by Vanda
“I don’t think I’d talk to a guy like that. So, what’s it got to say?”
The piano player burst into something wild and hot with lots of up and down riffs. It was impossible not to look up from the paper and listen. Scott used our table as a piano and played along with the kid.
“You play?” I asked.
“A little.”
“I’m surprised. You don’t seem like, well—”
“Like the type? I’m not. I said a little.”
A middle-aged man walked over to the piano and pointed a finger at the boy, and he instantly switched to “Tea for Two.”
“Let’s see that paper,” Scott said.
I opened the paper flat on the table and was instantly awash in nostalgia, wondering which of my old friends sent it. I was hoping it’d been Aggie, wanting to be friends again. Stupid of me to tell her about my feelings for Juliana. The ads were for places I knew: Smiley’s, the local gas station where Dad had worked, Walker’s General Store.
“Oh, here’s something,” I said. “Emily Weller had her third child. I knew her in high school and, and …” Suddenly, tears.
“What’s the matter?” Scott asked.
“Could I miss them? I haven’t seen my parents in nine years.”
“Gosh, why?”
“A fight on my wedding day. My husband-to-be walked into the room when Juliana and I were kissing.”
“That’s not good.”
“That pretty much ended my wedding. The last time I talked to my mother she was on the phone yelling that I was a—I hate this word—a queer.”
“Your own mother called you that?”
“Yeah, so I haven’t seen them since.”
“Maybe if you got into psychoanalysis you’d get cured. Then you could make it up with them.”
“You think I’m one of them?”
“Well, the way you feel about Juliana—”
“I should go to a doctor and be cured of loving her?”
“You can still love her, but not that way.”
“Oh, no, look at this.” My eyes scanned a small notice with a high school picture of a girl I didn’t know. There was a penciled circle around her face.
“What?”
“Danny. A boy I grew up with. He lived next door to me. He’s getting married.” I had a strong suspicion that it was my mother who sent this paper to say, ‘I told you so,’ but maybe it was Danny.
“That sounds good, so why the ‘oh, no?’”
“He was my beau when I first came to the city and then Max … forget it.”
“I know Maxwell had a rambunctious past.”
“That’s one way of putting it. Danny and Max had a brief fling. Then Danny joined the army. I saw him right after the war. He’d fallen in love with a soldier. He was thinking about getting to know him better; he was a little scared about it, but I really thought he was going to do it.”
“But he’s getting married, instead? Don’t you see? He’s cured.”
“Is he?”
“Yeah. And if he’s cured, it means a cure is possible. You should have a drink to celebrate. I don’t drink myself, but it seems like someone should drink to this news. What’d you say his name was?”
“Danny.”
“Danny. My hero. Is wine okay, or did you want something else?”
“Wine’s fine.”
Scott picked up the drink menu. “Uh, the only wine they have is this, uh, Louis Jadot beauj, uh oh, I’m never going to pronounce this right.”
“We don’t have to pronounce it; we, or I, only need to drink it.”
“True.” Scott signaled the waitress. “Bring us one glass of this,” he pointed at the menu, “and I’ll take a Coca Cola. That’s as strong as I get.”
“Scott, if you had a friend who you thought might be … gay, but you weren’t absolutely positive. Would you come out and ask?”
“Why would you do that?”
“To have a more honest friendship.”
Scott shook his head. “No. You can’t ask someone a thing like that. What if you’re wrong? It’d be an insult to them, and you could lose your friend, or worse. With it being illegal in New York to hire a homosexual, that person could ruin your future.”
“But I’m not one of …” almost came out of my mouth. Then I remembered, I was. “But I wasn’t talking about me. I was talking about someone who I thought might be—”
“If you’re wrong, that person could get you kicked out of college.”
“I guess you’re right. Could I show you these pictures?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “Get your opinion.”
“Sure. Not that I know anything about show business.”
“I want your opinion as someone who served in the war. You see, Juliana entertained the troops on the front lines for a few weeks toward the end of the war, and I wanted to see what you think.” I slid a few photos out of the envelope. “So?” I asked.
“I suspect a—normal man would find them … She looks pretty, but you’re not asking the most qualified person.”
“I have mixed emotions about them. On the one hand, I like looking at them. She looks—‘hot.’ And that makes me—hot. Gosh, I can’t believe I said that to you.”
“That’s okay. I understand.”
“You see, even though she and I are kind of working together, we don’t get much time—you know, alone, so when I see these pictures, I get … Why am I telling you this?”
“Because I’m your friend.”
“That’s nice. I don’t know that it’s such a good idea to use these pictures. They seem to exploit the war. I mean, that was serious business and people lost their lives. You were in it. What do you think?”
He shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t see them as so bad. That was a brave thing for her to do, so why not tell people?”
“I guess. Then there’s this other part of me. That part doesn’t like the idea of having men look at her, and you know, thinking—the things men think.”
“That’s your sick part. The part of you that thinks you’re in competition with men when you can’t be. You’re a girl. My analyst tells me the reason so many people are becoming perverts these days is because our roles are getting mixed up. He says it’s because girls think they can be independent of men, so they act mannish. That makes men lose confidence in their manly role, so they start acting womanish.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I don’t know.” Scott sighed. “That’s what Dr. Snyder says. Can I have one of these pictures? This one. This cleavage one.”
“Sure, they’re only proofs, but why would you want that?”
“Dr. Snyder says I should look at pictures of women. He suggested French postcards. You know, the kind that shows girls with no clothes on. Guys in the army passed them around. I don’t want to look at those kinds of pictures, but this one, it’s pretty so—”
“Take it. Don’t think anything really disgusting about her, okay?”
“If only I could.”
We both laughed.
Chapter 33
I SAT AT my desk sipping my hot, morning tea; only it was mid-afternoon, and the tea was tepid. My desk was piled high with the usual precariously- balanced newspapers. I placed my teacup on the desk and carefully slid The New York Times from the bottom of the stack. I got past the first page, and the second, on my way to “Arts & Leisure,” but was stopped by the headline on the third page: “Federal Vigilance on Perverts Asked.” Couldn’t there be one day without these articles? We were only a few days away from Juliana’s opening. What if people found out about us? How awful to be thought of as sick, an unnatural thing, with no right to exist. I’d never work again. I remembered my father back during the depression. How ashamed he’d been that he could find no work.
Through my office window I saw Shirl walk by, and I threw open the door. “Shirl!”
She spun around and looked at me strangely. “Is there an emergency?”
“No. Well, may
be. No. Could I talk to you a minute?”
She stepped into my office and sat in the chair at the side of my desk. “This is a switch,” she smiled. “Me in your office. I like watching you grow.”
“Shirl, I—realized I’m a—a …”
“You have me in suspense.”
“It’s hard to say—about yourself—uh, homosexual.” I pushed the word out.
“Uh, Al? I thought we had this conversation years ago, and we established that then.”
“No. You established it. I didn’t think it applied to me. I know that sounds nuts with me being certifiable for Juliana, but I thought if it were only one girl then I wasn’t really … I’ve been with another girl.”
“Wonderful.”
“No, it’s not. It means that I’m one of those people the papers talk about.”
“You always were. Just because they’re talking about us now hasn’t changed anything. Are there any possibilities with this new girl?”
“No. She’s straight.”
“Oh, Al, stay away from straight girls. They have their little experimental fling, step on your heart, and then go running back to the men. But still, this is good. It means I can introduce you to some—”
“I don’t want to meet anyone. I want to know about what I am and why I’m this way. Maybe I need a doctor. Have you ever gone to one of those?”
“I don’t want some doctor telling me who to love.”
“But how does it happen?”
“We’re different. Is it so terrible to be different?”
“Yes! It’s terrible when people think you’re dangerous and they have to stay away from you because you might do something awful to them. Are there any books?”
“The only books I know will tell you you’re sick. I don’t think you need to read them. No. Wait. There is one. It’s been banned in England. They came close to doing that here, but they didn’t succeed. Still, you need to be cautious about who sees you reading it.”
“Banned?”
“The courts called it obscene. I’m not sure what I think about it, certainly not obscene, but lots of women find it useful. It’s a little too tragic for my tastes, but Mercy loved it. Bawled all the way through it, which is how she decides if a book is good or not. I’ll bring it to you tomorrow.”
“What is it?”
“The Well of Loneliness.”
* * *
Next day, Shirl brought me a brown paper package. Inside was a copy of The Well of Loneliness, which was further wrapped in a plain brown wrapper. When I peeled back the paper, I found a card from Mercy that read: “I’m so happy you’ve decided to read this. When you’re finished, come for tea and we’ll talk.”
I was too busy with Juliana’s opening to read it. No time for this book. I had a pile of work, and I promised Marty I’d go to his play, so … I opened to the first page and went on to the second, the third, the next and the next. Finally, when it was time to set up The Haven for the first show, I called Max and asked him to send someone over from the Mt. Olympus to cover for me. I took a cab back to my apartment and read all night, not stopping for Marty’s play at school—I’d go on the weekend—and into the morning. By mid-afternoon of the next day, I closed the back cover and took a cab to Shirl and Mercy’s.
* * *
“Al, you look terrible,” Shirl said, when I showed up at her door.
“I’ve been up all night. I came to see Mercy. Is she here?”
Mercy peered around the corner. “Come. We’ll go into my sewing room. I just put on a pot of coffee. Oh, you prefer tea, don’t you?”
“Coffee’s fine. I’ve been drinking it all night.”
Mercy and I sat close together in puffy chairs in her bright yellow sewing room, huddled over our coffee. She wore a blue and white housedress and white ankle socks. She kicked off her penny loafers.
“Merce, how could you have found this book helpful?”
“You didn’t like it?”
“The main character, Stephen, says that people like us have male souls. Do you feel like that?”
“I don’t, but I think Shirl has a male soul. Didn’t you find it romantic and …” she whispered, “…sexy?”
“Not really.”
“That first woman. Wasn’t that affair a little sexy?”
“Yeah, a little, but that woman was so mean to Stephen.”
“Yes, but for a while it was a passionate friendship.” She giggled.
“But that ending—”
“You didn’t think it was romantic? It shows the inverts’ greater capacity for suffering.”
“If I’m one of those, I don’t want a greater capacity for suffering. I don’t want to suffer at all.”
“But you sacrifice yourself.”
“No, I don’t.”
“You stick by Juliana no matter what, help her with her career even though you know she’ll never leave Richard. What would you call that?”
“Mentally deranged. It’s how the doctors say we are.”
“Oh, come now, you’re not mentally deranged. You’re a romantic in love. Like me, like Stephen.”
“Mercy, in this book, these inverts are called freaks. Stephen cries out to
God; it’s right here. I put a slip of paper in the page to mark the place.” I opened the book, slid my finger down the page and read aloud. “‘Acknowledge us, oh God, before the whole world. Give us the right to our existence.’ I don’t want to be a freak, someone who even has to beg God to be acknowledged. Did you see that movie, Freaks?”
“Yes. And it was horrifying that people had to live so deformed with other people laughing at them, but remember, the point of that movie was that it was the normal people who turned out to be the true freaks. Maybe there is a parallel to us.”
“Do you think you’re a freak because you love Shirl?”
“Well—maybe a little, if I get right down to it. It’s not the way most girls behave. Is it?”
“No, but—”
“I love Shirl. I’d have it no other way, but sometimes, when I go to Philadelphia to visit my mother, I wish Shirl could be there with me. When my father died, I had to do everything alone. I had to take the bus to mourn with my family alone. Shirl couldn’t stand beside me and hold my tears or God bless my mother, or kiss my sister on the forehead. She couldn’t call me on the phone, because my relatives would’ve hung up on her. Yes, there are times I’ve wished Shirl was my honest-to-goodness, born male husband, and I wish every day I didn’t have to pretend to my family she doesn’t exist. I was raised to be someone’s wife, someone’s mother. I darn Shirl’s socks, cook her meals, keep her house clean, and I love every minute of it, but …” Tears suddenly slipped down Mercy’s face.
“You wish you weren’t …? “
“Oh, no. I love who I am. I love my life with Shirl. It’s—I’d like a child, that’s all, and this life can never give me that. But I’ve never loved a man. Shirl is all the man I ever want.”
“Mercy, I’m so confused. And—scared of myself.”
“Why?”
“I’ve never said this to anyone before, but ... for a long time, I didn’t even dare think it, but …” I whispered, “I have a lot of maleness in me.”
“I know.”
“You do?”
“Of course. So?”
“I always feel like I’m trying to hide it, but it keeps jumping out, and I have to stuff it back inside me, because if I let it out I’ll be a freak. Still, I don’t think I’m like Stephen, but I have these dreams. They scare me ’cause ... I think I might turn into ... When I was little, I wanted to be a boy so bad.”
I took a deep breath. Was I really going to tell her this? She sat there looking gentle with the softest smile, ready to receive anything I said. I had to take this chance. “I used to run out of the house some days and walk around the block, and ask God to turn me into a boy. I was convinced there had been some mistake in Heaven, and I figured since God loved me—I mean, gee, someone had to, and they
told me He did in Sunday school—He wouldn't want me to be miserable for my whole life—so He'd miraculously turn me into a boy, like I was sposed to be.
One day I'd wake up and be a boy and—truly happy. Of course that never happened, but when I was around twelve I started having these dreams. I thought maybe God had finally decided to do it, or He was going to do it half-way and make a fool of me.” I took a sip of my now-cold coffee and looked away. “I dreamed I grew a beard in the night. It felt so real, in the morning I had to touch my face to make sure it hadn’t happened. I still have that dream on and off, and it still scares me. It’s the maleness in me, I suppose. What if Juliana sees it?”
“She probably has, and that’s why she keeps you around.”
“What?”
“We all love you the way you are. Whether you have a male soul, or something else, doesn’t matter. It’s a dream. It’s what you’re doing when you’re awake that matters. And on that note, if you didn’t like that book, I have another one for you.” She bounced up and slid in her stocking feet to a small bookcase. “Try this. It’s from France, recently translated into English.”
I held the small paperback and read the title, Women’s Barracks. “It’s about people like us?” I asked.
Mercy smiled. “It’s good to hear you say you’re one of us.” She kissed me on the forehead.
Chapter 34
May 1950
MARTY BURST INTO the auditorium, chorus girls dripping from both arms. “Alice!” He shook off the girls and threw his arms around me. “You came!”
“Wouldn’t have missed it.”
“You’ve got to come with us.”
“Where?”
Taking my hand, he pulled me up the aisle. “We’re going out to celebrate.”
“No. They’re your friends. I’ll be an outsider.”
Still pulling me along, “Two outsiders on the town. It’ll be fun. You’ll be my date.”
Moshe leaned against the wall near the exit, pouting. He wore his usual suit that was too short for his arms and his yarmulke. He held his fedora in his hand by its brim.