Mrs. Lupino was standing in her window. She had a white sheet wrapped around her and something on her head like a Christmas decoration with gold stars and moons on it. In the crook of one arm, she was holding a statue of the Virgin. In her other hand she held a red votive candle. The light from the candle, below her face, made the lines of her face look like a mask. On the windowsill were two cats, the yellow New York drop-dead fuck-you cat and the black cat with the green eyes.
Some people on the sidewalk were staring up at Mrs. Lupino too, but nobody thought it was weird. She looked like the logo for Stranded Beings Searching for God.
That’s when I saw Harry.
Harry sat down next to me on the stoop. His bright Hawaiian shirt, green and red and blue, was soaked through. Sweat stains on his khaki pants. Crusty critters in the corners of his eyes. His pink skin not so pink. His hair wasn’t carrot-top curls anymore but just a red rug on his head. Harry’s hand was hot.
Roll me a cigarette? Harry said.
You don’t smoke, I said.
I’m smoking tonight, Harry said.
I pulled one of the cigarettes from my shirt pocket. Lit Harry’s, lit mine.
Where were you, Harry? I said. You all right?
Opening-night jitters, Harry said.
This always happen to you?
Harry pinched a button on his Hawaiian shirt and pulled the shirt away from his chest. It was Argwings Khodek, Harry said. Vomit spray.
Then: Jesus! Harry said. What’s that?
What? I said.
Up there in the window! Harry said.
Oh, I said, That’s Mrs. Lupino.
While Harry was looking up at Mrs. Lupino, I was looking at Harry, at his face turned toward the porch light of 205 East Fifth Street. A drop of sweat under his sideburn rolled by his ear down to his jaw.
You feeling all right, Harry? I said.
How was the performance? Harry said. Brilliant?
Complete presence, I said.
Then: Say, Harry said. Let’s see if we can ditch Susan Strong’s family and the three of us go have a beer somewhere.
We could go to Fish Bar, I said.
Does Argwings Khodek want to join us? Harry said.
Rose? I said. I don’t know. Have you seen him?
No, Harry said.
He’s probably too tired, I said. Usually on Saturday nights, we watch Saturday Night Live.
Harry put both hands on his Hawaiian shirt stomach.
Oh, good, Harry said. I couldn’t handle any more vomit spray.
Then: Excuse me, Harry said. I need to talk to Susan Strong.
Cool, I said.
Harry pushed his hand against the stoop and pushed himself up. I stood up too because Harry was weaving. I put my shoulder into him. Harry stepped back quick, reached into his butt pocket, and grabbed a red handkerchief. Right side.
I’m all right, I’m all right! Harry said.
Harry wiped his face, and when he turned he used the newel post. Just when Harry was at the door of Stranded Beings Searching for God, I quick hollered out, Harry! Argwings Khodek might still be in there!
Harry stuck his head slow inside the door, hollered something inside, then something else. Then Harry turned my way and made his lips pronounce the words big: He showered, then left, Harry said.
Up the eleven steps of the stoop, up the thirteen steps to Rose’s apartment, I knocked loud on Rose’s door, three or four times. No dogs barked.
Back down the thirteen steps, on the stoop, left and right, no Rose in the crowd of people on the sidewalk.
Rose was not in Fish Bar.
No Rose in either of the bathrooms.
Then I got to thinking Rose was up on the roof, so back down the block, back up the eleven steps of the stoop, then up the one hundred and two steps to the roof.
No Rose.
No Charlie 2Moons.
Back down on the stoop, Harry was sitting on the bottom step.
Harry, I said, No Argwings Khodek?
God forbid! Harry said.
Harry poked his elbow into my ribs.
There! Harry said. Right over there.
Rose? I said. Where?
Not Rose, Harry said, Her parents—Susan Strong’s parents.
Who?
Susan Strong’s family, Harry said. Over by the garbage cans.
I handed Harry a cigarette and lit it for him. Harry’s hands were shaking.
Susan Strong’s parents, Harry said. Dave and Margo.
Harry blew out smoke, coughed, spit tobacco.
And her brothers, Harry said. Gus and Hunter.
Harry held his stomach when he stood up.
All this family shit! Harry said. How can you reinvent your life if the original versions won’t leave you alone?
Even if they’re dead, I said.
Just a car length away from the stoop, the silver-haired high-maintenance chick and the three lawyers all stood together, close, in some kind of circle. The father and the sons on the outside, the silver-haired chick in the middle.
No matter where they go, Harry said, The Macllvanes always look like a garden party in Greenwich.
They’re so collegiate! I said.
Perfect family, Harry said. Anti-Defamation League. Amnesty International. Dave is a lawyer for Greenpeace. They love their children—their two little queer sons and their headstrong Muffy. Margo is head of Catholic Mothers with Gay Children, CMGC. House on Martha’s Vineyard.
God, Harry said. It goes on forever.
Susan Strong, I said, Has a mother.
Insidious! Harry said.
And a father, I said.
Susan Strong and I figure we’re aliens, Harry said. We both have Pluto right next to our ascendants.
James Joyce’s idiot savant daughter, I said. Fucked a truck driver.
And New York’s only Irish Catholic homosexual, I said.
On the rectangle of earth where I’d plant the cherry tree, I put my one hand on Gus’s shoulder, one hand on Hunter’s, on the seersucker of their sports jackets. Hunter turned and Gus turned. They looked like twin Christopher Reeves when he’s Superman, not Clark Kent.
I was just wondering, I said. How did you get so sure, so believable, so beautiful?
Hunter said, Good genes.
Gus said, Good education.
Hunter said, Good connections.
Gus said, Good vacations.
Hunter said, Friends.
Gus said, Family.
Hunter said, Wealth.
Gus said, Privilege.
But it’s not the truth. I didn’t go over to Fiona’s family.
* * *
HARRY HELD THE cigarette between his thumb and index finger. All around him on the stoop were drops of sweat.
You ever seen Autumn Sonata? Harry said. It’s this film, Harry said, About a mother who is a professional pianist, Ingrid Bergman and her daughter, Liv Ullman.
A talent for reality, I said.
Right, Harry said. A talent for reality. Being present in the moments of your life and remembering them.
Ingrid Bergman? I said.
Ingmar too, Harry said.
Just then, Margo and Dave and Hunter and Gus all laughed. All at once, all the Macllvanes laughed.
Then, all at once, Fiona was standing on the sidewalk, just up from the steps of Stranded Beings Searching for God.
On one person, in all my life, I’d never seen so much leather, so many chains and studs. Leather bra. Leather body halter. Leather miniskirt. Leather studded belt. Leather studded bracelets. Chains dripping off her ears, her shoulders, her waist. Leather boots. Leather jacket slung over her shoulder. Studs and chains on the jacket. Fiona’s hair was piled on top of her head about two feet high, wires and electrical shit and red combs and rhinestones in her hair.
I can fuck you blind and keep it simple. Try me.
All that standing right underneath Mrs. Lupino in her window wearing the white sheet and holding the Virgin and the votive cand
le with the cats.
Heaven above us, Hell below.
Thank God she left off the dildo, Harry said.
Fiona, walking performance space that she was, leaned against the newel post. She raised her chin, poked her breasts out, and with a smile as large as her lips cried, Mother!
Fiona waved her hand, elbow elbow, wrist wrist wrist.
Father! Wasn’t it marvelous?
The Macllvanes’ bodies all pointed at Fiona. The high-maintenance silver-haired chick and the three lawyers were smiling smiling.
Margo Macllvane was a tall woman, big-boned, thick silver-white hair parted down the middle of her head, white hair curling in line with her chin. Tanned. Blue Fiona eyes. No makeup, maybe some eye makeup and a little peach lipstick. High cheekbones, long narrow nose. She was wearing a white silk blouse, a deep purple paisley scarf, and dark slacks with a belt. Tan ankles, long feet, in soft brown leather shoes, no heel. Her shoes matched her belt and her purse—the purse strap across the front of her. The purse was small, monogrammed, at her hip. She moved the purse from her hip and put it in front of her, folded her hands over it, pushed her hips forward, leaned back.
Dave Macllvane was smoking a pipe and looked like a Kennedy—dark brown hair longish from the sixties, gray at the temples, tortoiseshell glasses that he poked back onto his nose. Dave was wearing those leather kind of slip-on shoes men from New England wear on boats, khaki pants, belt, a blue button-down oxford shirt, silk paisley tie loose at the collar.
The twins, Hunter and Gus, were not dressed exactly alike, but close. Seersucker suits, white shirts, silk ties undone. Variations of Dave. YUFAs. The Hyannisport Homos were leaning back, same angle as Margo, hands folded in front of them same as Margo.
The Macllvanes all started to talk at once and then they all stopped.
Then it was Margo. She hadn’t moved from her leaned-back angle, and she didn’t move while she spoke.
Yes, simply marvelous! Margo said. The smile. We enjoyed it, didn’t we, Dave? Margo said. A naked black man is just what we wanted to see tonight.
Hi, honey! Dave said to Fiona. You were great.
Margo Macllvane walked over to her daughter, long strides toward Fiona, took Fiona by the shoulders, leaned back at an angle, the same angle, her eyes square into Fiona’s, Fiona’s eyes back, not a blink.
Margo smiled, then kissed Fiona on the cheek.
Fiona was battling with complete presence, you could tell. It was her lip—curling up the way Charlie’s horse ayaHuaska always curled his lip before he bit you.
Fiona grabbed me by the hand, stood behind me, and pushed me to her father.
Mr. Macllvane, I said. Nice to meet you, I said.
Our two hands together, one firm shake up and down.
His hand was small.
Will! he said. Dave.
Fiona pushed me to her mother next.
Mrs. Macllvane, I said. Nice to meet you, I said.
Margo leaned back, smiled, looked at my pearls, put her hand in my hand for a moment, then leaned forward.
Call me Margo, she said.
Then it was Hunter and Gus. Both of them shook my hand, said, Nice to meet you. Their hands were larger than their father’s. Each one of them, my hand to their hands, one firm shake up and down. Neither of them looked at me.
I’d been practicing what to say to Hunter and Gus, but when it came time to say something, I just smiled, looped my index through my strand of pearls, and stopped smiling.
You look great! Margo said to Fiona. Like Carly Simon on that album cover. Dave? Don’t you think Muffy looks like Carly Simon?
Mother! Hunter or Gus said.
You look great, honey, Dave said.
Dave knocked the ashes out of his pipe onto his shoe, blew on the pipe, and then walked over to Fiona.
How’s my little girl? Dave said, and put his arms around Fiona. Leather sounds.
Margo leaned back, hands around the purse in front of her, smile-gazing at Fiona. Of course, Margo said, You’ll have to change.
Dave the Dad stepped back. Way back.
Hunter and Gus stepped back too.
Change? Fiona said, and brought her hands to her throat. Change? I can’t imagine. What should I change?
Muffy! Hunter or Gus said.
Well, Margo said, We’re going to your father’s club, and you know their silly dress code. They won’t let you in looking like an album cover.
Mother! Hunter or Gus said.
Fiona’s fist on her forehead.
Oh, Mother! Fiona said. How foolish of me! I’ve made reservations for us at a downtown place, Fiona said. It’s called Life Café, and it’s just the newest place. They’ve torn out pages from old Life magazines and made art on the walls. I’m sure you’ll recognize some of the old covers, Fiona said.
Mother! Hunter or Gus said.
Andy Warhol may be there, Fiona said.
Just then a wind caught Margo’s silver hair.
Andy Warhol is dead, Margo said.
Ah, Fiona said. Yes, so he is.
What I meant, Fiona said, Was that Robert Mapplethorpe will probably be there.
Is he the photographer with the bullwhip up his butt? Margo asked.
That’s him, Fiona said.
Margo leaned back even farther.
Dave! Margo said, still smile-gazing at Fiona, Let’s go to Fiona’s place and see Robert Mapplethorpe. It would be fun, don’t you think?
Do they take credit cards? Dave asked.
Dad! Hunter or Gus said.
Oh, I just know they do, Fiona said.
It’s settled, then! Margo said.
Margo’s hands were all of a sudden two large things on the end of her arms she didn’t know what to do with.
I do hope Robert’s there, Margo said. You know, I saw him once at a fashion show on the West Side. Doris Berkland and I sat two chairs from him—Robert Mapplethorpe. The show was some new designer—crinkly little dresses I wouldn’t be caught dead in. The designer, poor man, had to rent one of those discos over there.
Margo’s large hand went up and pointed west.
Well, Margo said, The place smelled like sperm. The industrial gray carpeting, I swear, must have been saturated. Dottie and I started giggling. Can you imagine? Two chairs from Robert Mapplethorpe, everything smelling of sperm, and we get the giggles?
Are there cabs down here? Dave asked.
Dad! Hunter or Gus said.
We can walk, Fiona said. It’s not far.
Walk? Margo said.
Walk? Dave said.
Walk? Hunter or Gus said. Mom, Dad!
Mother! Gus or Hunter said.
Hunter or Gus raised his arms up, then slapped his arms against his thighs. We’re walking across the Lower East Side at night?
Margo was between her sons. Her legs were long too, like Fiona’s. Margo took a big step east on East Fifth and grabbed Hunter and Gus both by the arm, pulling them to her.
Don’t be so serious, you guys! Margo said, This is a free country. And besides, Margo sang, Who’s afraid of the big bad wolf?
Margo’s laugh, exactly like Fiona’s. High, off-key. Something mean in it.
Dave put his arm over Fiona’s leather shoulders and Fiona walked with her father, khakis to leather. At the corner of Second Avenue, the WALK/DON’T WALK was DON’T WALK. Dave leaned over, kissed Fiona on the cheek.
Harry and I brought up the rear.
On the corner of Fifth Street and First Avenue, a small woman, dark hair and skin, in Levi’s and a Levi’s jacket, walked up to us. She was barefoot.
San Simeon? she asked.
Dave reached into his pocket and pulled out some change and put the change in the woman’s hand.
Dave! Margo whispered loud. Mayor Koch said not to give these people any money. They’ll just buy drugs.
To hell with Ed Koch! Dave said. He’s a latent Republican!
And a fag! Fiona said.
Up Avenue A, Harry and I were following th
e Macllvane men. Margo and Fiona were arm in arm, in the lead.
Connecticut Matron meets Leather Queen.
On all the street corners, tennis shoes hanging from the telephone wires. Fiona turned around and said, loud enough for the whole street to hear, Third Street is the safest block in the city.
Two black guys in hooded sweatshirts turned around and looked at the group of us following Fiona.
It’s the Hell’s Angels’ block, Fiona said loud, But these days everybody’s a Hell’s Angel. Still, Fiona said loud, Don’t try and piss on their block!
Fiona said loud, There’s a mortuary not far from here on First Avenue. Right next to it used to be the Club Baths.
Muffy! Hunter or Gus said.
The dish is, Fiona said loud, There was a door between the Club Baths and the mortuary. Of course, Fiona said, The door existed only for those who were into fucking dead people.
Necrophilia, Margo said, like she’d say espadrille or Jack Russell terrier.
Door of the Dead.
It’s closed down now, Fiona said loud.
Because of that disease? Margo said.
Mom! Dad! Hunter, or Gus said.
Then, in all the world, Fiona, Margo, Dave, Hunter, Gus, Harry, and I were at the entrance to Tompkins Square Park. Dog Shit Park.
Hunter or Gus said, We’re not walking through there, Muffy!
My name is not Muffy, Fiona said.
What is your name these days? Margo said.
Susan Strong, Fiona said.
We can’t walk through there, Hunter or Gus said. It’s ten o’clock at night!
Then Fiona said, It’s no different in there from anywhere else down here. Come on! Fiona said. We’re homosexuals, we’re feminists, we’re liberal Democrats. It’s cool!
In the lamplight, Harry looked green.
Harry, are you feeling all right? I said.
Fuck you, Muffy! Hunter or Gus said.
Then, all at once, the whole Macllvane family, Margo and Dave and Hunter and Gus and Muffy, were yelling at one another. All of them all at the same time.
She’s always got something to prove! Fucking chip on her shoulder!
Don’t say fuck to your sister!
Dad, this is Tompkins Square Park. You can say fuck in Tompkins Square Park!
What’s wrong with being a liberal Democrat? Fucking Republicans don’t give a shit about poverty!
In the City of Shy Hunters Page 40