The Duplex

by Lucky Stevens

“Well yes, but don’t fight too hard, dear. I would like to have grandchildren one day, you know!”

  I was tired of talking at that point. “How about some coffee, Mother?”

  We took our coffee in the dining room. I began to get a bit concerned about the time. It was a little after 4:30 by this point, and I knew it would just complicate things if any of the gang got home when Mother was still visiting.

  “So, tell me more about your roommate,” Mother began.

  “What did you want to know, Mother?”

  “Everything. How much do you know about her? Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “No. I mean I don’t know. I mean I really don’t know that much about her. We’re just sharing expenses.”

  Mother continued with her questions. She wanted to know what Barbara did. I began to feel very cornered, and my mind began to race. If Mother was never going to meet her, it might be one answer; if she was about to walk through the door, it might be another. Of course, she wouldn’t walk through the front door—officially she lived on the left side of the duplex with Jerry. She’d walk right through that spare closet door if she was looking for me. I don’t know what I would say if that happened.

  “She’s a lawyer, Mother,” I answered.

  Mother kind of scoffed and blew some air, flapping her lips. “A lawyer. Yes, I would believe that, I suppose. She kind of looks like one.”

  What was that supposed to mean?

  “Or maybe she’s a legal secretary in a law firm. I’m not sure,” was all I could manage to say.

  Mother sipped her coffee, and I lit a cigarette.

  “Well, you certainly don’t seem to know a lot about this girl. She seems a little questionable to me. If I were you, I’d keep my door locked at night.”

  “Oh, I do, Mother.” I do. Of course, Barbara is inside the room with me when I do.

  I blew some smoke into the air and looked at my watch just as the doorbell rang, which caused my heart to jump. I must have made too much of it because I felt my mother’s eyes on me.

  “Excuse me,” I said and walked to the living room. I opened the speakeasy on the front door and saw a boy who looked to be about ten or eleven years old.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Oh, hello. Are you the lady of the house?”

  “Yes. Just a moment.” I closed the speakeasy and opened the door.

  “Hi, I’m Rusty Hollings. I’m looking for Mrs. Rayburn. She’s been paying me to cut the lawn.”

  “Oh, well, that’s fine. It’s nice to see a young man who’s so ambitious.”

  “Yeah, well, she asked me on account of she said she didn’t want any Orientals working for her, so I told her I’d do it. I live just a few doors down.”

  “Oh, oh, I see. Well my hu—” Easy, I interrupted myself. “That is, the man next door cuts the lawn.”

  The boy looked a little disappointed and told me that Mrs. Rayburn owed him a dollar fifty and was wondering if I knew where she was. I gladly paid him, and we said our goodbyes.

  “He seemed like a nice young man. So, the man next door cuts your grass? You haven’t told me about him. What—”

  “I’m pretty sure he’s married. Mother, I’m starved. Let’s go out.”

  “Nonsense. We can make something right here. It’ll give me a chance to try out your new kitchen.”

  “No Mother, there’s a new restaurant I want to take you to. You’re going to just love it. My treat.”

  “Well, alright. But really, darling, if you’re going to live on your own, you’re going to have to learn to budget.”

  We walked out the front door and down the walkway toward the car. I hoped I wouldn’t see any neighbors. Mother told me that she liked my new place, and that she looked forward to meeting my roommate next time.

  “But I suppose, dear, that I will have to be sure to phone first before coming over. The route to your new house is just so twisty, I don’t know how I’d ever find this place again. Not at all like when you were at home. Just straight down the hall.”

  Jerry Ripley

  I think I’m the happiest one in this whole place. Maybe the happiest guy in the world right now. I can’t tell you what it feels like to not have to be concerned with all that stuff I’ve been worrying about, well, probably my whole life, I guess. I go out with my “wife,” walk through a trick door like Houdini, and come home to Cliff. And I’m in love. It’s the God’s honest truth. I am in love with the Holy Trinity: Cliff; my “wife,” Barbara and my whole life and arrangement. Oh, and I can’t leave out Dot. I love her, too. I cherish it all. Everything. I think back to my near arrest. That was devastating. Cruising in bars, being set up with co-workers’ nieces, telling people over and over again, ‘Oh, I guess I just haven’t met the right girl yet.’ Well, that’s all over. Finished. I just feel so lucky and so happy. Life’s a kick I’m telling you. A k-i-c-k, kick.

  I wear my wedding ring now wherever I go, and it’s like having a membership card to society. I know I’m probably overstating it, but that’s how it feels. I know some guys think of rings like shackles, but not me. To me it feels like freedom. I told the gang at work that I got married over the weekend, eloped. They couldn’t be happier for me. A bunch of the guys even took me out for drinks and kidded me about the old ball and chain. And I was ready, too. I now keep a picture of Barbara in my wallet. And to be honest, it’s kind of fun showing it to people.

  And I feel liberated, too. The four of us go out about once a week, and we’ve started a little routine now where the girls cook breakfast on the weekend, followed occasionally by a game of bridge. This whole thing is what I’ve always wanted, I realize now. When I first arrived in L.A., it was like a playground. A place to get laid, and learn about life. It was exciting. But after a while, that playground got scary. And then I met Cliff and I realized that even though I am what I am, I can actually be in an exclusive, loving relationship. And the duplex was that final piece of the puzzle, and I’m finally living the way I want.

  Now this whole set-up just needs to be protected. We have to be careful. That in and of itself has presented a few challenges that I’ll admit I hadn’t thought of before moving in. But it’s all been worth it. I like to try to think of things relatively. There is good and bad in everything. And there’s always a trade-off. For example, when Cliff and I were cutting an opening between the closet walls with a circular saw, the noise was terrible and went on a pretty long time. That made me wonder about the neighbors. No one ever did come over, but I did wonder about it. Fortunately, Cliff had made a nice bookshelf years ago so if the issue had been pushed we had a nice alibi.

  Speaking of neighbors, I guess that’s been the biggest challenge. I mean I just want to stay off the radar screen. You know, blend in. Why, just last week, for example, I had just pulled up to the house and parked in the driveway after getting off work. I had collected my briefcase and had just exited my car.

  “Excuse me.”

  It was a voice from behind me, so I turned around. He wore a grey suit, fedora, nothing out of the ordinary. He was smiling and had a pleasant enough face.

  “Hi,” he said. “Oh, I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  I felt a little self-conscious as I forced a smile. “Not at all. Good evening.”

  “Good evening. Name’s Mitchell. You’re new to the area, huh?”

  “Good meeting you, Mr. Mitchell. My name’s Ripley. Yes, yes, my wife and I moved in just a few weeks ago.” It still felt odd calling Barbara my wife.

  He welcomed me to the neighborhood and told me how nice it was to have good people on the block. Then somehow, we started talking about golf and television a little. He was a nice guy, and I liked him right off. Before I knew it, ten minutes had gone by, we were on a first name basis, and I had forgotten I was talking to a stranger.

  “What do you have there, Mr. Mitchell? I mean, B
ob.”

  “Oh! Oh, I was enjoying our talk so much I almost forgot. Well, listen if you don’t mind, I was wondering if you could do me a small favor, Jerry. It would only take a second.”

  “Sure.”

  “Great! If you could just sign your name right here, it would really help out.” He handed me a pen and turned his clipboard around and faced it toward me. “Actually, it’ll help everybody out. Right there,” he said pointing to a piece of paper on the clipboard. Lines one through six had already been signed.

  My smile faded. But I straightened it out trying not to be too obvious as I read the words at the top of the page.

  We, the residents of The Fountain Heights Area of Los Angeles, CA, in a concerted effort to maintain property values and promote unity and harmony, hereby promise and agree in this mutually consented to covenant that no property in this defined area shall be sold, transferred, rented, leased or otherwise conveyed to any member of the Negro race; i.e. not White or Caucasian. Furthermore no property or residence shall ever be occupied in any way by any person possessing Negro blood except by those acting in the capacity of domestic servant for a member of the Caucasian race who is himself the legal owner and/or occupant of a given property.

  I became aware of my heart beating in my chest. I had never had anything against Negroes. Well, to tell you the truth, I never really met more than a few in my life. And even then, the encounters were brief. They seemed about as nice as anyone else.

  “You know, Bob—er, Mr. Mitchell—I’m just a renter here. I’m not the owner. I-uh—”

  I extended the pen and clipboard back toward him, but he made no effort to receive them.

  “No, no, that’s okay. We’re just trying to show some unity here. The more signatures the better. Helps to get more people to sign. I’ll try and get Mrs. Rayburn later. We just need the support.”

  “I see what you’re saying.” I wasn’t sure what else to say.

  After a moment, he sighed. He did it in a way that seemed like he was trying to hold back; like he didn’t want to offend me. This was bolstered by a grin.

  “You know, Jerry, most people complain about the way things are. But they’re apathetic, these days. They’re not willing to do anything about the things that affect their communities. The thing is to not be like that. It’s better to take action. Do your part.

  “And listen, Jerry, don’t kid yourself. This affects you, too. That whole domestic servant clause. And, you know, you and your wife are going to want to buy a house eventually. Maybe in this neighborhood. And have kids one day. One little signature. All we want to do is keep this neighborhood decent, don’tcha know. It doesn’t take much for a neighborhood to nosedive, believe me. Besides, no man wants his family living in a slum, whether he owns or rents.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you Bob. I really can’t do anything right now. I can’t see very well now without my glasses. Another time.” This time he took back the pen and clipboard.

  “Alright. No problem. You got the general gist.”

  “Yeah,” I said gathering up my things.

  “Well, it was good meeting you Jerry!” he said, sticking his hand out.

  I shook it. Then I turned toward the front door and took a few steps.

  “Jerry,” he called. I turned. “Another time. I’ll be back.”

  “Yeah. Yes, another time. Take care, Bob.” I hurried into the house.

  Prior to Bob Mitchell—I guess it couldn’t have been more than three or four days after moving in—we got our first unannounced visitor to come to the door. I was with Cliff on our side when I heard the doorbell ring on the girls’ side. I decided to go over, through the closet passageway, to see if Barb, who was by herself, needed any help. It was kind of a strange feeling like we were in a play. The doorbell was like the curtain going up, and our performance would have to be improvised. I felt the ring on my finger and noticed that Barbara had hers on as well.

  Barbara had a serious look on her face and signaled to me that she would get the door.

  “Hello,” said Barbara as she opened the front door. She was smiling.

  On the other side was a woman in her mid-thirties, also smiling.

  “Hello,” she said. I couldn’t help noticing that she raised her shoulders as she said it. Her hair was red and she had a very slight overbite. “Please excuse me for intruding. We just wanted to give you some time to settle in, but I always like to meet my new neighbors.” Then she put out her hand. “I’m Edith Wallace.”

  We responded in kind and shook her hand. She couldn’t have been friendlier and had even brought us a pie. “I hope you like blueberry.”

  We’re a couple of fruit-lovers, I wanted to say but instead told her that blueberry was my favorite. I guess it must just be that church compulsion I’ve had since childhood. You know, that nagging voice in the back of your head that makes you want to blurt things out that you know you shouldn’t. Like, what if I were to just yell out something completely inappropriate right here in church?

  “Well, please come in,” said Barbara.

  “Oh, thank you. I can only stay a moment. Harold is out golfing, and when he comes home, he likes his lunch waiting for him.”

  Barbara excused herself to make coffee while Mrs. Wallace and I sat down at the dining room table. Being that the two sides of the duplex are a mirror image of each other, sometimes I look left when I should look right and vice-versa.

  “I’m still getting used to the layout here. In my previous residence the dining room table was over there,” I said with a laugh.

  She laughed too, and we engaged in some brief small talk until Barbara came back with the coffee and pie, which was delicious.

  “Do you have any children?” Mrs. Wallace asked at one point.

  It’s funny how this simple question threw me off, given these new circumstances. Of course, this is something that people would naturally ask. But it just hadn’t entered my mind until right then. And with this new living arrangement, I find myself always having to pause and think twice about things.

  “Well, we are newlyweds,” said Barbara without hesitation.

  Mrs. Wallace told us that that was wonderful news. But a shame we didn’t have children, however. Johnny, her son, was always looking for neighborhood kids to play with, especially when they live just right across the street.

  At this point I felt myself getting antsy. I thanked our neighbor for the pie and kissed Barbara on the cheek. “Please excuse me. It was very nice meeting you. I have a little work to take care of. Honey, if you need me, I’ll be in the second bedroom.”

  Mrs. Wallace seemed like a very nice lady. But as I left the table, two things were stuck in my mind as I made my way toward the second bedroom. Like pieces of corn caught in my teeth, they would stay there until I dealt with them. The first was children, and the second was how often Mrs. Wallace might be dropping by.

  “Oh, I remember when Harold used to kiss me every time he left the room. So, you have to tell me how you two met,” was the last thing I heard Mrs. Wallace say as I closed the bedroom door. Maybe it was my church compulsion again, but I wanted to yell out, “What about Harold’s lunch, Mrs. Wallace?” But of course I didn’t. I walked into the closet and back to Cliff.

  “You done playing house?” said Cliff, winking at me. He was standing in our bedroom bare-chested. He had just lit a cigarette.

  I walked over to him, rubbed his chest a little and kissed him. He kissed me back and turned to put on an old t-shirt. “I’m going to go out and change the oil in the Chevy.”

  “You want some help?”

  “Sure. You know anyone who knows anything about cars?” he asked. Then he flashed me that little smirk he has, which I love.

  “Funny.”

  “Grab a couple of beers, and I’ll meet you out back. Oh, and Jerry, hey, grab yourself something to drink while you’
re at it.” Wink.

  Cliff had parked the car up near the top of the driveway on the side of the house. He was underneath loosening the oil plug. He had told me when we moved in that he couldn’t wait to change the oil in his car because our driveway had a Hollywood strip, and he figured he could lie on that soft ribbon of grass when he was underneath the car.

  “How is it with the grass?” I asked him between sips of beer.

  “It’s pure luxury. I actually like it better than using a creeper. It’s nice being on solid ground.” Then he inched his way out from under the car.

  “Hiya, boys!” It was Dot walking up the driveway. Wow, she really was beautiful, and the dress she was wearing really showed off her figure.

  “Hi, Dot!” I said.

  Cliff shook his head. “Jeez, does the Catholic Legion of Decency know about you?”

  She laughed and smiled without a trace of conceit.

  “You should be on their ten most wanted list. So glad I married you, dollface,” Cliff continued.

  Looking at her, I realize, is pretty good confirmation to myself that I’m gay. She looked amazing as always, and I do love looking her at. But it’s in the same way, I have to admit, that I love looking at waterfalls in a pine forest. Just beautiful but no attraction.

  “Thank you, boys. Listen, I have a flat.”

  We looked at her and then each other. Cliff kind of shrugged and put his palms up and said to me, “A flat what? What’s she talking about?”

  “Beats me,” I said playing along.

  “I’ll bet she hasn’t had a flat anything since she was 12 years old.”

  Dot tightened her lips and kind of rolled her eyes, but I could tell she liked it. “Shh, not so loud, Clifford. The neighbors will hear you.”

  Cliff looked down, feigning shame. “Yes, dear.”

  “Anyway, if you could fix my flat—tire, Cliff, I would really appreciate it. After all, you are dressed for it, sweetheart.”

  “Of course, baby.”

  “Thanks, Cliff. It’s parked in the front.” Then she moved closer and handed Cliff her car keys and kissed his cheek.