Flavor of the Month

by Olivia Goldsmith

  Jahne looked at him directly. “Yes,” she said. “It is.”

  “So you’re scarred all over. Like a Frankenstein?” Sy Ortis asked, his high voice almost a shriek.

  “I don’t like to put it that way, but, yes, the scarring is extensive.”

  “So, no Penthouse.”

  “No Penthouse,” Jahne smiled.

  “What the fuck are you smiling for?” Sy spat at her. “The three of you were dream meat. God, now it’s a nightmare! Do you know what this does to you?”

  Jahne shrugged. “Ends my career as a sexpot?” she asked, and giggled. The bitch giggled.

  “How about ends your career completely? Don’t you see? The illusion is gone. They’ll look up at the screen and wonder, ‘Where are the scars?’ They’ll be watching for clues. They’ll be mesmerized. No producer, no director will want you.”

  Jahne laughed.

  “What the fuck are you laughing about?” Sy screamed.

  “I think it’s funny. A TV exploitation show that created the three sexiest women in America. What you so candidly call ‘dream meat.’ One is a Frankenstein, one sleeps with her brother, and the third one was a man. Not much left there to exploit, huh, Sy?”

  18

  There was never a funeral like it. Not Rudolph Valentino’s, not Jean Harlow’s, not even Marilyn Monroe’s compared to the carnival-cum-media-orgy that Lila Kyle’s funeral became.

  There was no one to do it for her except poor, heartbroken Robbie Lymon. Theresa was drugged out, Sy Ortis was bummed out, Marty was freaked out, and Ara Sagarian was out-and-out dead. Loved by millions, reviled by millions more, Lila had no one to pick out her casket and arrange the memorial service but an old camp follower of her mother’s.

  Robbie had the body dressed in a lavender Bob Mackie dress—if she had chosen to be a girl in life, she’d also be one in death, he said—and a frightening picture of Lila in the casket, her red hair clashing with the lilac-colored dress, was printed on the cover of half the magazines of the world. There were close to a thousand funeral wreaths and flower arrangements sent.

  Thousands came to see her. “They were her fans,” Robbie said, weeping. “She loved them.” The problem was that not all of them loved her. One woman tried to wipe the makeup off her dead face. Another began speaking in tongues before the casket. The funeral home finally put Lila behind a glass viewing wall. It gave her a sort of Snow White-in-the-glass-coffin look.

  Worse than the ones that reviled her, though, were the ones who came to worship at her shrine. Hundreds of young men (and some not so young) showed up in full Lila Kyle regalia, including high heels, makeup, and the de rigueur long red wig. Some screamed and fainted at the sight of her corpse. Others sobbed. Many had to be helped out. But, once they had viewed her, they raced to the end of the seven-block-long line to do it again.

  Thousands of teenage girls showed up, too. Somehow, they didn’t seem to mind the gender-bender revelation. Perhaps they even liked her more for it. After all, David Bowie had dressed almost as extremely and built a following twenty years before. And this was the nineties. The girls wailed out their pain in a constant keen of adolescent screaming.

  There were close to two hundred cars that tried to make the long run to Forest Lawn. The scene at the gravesite was bedlam. And, with all the people there, the only one who had actually known Lila in life was her aunt Robbie, who had to be carried from the grave.

  19

  Small things. If he kept his mind on small things, on tiny little things, Marty knew he was okay. A patch of sunlight reflecting off a wrinkle of the snow-white sheets. The shadow of the bedside lampshade on the wall. The taste of the sliced banana on his corn flakes.

  Slowly, Marty, in bathrobe and slippers, moved to the window that looked out over the beautifully manicured grounds. It must be Japan, he thought. Everything was so perfect, so neat, it had to be Japan. But then he remembered, and moved away from the window.

  He heard the now familiar key in the lock, and saw the nurse—what was her name?—come through the door. “Hi, how are you doing today, Mr. DiGennaro?” She picked up his breakfast tray and walked toward the door. “You did very well today. Your appetite is coming back.” She closed and locked the door behind her, leaving him in the silence of his thoughts once again.

  He sat in the reproduction-Queen Anne armchair that overlooked the garden below his window. Oh, no. Now he was upset. Tears filled his eyes, then slowly slid down his cheeks. He often sat here, in this clean and quiet room, and cried. He still had not figured out why, exactly, so he just let himself cry.

  The hospital bed had been made earlier, the fake-Aubusson rug vacuumed, and the Sheraton-style chest and bedside tables dusted. All this while he was at water therapy, before breakfast. He was impressed with the service here. A good hotel. No trouble in the world couldn’t be alleviated by a stay in a luxury hotel. Wherever it was. If it wasn’t Japan, was it England? No. Too sunny for that.

  He continued to sit on the brocade-upholstered chair and cry. Sometimes, every now and then, like now, just before medication time, a tiny window would open in his mind, and he’d remember. Lila. Lila was dead. And then he’d cry. Lila had lied to him, he remembered, the tears now flowing faster. And Lila was a man.

  She didn’t have to lie. He would have loved her anyway. But that made him a homosexual, and he was sure he wasn’t that. Still, they could have found a way. They did find a way. It would have been okay, if only Lila hadn’t lied. Lied and died. It made an ugly poem, buzzing in his head. She shouldn’t have lied and died. They could have worked it out, just the two of them.

  But now, Marty knew, it wasn’t just the two of them. He was the laughingstock of Hollywood, and pitied by everyone. It was the pity that hurt the most. Or perhaps it was knowing he would never see Lila again. No, it was the fact that he could never work again, never create beauty on a screen again, that really hurt the most.

  Lila lied to him. And now she was dead. Lied and died.

  Soon the nurse would return with the pleated paper cup of pills and the glass of water. Soon, soon, and then the tears and memories would stop.

  Usually Marty remembered none of this. Usually he couldn’t pull up a past event, a memory. Not even when Sally came to visit. He knew he knew Sally, but he couldn’t remember how, or from where.

  And not remembering anything, not knowing what had brought him to this place where he lived behind a locked door, that was exactly the way Marty liked it.

  20

  Monica Flanders towered over the crouched form of her son, Hyram, who sat at his desk. At four feet eleven, it was not easy to tower, but Monica achieved the effect spectacularly well.

  “First we find out the blonde is sleeping with her brother…”

  “He wasn’t really her brother, Ma,” Hyram began.

  “Oh, excuse me,” Monica said icily. “She recently found out he wasn’t. I feel so much better. Then the world discovers that the brunette is a monster.” She took a deep breath. So did Hyram.

  “Not a monster, Ma. Just a plastic-surgery patient. You yourself…”

  “I myself never looked like she did,” Monica snapped. “She was a nothing. A mess. She represents Flanders Cosmetics?” she snorted. “And if that wasn’t enough—a pervert and a lump—now we add a freak. A cross-dressing female-impersonator transvestite queer faygele to convince women to wear our lipstick. Perfect, Hyram. Perfect. Great idea you had.”

  “Mother, the show this week got the highest rating any show ever got. It’s…”

  “It’s a freak show, is what it is. And fuck the ratings. Fuck the ratings, Hyram. Tell me about sales.”

  “Well, you have to expect a little dip…”

  “Hyram, you really are an asshole. Even considering the possibility that you could take over for me is the only big error of judgment I ever made. Except, of course, for this fiasco. Don’t you get it, Hyram? The line is over. Finished. No woman will ever buy that shit again. We sell dreams, Hyram, not n
ightmares. The party, as they say, is over.”

  “But we have close to a hundred million dollars invested in that stuff.”

  “Take your losses like a big boy, Hyram.”

  “Mother, are you crazy? We’ll get a replacement for Lila Kyle. We’ll change the print-ad copy. We could even get rid of the other two. But we have to keep the line, Mother.”

  “Pull our sponsorship. Cut our losses. Start over on this one, Hyram.”

  He stood up. “Forget it. I’m not going to eat this loss. Not in my first year as president. Mother, I mean it: I’ll fight you on this. I’ll take it to the board. I’ll press the issue, Mother. They won’t see it as you do.”

  “Yes they will, Hyram. And they’ll remember who brought this idea to them. Don’t do it. You’ll be sorry.”

  But he did. And then he was.

  21

  Jahne sat on the veranda of Sharleen’s house, among the wrapped furniture and crated kitchenware. The two friends had been silent for some time. The sun was setting over the smog of the Valley, creating a spectacular sunset.

  “It’s the pollution and dust that make the colors,” Jahne said.

  “So, then, even dirt is good for something.”

  “And I thought all that garbage written about us was useless.”

  “Hell, no. We wrapped our dishes with a lot of it. And in Wyoming we’ll use it for starting fires and mulching the garden.” Sharleen grinned. Then she looked back at the sunset. “Sure is pretty. Nice to know there’s a chance for one every night.” She sighed. “I still can’t believe that Lila is dead. She ain’t gonna see another sunset. I mean, it’s all so weird. I still can’t believe she was a man.”

  “Well, I guess she wasn’t, really, was she? I mean, she had some of the equipment, but that didn’t make her a fireman, if you know what I mean.”

  “Speaking of mean, now we know why she was. I guess she was a really unhappy person.” Sharleen shook her head. “What did her mother do to her?”

  “I want to know what Marty did to her. I mean, she had to be pretty good at faking to make him think she was a woman. I’ve sometimes faked my orgasms, but not my gender.”

  “Huh?”

  Jahne looked at Sharleen. “Haven’t you ever faked an orgasm?”

  “Uh-uh. Well, why would I do that?” Sharleen asked. “What’s the point?”

  “Oh, to take the pressure off you, or him. To end it if it’s boring. To, well, you know.” Jahne found herself looking into Sharleen’s blank face.

  “I surely don’t. I haven’t slept with many guys, but I never faked how I felt in my life. It would be like a lie, and at a very bad time to lie.”

  “I think you’re right, Sharleen, but I think most women do.”

  Sharleen shook her head and shrugged. “I don’t understand about sex,” she said.

  “Join the club.”

  “I felt so ashamed about me and Dean for so long, it’s hard to get used to it bein’ okay. Plus, even when it wasn’t supposed to be the right thing, it always felt like the right thing. Sometimes it was the only thing that was right.”

  “You’ll get over the guilt. Just keep telling yourself he’s not your brother.”

  “Well, even if he isn’t my brother, he still feels like he is,” Sharleen said. “That’s what I like. That we’re like blood kin, you know? We really know each other. But now I ain’t ashamed. I know what other people still might say, and think, but I don’t care. I really don’t. Because I ain’t shamed. What we done, what we are, felt right. It is right.” She looked up at Jahne.

  “What you think is the most important thing, Sharleen,” Jahne said.

  “Well, yes, but I’d like you to understand.” She paused. “See, it’s like this: Sex with men, with other men, always felt like there was two different kinds of us in bed. Their kind and our kind. Even with Boyd, and then with Michael McLain, it always felt like it was a kind of two-part contest.”

  Jahne thought of Michael, of Sam, and nodded.

  “Well, with Dean it don’t feel like that. It don’t feel like his turn and my turn. It don’t feel like no contest. It’s just us.…We’re both us, both the same. It ain’t as excitin’ as with Michael, I admit that. And for a while I got confused. But now I know one thing: it may not be the way sex is supposed to be, but the way it is with Dean is the way I like it.” Tears stood in Sharleen’s perfect eyes as she searched Jahne’s face.

  And Jahne, all at once, was hit with such a strong wave of…of envy, she realized with a start of surprise. Because the strife, the battle, had always been there, between her and her lovers. The battle for possession, for dominance, for freedom. The battle of the sexes. And because always, following the excitement, there had been disappointment, loneliness, or betrayal. Always. They were never really on my side, she thought. Except maybe Neil. Neil was on my side, but he wasn’t exciting enough, pretty enough for me. I never slept with him. And now it’s probably too late for Neil. And maybe it’s too late for me.

  She looked at Sharleen, up front and beautiful as she’d always been, simple and straight and right as rain. She thought of all the advice she’d given Sharleen, of how she’d condescended to her, and she very nearly blushed.

  “What are you going to do?” Jahne asked Sharleen.

  “I reckon me and Dean are goin’ to take up my friend’s offer. We’re goin’ to move out to Wyoming with Dobe. He and us are partners on a big spread he bought out there. Dean and me’ll get married later.”

  “So, you’ll just walk away without looking back?”

  “Why, sure. And feel lucky. It could have been you or me got shot.”

  “But won’t you miss it? All the excitement, and the attention…and the money?”

  “Oh, heck. It ain’t ever the way it seems. You know that. Seems that there ain’t much money. So much went in taxes and fees. And there’s such a big mortgage on this place that lots went on interest and what all. Seems that only Mr. Ortis made money. I won’t miss him. And I missed my stepmother more once I found her than I ever did when she was gone. I’ll miss the idea of fame some. Wouldn’t be human if I said I wouldn’t. But I won’t really miss any of this…” She turned to look out the window at the hills spread below them. Then she looked back at Jahne. “I’ll miss you,” she said, “but I hope you’ll come to visit.”

  “I will,” Jahne promised.

  “What about you? You stayin’ on?”

  “I have a few things I still have to take care of.”

  “And then what?”

  “Then I don’t know.”

  “You’d always be welcome on the ranch, Jahne.”

  “Thanks.” Tears filled her eyes. She probably didn’t deserve a friend as kind as Sharleen, but she was grateful she had her. She’d better lighten this up, or else she’d be sobbing all over the two of them. “So,” she said, “no more Crimson, Cara, and Clover.”

  As if she sensed Jahne’s mood, Sharleen tossed her head and whistled. “Oh, hell, sure there is. We’re takin’ the three bitches with us!” She laughed, and turned to stroke the head of the first dog that ran to her side.

  22

  Jahne dressed carefully, as if for an important audition. But what role is it that you are trying out for? she asked herself. Good friend? A bit late for that. You haven’t played that role opposite Neil in a long time. Lady Bountiful? Isn’t that a laugh? You’ve never been a lady, and for the last year at least you’ve been spiritually and emotionally impoverished. What Neil must need is a real good psychiatrist and an even better lawyer, not some one-trick pony. Well, at least you can write a check. That might help him, though he may be beyond help now.

  Probably Neil won’t even have a clue as to who I am. He won’t know that I’m Mary Jane. Well, that I was. And why should he when you don’t? she asked herself. He might not even agree to see her. She surveyed herself in the full-length mirror of her marble bathroom. She wore a becomingly casual pair of the jeans Mai had made for her, and the big sweater
that she had worn with Sam on their vacation in Northern California. She stared at her reflection in the mirror: tall, willowy, her perfect face a shining oval, her thick, lustrous black hair cascading down from her widow’s peak, her lips full, her face a valentine. She still was amazed by her own looks. She looked like one of the people who’d always looked down on her. Back in New York, so many people had. Except Neil. She sighed.

  Another one of the privileges of fame, Jahne thought as she walked down the green-tiled hallway of the Los Angeles County Jail. Only relatives and attorneys are allowed access to prisoners. And, of course, the occasional reporter willing to pay out a few bucks. Or a movie star.

  “A close family friend” was how she had put it, and the prison official asked for nothing except the autographed photos she had been smart enough to bring, along with two tickets to a sneak preview of something or other that she’d received a week ago. He had looked her over carefully, and she was certain he was looking for the grisly scars. Well, he’d get a full report from the hefty female guard who’d searched her very thoroughly before she allowed Jahne to cross through the barred doors onto this corridor that led to the visiting room. Jahne had to announce herself as “Jahne Moore,” of course. Would Neil even speak to her?

  She left the security room, dressed neatly again, and began to walk down the hallway. She winced at the unbelievably harsh overhead lights, the green-checkered tile, the institutionally two-toned walls.

  She entered the small, private room the guard pointed her to. It was almost completely filled by a scarred wooden table and four mismatched chairs. Neil was sitting in the fifth, his narrow back turned to the door, dressed in an orange jumpsuit. He turned to her, his face more feral than ever, his eyes more deeply sunk and hooded. He surveyed her, not moving a muscle of his body or face.

  Then he stood. “Veronica!” he said, and as he held his arms out to her, his eyes filled with tears.