by Vanda
Juliana was in Chicago performing at the Empire Room. It was because of me she was there. I’m not responsible for how the world is. Of course it’s not fair, but I can’t make it fair. If I try, they’ll go for me, so there’s nothing I can do. And yet—I don’t belong here either, in this world of expensive gowns and jewelry. If Max didn’t dress me, they’d never let me in … Juliana, I miss you so very much. I could see her standing there wearing her burgundy velvet evening gown with the white opera gloves. My vision was so clear, I could almost reach my hand out and …
That morning’s headline read: “Perverts Fleeing State Department.” Ever since they announced the State Department had fired ninety-one homosexuals, there were more articles every day that talked about how homosexuals were dangerous to the country. Not me. I’m not that. I was about to duck back inside when I found Scott standing beside me. “What are you doing out here?” Scott asked. “You must be freezing.”
“I am. I was going back in.”
“Maxwell wants me to move into the apartment next to him. He said he’d pay.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“I couldn’t do something like that.” He took off his jacket. “Here, put this around you. What would people think?”
“This is New York City. Nobody has to know.”
“What would I be? His mistress?”
“He wouldn’t think of you like that. He wants to be close to you, and he can afford nice things.”
“Am I a nice ‘thing’ for him to afford? I’m sorry, Al; I know he doesn’t think of me that way. I don’t think I can live like … Friends in Washington keep writing and telling me they’re firing and arresting and—”
“Easy, Scott. It’s not happening here.”
“It’s not? Then what was that raid on the Third Street Bar last week? They arrested those people. One guy I know lost his teaching job because of that.”
“You’re not going to get arrested. You don’t go to those bars. You don’t even drink. It could be fun to live near Max, and let him take you to nice places. He’d never let you get arrested.”
“I don’t like breaking the law. That’s not how my family raised me. I wouldn’t know what to say to my grandma.”
I pulled his coat tighter around my shoulders. “Lots of homosexuals live in the city and have family in other places, and they don’t tell them. You don’t have to tell her.”
“Then I could never see her, ’cause as soon as she saw me she’d know.”
“Oh, come on. How would she know a thing like that?”
“She wouldn’t know specifically what it was, but she’d know I was lying. I couldn’t face her. I’ve been going to a doctor. Don’t tell Maxwell.”
“What kind of doctor?”
“A psychoanalyst. He says he can cure me.”
“Really?”
“I don’t want Maxwell to know. He might think I don’t care about him, and I do. It’s what we do—you know, Maxwell and me—it’s against God. If this doctor cured me, I could still be friends with him, but in a manly way. Maxwell thinks this disease isn’t a disease. He thinks it’s the way we’re born. Have you ever heard anything so queer?”
I sighed. “Scott, I’d like to help you, but I don’t know what makes anyone like that. I don’t think I’m one. I only have those feelings for Juliana. I’ve never felt that way for any other girl, so I don’t think it applies to me.” An image of the Jewish girl whizzed through my brain.
“You know, they got a law in DC,” Scott said. “I’ve heard it referred to as the ‘Sex Pervert Law.’ It says they can confine sex perverts to St. Elizabeth’s Mental Hospital for treatment for as long as they want. That’s why I left. My mother—well, she spent some time in one of those places. It was awful.”
“My mother, too. I think it made her worse.”
“I know. My mother was sad. Being treated like that wasn’t going to make her happy. When she found God, that made her happy.”
“My mother never found God. Only demons, devils, and me, her biggest demon.”
“We better get inside,” he said. “If we don’t hurry, they’re going to start talking about us.”
“Now, that might be a good thing.” I laughed as we slipped back through the door.
Virginia and Max were having an animated and, I suspected, angry talk that stopped as soon as Scott and I got back. Virginia took a few big gulps from her vodka stinger and slammed it onto the table as we sat down.
I sat beside her as the waiters put out our appetizers. Mine was the pate de fois gras. Scott joined us with a shrimp cocktail. The orchestra played bebop, and some patrons were dancing.
Max stood to address Mrs. Murryfield, who had arrived. Mrs. Murryfield was a heavy woman weighed down with jewelry and three chins. “Mrs. Murryfield, how nice to see you again,” Max said, charm oozing out of every pore. “Come. Sit next to me.”
“Max, you dirty dog.” She giggled. “Kissy kiss?” She leaned a fuzzy cheek in Max’s direction, and he kissed it.
Mrs. Murryfield was one of Max’s early financial supporters, and he didn’t want to lose her. She was a widow living on a substantial inheritance from Mr. Murryfield, so Max volunteered to find her an escort. He had sent his car to pick her up, but he couldn’t find Bart—the escort. As long as Max paid attention to her, though, Mrs. Murryfield didn’t seem to mind.
“Irving,” Max said, hopping from his seat and hurrying toward a smiling middle-aged man with receding gray hair.
“Hello there, Max.”
“Glad you could make it.” Max vigorously shook the man’s hand.
“I told you if I were in town I wouldn’t miss your opening. Oh, I want to introduce you to …” From behind him he pulled a squat little woman with a hairdo straight out of the thirties—finger waves with a dang part in the middle. “Mrs. Ives.”
“Charmed,” Max said with a slight bow. “I’d be pleased if you both join us at my table.”
Max led the way. “I want you all to meet Senator and Mrs. Ives.”
Scott and the other men stood until Max had gotten Mrs. Ives seated.
We all said hello, introducing ourselves as the senator and his wife busied themselves with cocktail forks and napkins.
“Well, Irving, tell us,” Max said as he sat down. “How are things in Washington?”
“Never a dull moment. I’ve been appointed to a most interesting subcommittee.”
His wife shook her head at him.
“You’re right, dear. Not appropriate dinner table conversation. Lovely décor you have here, Max.” He bit into his pate de fois gras.
Mrs. Murryfield said, “Oh please, Senator, do tell us about the committee. How exciting to hear directly from the horse’s mouth, so to speak, what’s happening in Washington. The newspapers get more exciting every day. Oh, I love that Senator McCarthy. He’s going to keep this country safe from those commies. Have you met him?”
“Yes, I have,” the senator said.
Mrs. Murryfield swooned.
“As a matter of fact, Senator McCarthy and I often have a cocktail together after a long day of government.” He was enjoying her admiration.
“Do you?” Mrs. Murryfield said. “Thrilling. You simply must tell us everything.”
“Well, as matter of fact, it’s because of him that I’m on this new subcommittee.”
“Tell us, tell us.” She clapped her chubby fingers together.
“It’s a committee to investigate the employment of …” He looked around as if a spy might be hiding under the table, then whispered, “…homosexuals and other sexual perverts in government. I hope that doesn’t shock you.”
She giggled. “We’re all grown-ups here. Tell us more.”
Max pushed a cigarette into its holder and flicked his lighter.
“Well there seems to be little factual information about homosexualism,” the senator continued, “So we’re planning an investigative study to—”
“Irving,” Mrs. Ives said. �
��Do you think you should speak those unpleasant words in mixed company?”
“I don’t mind,” Mrs. Murryfield eagerly said. “We must learn how to protect ourselves from those monsters. Your husband is doing important work. Does anyone object to hearing frank language about the senator’s work?”
Virginia was too busy sipping another vodka stinger and staring off into space to pay attention to any of it. Scott, with a look of terror, stared into his shrimp cocktail as if expecting one of them to jump up and bite his nose.
I said, “Uh, well, uh …” I took a sip of my wine and then another.
Max glared.
Mrs. Murryfield clapped her pudgy hands together. “You see? No one minds. Please, Senator, continue.”
“Well,” the senator began. “Most of what we know about homosexuals comes from scientific studies, and, of course, the police have had a great deal of experience with them as criminals, but no one has given thought to the personnel problem—and believe me—this is a problem. How can we have such people working in our government agencies? Everyone agrees they are security risks.”
“Then why do the study?” Max asked.
“What?” the senator asked, puzzled that someone would dare interrupt.
“Why spend tax payer dollars on an investigation if you already know the answer?”
“Of course, we have to do the study.”
“My point is, Senator, if you’re going to do an investigation, shouldn’t you do it before you decide what the answer will be? Perhaps homosexuals are not security risks.”
I dropped my fork, and it clattered to the floor. The whole table, even Virginia, stared at Max. I couldn’t believe he was confronting this man. We had two nightclubs at stake. If this guy figured out about Max, he’d close both clubs down immediately, that night. All he had to do was get one of the beat cops outside to arrest us. I pictured thousands of our dollars drifting down the sewer. Scott held his cocktail fork frozen in mid-air. A waiter handed me a clean fork. Our reputations destroyed! Tomorrow’s headline: “Max Hartwell and Alice Huffman Arrested for Homosexualism.” That would be especially cruel to me, since I wasn’t one. My career over. No money. Living in a cardboard box on the Bowery. Juliana gone. Why was Max doing this? My hand lost its grip; the fork fell again.
“Maybe they’re not moral weaklings,” Max continued.
“Of course they are,” he whispered. “Look at what they do.”
“What do they do, Senator?” Max asked.
“Yes, what? What?” Mrs Murryfield asked eagerly.
“Really, Max, isn’t that going a bit too far?”
“What do they do that makes them security risks, Senator?”
“Oh. They can be bribed. The commies will threaten to tell about their sick lives. Who wouldn’t give in to pressure like that? And these homos could be anywhere. They’re hard to detect. Which makes them perfect spies for the other side. We’re learning that some of them can even look like anyone else. That’s why the study’s important. We need to know how to recognize them. Dig them out before they’ve ruined our country. They could be sitting right here next to you, and you wouldn’t know it.”
“Really?” Max said.
We all stared—afraid to breathe.
“I got carried away. I didn’t mean any of you … Forgive me. I was speaking metaphorically. They belong to secret cults and try to recruit others to their debauchery. That’s why we must yank them out into the open. And soon. Before they pollute our institutions. Like the army. Did you know we’ve even found them there?”
“Have you?” Max said with exaggerated surprise.
“Oh, but don’t worry; we got rid of them.”
“How nice,” Max said.
“This is so exciting,” Mrs Murryfield said. “To hear two intelligent men having such an illuminating discussion.”
I was about to faint. Scott was still staring at his untouched shrimp. Virginia ordered another vodka stinger.
“But, please,” the senator began again, “don’t think I don’t sympathize with these mentally deranged people, because I do. I’m not heartless like some other congressmen I could name. No. I pity them. Many can’t help themselves. It’s like being a—well, a pyromaniac who can’t help starting a fire. As much as you may feel for the poor pyromaniac’s plight, would you allow him to run free through our schools and government offices? Of course not. It’s quite the same with homosexuals. We can’t hire people whose behavior violates all moral codes of acceptable conduct. This pate de fois gras is delicious, Max. Isn’t it, dear?” he said to Mrs. Ives.
Mrs. Ives nodded at her husband with a small smile.
“You’ve certainly hired a splendid chef,” the senator said.
“You compare homosexuals to pyromaniacs?” Max returned, the rolling boil under his words about to explode all over the table. I raised my eyebrows at him, trying to get him to drop it.
“I’m no poet,” the senator continued, chuckling, “but I think that was a particularly apt metaphor.”
“Do you?” Max inhaled smoke deeply as he stared at the senator. I held my breath, hoping he wouldn’t say one more thing. He let the smoke seep through his lips. “Well, here’s what I think …”
Scott dropped his fork.
I stared at Max, sending him thought messages.
The senator said, “I’m eager to hear your point of view.”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Murryfield said.
“I think … that …” He looked at Scott, then Virginia, then me, all staring at him, holding one collective breath. “That … you are right,” Max choked out. “Now, if you’ll excuse me,” he said, rising. “I have a great many guests to greet.”
“Of course,” the senator said. “We all understand.”
Throughout the evening, Max was up and down, talking to reviewers, food critics, Mayor O’Dwyer and his wife. Periodically, he’d introduce me to people. I met as many columnists as I could—talking up Juliana and Lili. Senator Ives and his wife spent much of the evening dancing, and I was relieved not to be around them. Moose Mantelli came with his latest girlfriend, but I noticed him giving Virginia the eye. Jimmy the Crusher came alone, as usual.
As the night wore on and we finished our dinner, Virginia looked more agitated, and I never saw her without a glass in her hand. “Are you all right?” I asked her.
“Yes. Fine. Don’t I look it?” Her words came out sharp, sarcastic, unlike her. “Waiter. Hey waiter, another vodka stinger.”
“Maybe you should slow down,” I tentatively said to her. “You’re not used to drinking like this.”
“Who are you to tell me how much I should drink? Max!” she called out. “Hey, Max, honey. Dance with me, will ya?”
Scott leaned over to her. “He’s kind of busy, but I’ll dance with you, Virginia.” He rose.
“You? You think you can handle a real woman, you fairy?”
Scott’s face showed that Virginia’s arrow hit him just where she was aiming.
“I’m going, Al,” Scott said. “Tell Maxwell I’ll call him in the morning.”
I ran after him. “Scott, she doesn’t know what she’s saying. She’s had too much to drink. Stay. Max wants you here.”
“She’s right; that’s what I am.” He handed his ticket to Bertha. “I have to walk.” He grabbed his overcoat and homburg from Bertha and dropped a coin in her jar before he marched out the door.
I looked back at Bertha, and she was staring at me, again. “What? What?”
“Oh! I’m sorry.” She disappeared behind her racks of coats.
“Good. He’s gone,” Virginia said when I got back to the table. Tears were inching down her face.
“I know this is hard for you, Virginia. Is there anything I can do?”
“Would you come with me to the lady’s room? I want to fix my make-up.”
“Let’s go.”
She was handling the liquor better than I thought. She walked by herself with only a few stumbles.
; I stood beside her while she looked in the gold-framed mirror in the lady’s lounge, her hands pressing heavily against the onyx sink. “I’m losing him for good this time, Al.” I noticed Angie, the colored bathroom attendant, busying herself with dusting the pink lounge chair, and trying to become invisible. “Uh, Angie, maybe now would be a good time for your break.”
“Yessum,” Angie said, hurrying out.
“Losing Max? Virginia, you never had him.”
“These past five years have been wonderful. He came back from the war so changed. We even talked about marriage.”
“You did?”
“I don’t mind his boys. Many are real gentlemen. Polite. Respectful. A person could build a life around that, don’t you think?”
“Maybe you could. I couldn’t.”
“You share Juliana with Richard. How is that different from Max and me?”
“You better get done before someone comes in, or Max comes looking for you.”
“He won’t come looking for me. Never again. Not with—Scott. This one is different. Max is in love this time. I can’t compete with that. Will you look at my face? I’m getting old, Al. Forty-three. Does it show?”
“You don’t look old. You look beautiful.”
“Spoken like a woman to another woman.” She turned and leaned against the sink, cocking a hip at me. “Do you truly think I’m beautiful?”
“Yes.”
“Show me what you do.”
“What I do? I don’t understand.”
“What you do with Juliana. Teach me. Kiss me.” She slid along the sink, getting closer.
“It’s not something you need to know.”
“Like this?” she asked, touching the bodice of my dress. “Do you feel this?”
“Of course I feel it.”
“No, I mean do you feel it.”
“Come on, Virginia, let’s stop this.”
“Kiss me.”
“Virginia, you’re straight. What kind of a straight woman would you be if you went around kissing—”
She kissed me, full-mouth and tongue; her hand reached into my gown and inside my bra, and the sensation ran all the way down to my toes. “Love me,” she begged. “I need to be loved. Please.”