter I said we didn’t say anything in our resolution about renting to homosexuals, because Lucy McNeil rents her garage to that sissy man who sells carpets at Dixie Dell Mall? I thought that was O.K., because Lucy is a quiet sort who has stomach trouble, and I didn’t think it would be Christian to upset her unduly.
I guess the man was right when he said the road to Hell is paved with good intentions, because Lucy has all of a sudden become real militant about the homosexuals. She said she wouldn’t sign our Save Our Children resolution, and she called us all heathens and hypocrites and said that Jesus wouldn’t even let us kiss His feet if He came back to earth today. Can you imagine such a thing?
I was real upset about it after the meeting until your Papa cleared it up for me. You know, I never thought about it much, but Lucy never did marry, and she was really pretty when her and me used to go to Orlando High. She could of gotten a real good husband, if she had set her mind to it. Anyway, your Papa pointed out that Lucy takes modern art classes at the YWCA now and wears Indian blouses and hippie clothes, so I guess it’s possible that the lesbians have recruited her. It’s mighty hard to believe, though. She was always so pretty.
Etta Norris had a Save Our Children get-together at her house last Saturday night. It was real nice. Lolly Newton even bought a Red Devil’s Food Cake she made using Mrs. Oral Roberts’ recipe from Anita Bryant’s cookbook. That gave us the idea of making lots of food from the cookbook and selling it at the VFW bazaar to raise money for Save Our Children.
We are all praying that the referendum in Miami will pass. If the homosexuals are allowed to teach in Miami, then it might happen in Orlando. Reverend Harker says that things have gotten so bad in Miami that the homosexuals are kissing each other in public. Your Papa doesn’t believe that, but I say that the devil is a lot more powerful than we think he is.
Mikey, we had to put Blackie to sleep. I hate to tell you that, but he was mighty old. I know the Lord will look after him, like he does with all His creatures.
Bubba says hi.
Love,
MAMA
Mary Ann moved to Michael’s bedside, addressing him directly without using the mirror. “Mouse … I’m really sorry.”
“Forget it. I think it’s a riot.”
“No. It’s awful. She doesn’t know what she’s saying, Mouse.”
Michael smiled. “Yes she does. She’s a capital-C Christian. They always know what they’re saying.”
“But she wouldn’t say that, Mouse. Not if she knew. Not her own son.”
“She’d say it about somebody else’s son. What the hell’s the difference?”
Mary Ann looked back at Jon and Burke, tears streaming down her face. Then she reached out and touched the immobile figure in the bed.
“Mouse … if I could change your life for you, so help me I’d—”
“You can, Babycakes.”
“What? How?”
“Got your Bic handy?”
“Sure.”
“Then take a letter, Miss Singleton.”
Letter to Mama
DEAR MAMA,
I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. Every time I try to write to you and Papa I realize I’m not saying the things that are in my heart. That would be O.K., if I loved you any less than I do, but you are still my parents and I am still your child.
I have friends who think I’m foolish to write this letter. I hope they’re wrong. I hope their doubts are based on parents who loved and trusted them less than mine do. I hope especially that you’ll see this as an act of love on my part, a sign of my continuing need to share my life with you.
I wouldn’t have written, I guess, if you hadn’t told me about your involvement in the Save Our Children campaign. That, more than anything, made it clear that my responsibility was to tell you the truth, that your own child is homosexual, and that I never needed saving from anything except the cruel and ignorant piety of people like Anita Bryant.
I’m sorry, Mama. Not for what I am, but for how you must feel at this moment. I know what that feeling is, for I felt it for most of my life. Revulsion, shame, disbelief—rejection through fear of something I knew, even as a child, was as basic to my nature as the color of my eyes.
No, Mama, I wasn’t “recruited.” No seasoned homosexual ever served
as my mentor. But you know what? I wish someone had. I wish someone older than me and wiser than the people in Orlando had taken me aside and said, “You’re all right, kid. You can grow up to be a doctor or a teacher just like anyone else. You’re not crazy or sick or evil. You can succeed and be happy and find peace with friends—all kinds of friends—who don’t give a damn who you go to bed with. Most of all, though, you can love and be loved, without hating yourself for it.”
But no one ever said that to me, Mama. I had to find it out on my own, with the help of the city that has become my home. I know this may be hard for you to believe, but San Francisco is full of men and women, both straight and gay, who don’t consider sexuality in measuring the worth of another human being.
These aren’t radicals or weirdos, Mama. They are shop clerks and bankers and little old ladies and people who nod and smile to you when you meet them on the bus. Their attitude is neither patronizing nor pitying. And their message is so simple: Yes, you are a person. Yes, I like you. Yes, it’s all right for you to like me too.
I know what you must be thinking now. You’re asking yourself: What did we do wrong? How did we let this happen? Which one of us made him that way?
I can’t answer that, Mama. In the long run, I guess I really don’t care. All I know is this: If you and Papa are responsible for the way I am, then I thank you with all my heart, for it’s the light and the joy of my life.
I know I can’t tell you what it is to be gay. But I can tell you what it’s not.
It’s not hiding behind words, Mama. Like family and decency and Christianity. It’s not fearing your body, or the pleasures that God made for it. It’s not judging your neighbor, except when he’s crass or unkind.
Being gay has taught me tolerance, compassion and humility. It has shown me the limitless possibilities of living. It has given me people whose passion and kindness and sensitivity have provided a constant source of strength.
It has brought me into the family of man, Mama, and I like it here. I like it.
There’s not much else I can say, except that I’m the same Michael you’ve always known. You just know me better now. I have never consciously done anything to hurt you. I never will.
Please don’t feel you have to answer this right away. It’s enough for me to know that I no longer have to lie to the people who taught me to value the truth.
Mary Ann sends her love.
Everything is fine at 28 Barbary Lane.
Your loving son,
MICHAEL
The End
MARY ANN WAS SEVERELY SHAKEN WHEN SHE AND Burke left St. Sebastian’s. She had planned on staying most of the evening, but her tears had proved uncontrollable. Jon had promised, however, he would call her “if anything changes.”
Back on Barbary Lane, she tried to thaw a strip steak under the hot-water tap.
“Don’t do that on my account,” said Burke.
“I thought you liked steak.”
“I’m not hungry. Really.”
She sighed and tossed the meat onto her Rubbermaid dish rack. “Neither am I.” She turned to face Burke, forcing a smile.
“Do you know how I met Michael?”
“In a supermarket, right?”
“I told you already?”
Burke nodded. “In Puerto Vallarta.”
Mary Ann dried her hands with a dish towel and sat down opposite Burke at the kitchen table. “He was so cute, Burke … but I was furious with him, because he was with this guy I really liked, and all night long I just kept saying to myself, ‘What a waste … what a waste.’ I believed that, too. I really believed he was wasted, that he had gone wrong somehow. Of course, I told myself I felt sorry for him, but I was really just feeling sorry for myself. I found out all the Mr. Rights weren’t made for me, and I couldn’t handle it.”
“That’s O.K. People change.”
“I didn’t. Not for a long time. I used to feel … I don’t know. I guess I thought I could change him, become his friend and make him relax around women or something. I didn’t count on finding out that I was the one who needed to relax.”
“Don’t be so hard on yourself.”
“It’s the truth, Burke.”
“Michael loves you, Mary Ann. You must’ve done something right.”
“I hope.”
“Hope? Dammit, Mary Ann, there were times in Mexico when I was almost eaten up with jealousy.”
“Jealousy? Of Michael?”
“Michael and you together. Michael and you laughing and conspiring together. Michael and you playing tricks on Arnold and Melba. Michael and you pretending—hell, you weren’t pretending—you were married. You were as married as two people could ever be.”
She blinked at him in amazement, unconsciously fingering the funny little key around her neck. “Burke … I love you. I never meant to—”
“I’m not accusing you. I just don’t want you to chastise yourself. Not about Michael. You two have had something great together.”
She let go of the key and reached for his hand. “Could we go to the bedroom?” she asked.
There, on the bed, she lay in his arms and cried.
Later, they watched television, each pretending for the sake of the other to be interested. Then Burke rose and switched off the set.
“Do you want to call the hospital?”
“No … I … no.”
“You might feel better.”
“Jon’s there. I don’t think I should …”
“I think Michael would like it.”
“Well, what could I …?”
The phone rang. They both jumped.
“Do you want me to get it?” asked Burke.
She hesitated. “No … I’ll get it.”
She turned her back as she spoke. She didn’t want Burke to see her face.
“Hi, Jon…. All right, I guess…. Yes…. God! Oh, my God! … No, I’m all right. What time did he….? Thanks….Yeah, I will … I will, Jon. I love you, Jon.” She hung up.
Burke put his arm around her.
“Thank God,” she said softly. “It wasn’t Michael, Burke. It was Beauchamp Day. Jon and Michael just heard it on the radio. Beauchamp’s car hit the side of the Broadway tunnel and blew up. They couldn’t get to him, Burke. He burned alive.”
Sixty at Last
THE DELECTABLE HERBAL SCENT OF VITABATH TINGLED in Frannie’s nose as she lay back in the huge marble tub and enjoyed the effects of vitamin Q.
“Oooh, goodness! This thing is big enough for two.”
Birdsong stopped massaging her feet. “Do you want me to come in, Mrs. Halcyon?”
“Oh, no.” She giggled. “No, that wasn’t a hint, Birdsong.”
“It’s no problem.”
“No. I’m sure it isn’t … Birdsong?”
“Yes, ma’am?”
“How long have you worked at Pinus?”
“About two years.”
“Since you were how old?”
“Uh … twenty.”
“You like it here, then?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“All these old ladies. You like … waiting on them?”
“I don’t think of them as old.”
Frannie smiled forgivingly. “I know they tell you to say that, but surely … well, I mean, we’re all over sixty, aren’t we? A young man like you must feel a little … strange … you know.”
“No, ma’am. I like mature women.”
She grinned at him under heavy-lidded eyes. “You’re a diplomat, young man.”
Birdsong winked and wiggled her big toe.
“What’s your real name?” she asked.
“We’re not allowed to tell that.”
“You’re not, huh?”
“No, ma’am.” “Are you going to rub my back?”
“If you like.”
“I like,” smiled Frannie, rolling over in the suds.
The matriarch slept soundly until 6 P.M., when Helena Parrish rapped on her door. “The hour is nigh
,” she said cheerily, peering into the cottage. She had changed from her street clothes into the dusty-pink kaftan of the resort. Her hair was down now, flowing triumphantly into a single reckless braid.
Frannie rubbed her eyes and swung her feet off the bed. “I’m not especially nervous. Should I be?”
“Darling … this is going to be the most extraordinary night of your life.”
“Now I’m nervous.”
“You’ll do fine.” “I’m beginning to feel like a silly old fool.”
“Nonsense. You’ll be the youngest girl there.”
Frannie giggled. “I hadn’t thought of it that way.”
“Don’t think, darling… feel. That’s the secret to Pinus. Let yourself feel.”
“I’ll try.”
“Good. Now … one more vitamin Q and we’ll be on our way.”
The amphitheater took Frannie’s breath away. Against the darkening hillside a hundred women lounged in dusty-pink deck chairs, gazing languidly at the open-air stage before them.
In the center of the stage, a bonfire was blazing, casting a mystical light on the giant golden P that dangled overhead. When Helena made her entrance, the audience began janing.
“Aaaahhhhaaaahhhheeeeaaaahhhh!”
The sound was thunderous, almost deafening. It sent little shivers down Frannie’s spine. She readjusted her kaftan and fidgeted with her hair, awaiting the signal from Helena.
“Ladies,” boomed Helena, without a microphone, “we all know why we’re here tonight, so let’s get on with it. Without further ado, may I present to you … the newest recipient of the mysteries of Pinus … Frannie Halcyon!”
This time the janing nearly shook the trees. Frannie walked onto the stage with her head held high, taking her place beside Helena at the bonfire. Then, simultaneously, the women rose to their feet and a gargantuan cake was wheeled onto the stage. The women janed again and broke into a jubilant chorus of “Happy Birthday.”
The top of the cake exploded in a flurry of flesh and firelight.
The naked figure that emerged sent gasps of delight and recognition through the audience. “Bluegrass,” squealed a woman near the stage. “She got Bluegrass!”
More Tales of the City Page 17