Sure of You

by Armistead Maupin

  “No, Mama,” he explained one more time. “I have the virus. I’m O.K. now, but I could get it eventually. I probably will.” God, how he hated this “it” talk. How could he ever explain to her that he had had “it”—or it had had him—from the very moment he learned of Jon’s diagnosis, over seven years earlier? Most people thought you got this thing and died. In truth, you got this thing and waited.

  “Well…I think you should be positive about it.”

  How like her not to know that she’d made a pun. “I am, Mama.”

  “Your daddy’s worrying killed him, sure as I’m sitting here. More than that cancer ever did.”

  “I know,” he said. “I know you think that.”

  “I just can’t help thinking if you found yourself a nice church, with a pastor you liked…”

  It never took her long to get back to this. “Mama.”

  “O.K. Never mind. I’ve had my say.”

  “Good.”

  Thack passed through the room naked, bound for the tub with a bottle of Crabtree & Evelyn bath gel. “Is that Alice?” he asked.

  Michael nodded.

  “Tell her I said hey.”

  “Thack says hey,” Michael told his mother.

  “Well, tell him hey back.”

  “Hey back,” he told Thack.

  Thack leaned over the bed and sucked Michael’s big toe. Michael yanked his foot away and tried to slap Thack’s butt, but his lover dodged the blow and gamboled off to the bathtub, laughing under his breath.

  “So what have you been up to?” he asked his mother.

  “Well…me and Etta Norris went to the new multiplex and saw that movie with Bette Midler you told me about.”

  “Oh, yeah? What did you think?”

  “I liked her.”

  “I told you.”

  “I guess I didn’t like her near as much as Etta. She like to laughed herself silly.”

  “Michael hollered into the bathroom, where Thack was splashing about like some creature at Marine World. “She likes Bette Midler.”

  Thack laughed.

  “What was that?”

  “Nothing, Mama. I just told Thack you like Bette Midler.”

  Thack yelled back. “I knew this would happen when they fucked up the ozone layer.”

  “What did he say?”

  “Nothing important, Mama.”

  “Listen, Mikey, they finally put in Papa’s tombstone last week. It looks real nice.”

  “Well…good.”

  “I took some pictures of it, so you can see.”

  For a moment all he could picture was the floral arrangement that had stopped him short at his father’s funeral the year before. Some doting, Bible-toting aunt from Pensacola had sent it, and his mother had displayed it proudly—and conspicuously—at the funeral chapel.

  A bed of white carnations formed the backdrop for a child’s toy telephone, also white. JESUS CALLED was written across the top in fat, glittered letters. Down below, it said: AND HERB ANSWERED. To Michael’s dismay, no one else there that day—not even his younger cousins—had found the slightest humor in this. He had ended up calling Thack from a neighboring Taco Bell, just to laugh with someone about it.

  He tried, and failed, to picture his mother’s idea of a “nice” tombstone. “I’m glad it turned out,” he told her.

  “It’s so pretty there.”

  Apparently she meant the cemetery.

  “Your papa was a smart man to buy that plot. You know they’re so expensive now you can’t hardly afford ’em at all.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “And he made sure there was room enough for the whole family.”

  For her, this was subtlety. Not to worry, she was saying, we’ve saved a place for you. He let it pass without comment, knowing she meant well, the way she had years before when she’d lobbied annually for him to spend Christmas “with the family” in Orlando. It had never even occurred to her that his family might be elsewhere.

  She rambled on for another half hour, filling him in on people he hadn’t seen for at least fifteen years. Most of her gossip was second generation, since his high school buddies were now the parents of children old enough to drink and take dope and “get into trouble with the law.”

  It wasn’t the same Orlando anymore. He’d seen as much when he went home for the funeral. In the years since his departure, the trees at Disney World had thickened into plantation oaks. The Mickeys and Goofys who plied their trade there could now be found off duty at Parliament House—the P.H. to those in the know—and antiseptic gay mall offering a choice of leather, western, or preppie saloons.

  The cemetery, as he recalled, had been two minutes off the interstate, with a broad avenue of palms and a heart-stopping view of the Piggly Wiggly.

  No, thank you, ma’am.

  Thack emerged from the bathroom in his terry-cloth robe. “How was she?” he asked.

  “Fine.”

  “What’s she been up to?”

  “Well…among other things, trying to bury me in Florida.”

  “Huh?”

  “My father’s tombstone arrived, and she’s working on a family reunion.”

  Thack rolled his eyes and sat on the edge of the bed. “Leave it to me,” he said.

  “She’ll fight you over it.”

  “No she won’t. She likes me.”

  “That has nothing to do with it. Trust me.”

  Thack picked at the comforter for a moment. “Did you tell her what you wanted?”

  “No.”

  “Are you going to?”

  “I guess I’ll have to write her,” said Michael. “It’s kind of hard to get chatty about.”

  Thack smiled. “Turn over.”

  Michael turned over. Thack straddled his back and kneaded the muscles at the base of his neck.

  “These people are serious Christians,” Michael told him. “They’ll put me in the living room and bring casseroles.”

  His lover laughed. “Shut up.”

  “I mean it. You don’t know.”

  “Yeah, yeah.”

  “And next to me there’ll be this huge philodendron on a spinning wheel…”

  “Just relax.”

  “Lower,” said Michael. “That feels wonderful.”

  “There?”

  “Yes.”

  Thack seized the tightest rope of muscle between his thumb and forefinger. “What is this, anyway? Mary Ann?”

  “Do you have to name it?” said Michael. “Can’t you just rub it?”

  The new doorbell made them both jump. This particular model had caught Michael’s eye at Pay ’n Pak with its simple design and lyrical name—the Warbler. What this meant was that it fired away like a machine gun as long as there was a finger on the bell. Only the briefest poke would produce the lone dingdong usually associated with a doorbell.

  And the damn dog went nuts over it.

  “Harry,” said Thack, springing off Michael’s back. “Shut the fuck up.”

  “Who are we expecting?”

  “Nobody.”

  Harry was in the living room now, yapping like crazy. Michael scooped him up and stashed him in the guest bedroom. Peering through the spy hole in the front door, he saw Brian’s distorted face, golden as a carp’s under the orange porch light. He was the only person they knew who never remembered not to lean on the doorbell.

  Michael opened the door. “Hi.”

  “Hi. Sorry I didn’t call first.”

  “No problem.”

  “Is it a bad time?”

  “Not at all.”

  Thack let Harry out of the guest bedroom. The dog did a barkless little jig around Brian—the one he saved for members of the immediate family.

  “How’s it going, Harry?” Brian let the dog sniff his hand for a moment, then gave it up, seemingly drained of energy. “You guys were in bed, weren’t you?”

  Thack shook his head. “On it. Back rub.”

  “Oh.”

  “Sit d
own. Can we warm up some polenta lasagna for you?”

  “No, thanks.” He sank into the armchair as if he might never get up again.

  “There’s some wine,” said Michael. “Sauvignon blanc.” He had just noticed how wrecked Brian’s eyes were.

  “Any Scotch?”

  “Not really.”

  “How ’bout rum?” Thack suggested.

  Michael looked at his lover. “Where do we have rum?”

  “Under the sink, next to the cleaning stuff.”

  “Since when?”

  “We bought it for the eggnog last year.”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Rum would be great,” said Brian.

  Micheal brought back the bottle with a glass. Somehow, the mission seemed fraught with urgency, like serum being dogsledded across the Yukon. “There’s not much to mix it with. Diet Cherry Coke, maybe?”

  “Straight up’s fine.”

  Michael poured several inches. Brian downed it in one gulp and handed the glass back. “I know that’s a cliché, but it had to be done.”

  Michael smiled. “Want another?”

  “Nope. That was it. Thanks.”

  “No problem.”

  Brian looked down at his hands, dangling between his legs. “I talked to her,” he said.

  “Did you?” It was best, Michael decided, not to tell him she had called. That could only lead to trouble. He put down the glass and sat next to Thack on the sofa.

  “Why didn’t I see it coming?” said Brian. “How out of it could I have been?”

  There was a long silence, during which Harry hopped onto the armchair and settled his chin against Brian’s leg.

  “I was actually picturing it, you know.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Michael.

  “New York,” explained Brian. “We had a brownstone on the Upper West Side. And a cat. And Shawna and I knew the museums by heart.” Brian stroked the dog’s back. “I was just cruising along like everything was copacetic.”

  “Why shouldn’t you?” Thack said quietly.

  “But…if I’d communicated more…”

  “Look,” said Thack, “it’s not your fault.”

  Michael, who was thinking what a straight word “copacetic” was, cast a nervous glance at his lover. Neutrality was in order here, and Thack, as usual, seemed on the verge of blowing it. “I don’t think it’s a question of fault, really.”

  Thack gave him a dirty look.

  “I can’t go back to the condo,” said Brian. “Not while she’s still there.”

  Silence all around.

  “Somebody’s gotta talk to Shawna, I know, but…” Brian’s face balled up like a first, rubbery with grief. He began to sob soundlessly.

  Michael and Thack remained still.

  “I’m sorry, guys.”

  “That’s O.K.,” said Michael.

  “It’s just there, you know?” Brian took a couple of swipes at his eyes. “I thought I had it under control.”

  The doorbell fired off another sally, making them all jump. Harry sprang off Brian’s lap and barked vigorously at the latest intruder.

  “Who the fuck is that?” Thack looked at Michael.

  “Got me.” Michael picked up the poodle, causing him to downgrade his yap to a low growl. Brian gave Michael an apprehensive look, as if he thought Mary Ann herself was waiting behind the door.

  Thack peered through the spy hole. “Christ.”

  “What?” said Michael.

  “What day is this? Think.”

  It took Michael a moment. “Oh, shit.”

  “Do we have anything?” asked Thack.

  Michael racked his brain. There hadn’t been candy in the house for months. None, at any rate, that had survived their last tumble off the sugar wagon. There weren’t even any apples. This was the second year in a row they had forgotten to stock up on treats for the kids. In this neighborhood it wasn’t just the grownups who did Halloween.

  The doorbell rang again.

  “Maybe they’ll go away,” offered Thack.

  “We can’t do that,” said Michael. He dashed to the kitchen and found a package of dried apricots in the back of the cupboard. “How many are there?” he hollered.

  “Just one,” yelled Thack. “At the moment.”

  Michael returned with the apricots and opened the door to a three-foot Roger Rabbit. “Well, hello there.”

  The kid held out a Gump’s bag without a word. In a single, guilty movement, Michael deposited the apricots, hoping they would sound like Tootsie Rolls. The kid said “Thanks” and ran back to a cluster of older children waiting on the sidewalk. Michael closed the door and leaned against it, feeling like a total fraud.

  “If you’d done that to me,” said Brian, “I would have TP’ed your house.”

  There were bound to be more trick-or-treaters, so Michael made an emergency run to the Noe Hill Market, where he found a giant assortment of miniature candy bars. If they didn’t give them all away, he could always throw them out in the morning.

  Back at the house, while Brian played listlessly with Harry in the living room, Thack confronted Michael in the kitchen. “Shouldn’t we offer him the guest room?”

  “I don’t know, sweetie.”

  “We can’t just…send him off.”

  “Yeah, but it would seem like taking sides.”

  “Who cares?”

  “I care. Mary Ann’s my friend too.”

  “Some friend. She just blamed the whole damned thing on you.”

  Michael threw him a medium-sized dagger. “We’ll just make it worse if he stays here.”

  “For God’s sake,” said Thack, “he’s your partner.”

  “Don’t preach to me, all right? I know who he is.”

  “O.K., fine. Call the Motel 6.”

  “It’s no problem,” said Michael. “Really.”

  He and Thack were back in the living room. Brian was still on the floor with Harry. “Are you sure?” he said, looking up. “I can get a motel.”

  “Nah. That’s ridiculous.”

  Brian shrugged. “I’ve done it before.”

  “Well, it’s…You have?”

  “Sure. Couple of times.”

  “When?”

  “I dunno. Last year.” He raised his brows sheepishly.

  “You should stay here,” said Thack.

  Michael nodded. “Yeah.”

  “O.K., then. Thanks.”

  Thack looked at Michael. “Are there sheets on the guest bed.”

  “No, but…”

  “The couch is fine, guys.”

  “Don’t be noble,” said Michael. “We’ve got a guest room for just this purpose. Well, not exactly this purpose…” The doorbell rang.

  “Shit.” Michael peered out through the spy hole. This time there were five of them. More plastic capes and plastic faces.

  “It’s gonna be a long evening,” said Thack.

  Brian helped Michael make the bed in the guest room.

  “What about Shawna?” Michael asked. “Who’s gonna take her to school in the morning?”

  “Nguyet can do it.”

  “Are you sure? I’d be more than happy…”

  “No. That’s O.K. Thanks.” He looked at Michael earnestly. “Can we not talk about this for a while?”

  “Sure.” Michael finished tucking in the top sheet and plumped a feather pillow into place. “There are some little hotel toothbrushes in the top of the medicine cabinet.”

  “Thanks.” Brian smiled feebly. “Trick toothbrushes.”

  “What?”

  “Isn’t that what you used to call ’em?”

  Michael chuckled. “What a memory.”

  “I’m sorry about this, Michael.”

  “Don’t be.”

  “I can’t go back there. I can’t just…wait for her to leave.”

  “I understand.”

  “I knew I could count on you,” said Brian.

  The Kastro

  MONA FELT A TWI
NGE OF HOMECOMING WHEN HER cab rounded the seafront bend and Molivos sprang into view. The bright shutters and stone terraces, the smokestack of the old olive oil factory, the Genoese castle crowning the hill—all had lost their exoticism and become suddenly, ancestrally familiar. She had been here before and now she was back, an Amazon returning from the Sapphic Wars.

  It pleased her somehow to be able to identify the noise coming from the esplanade. It was the laundry truck, which announced itself by what appeared to be a top-mounted gramophone, and which, once or twice a week, transported the dirty clothes of tourists into Mitilíni, sixty kilometers across the mountains. The people of Molivos were a pround lot, who did their own washing but no one else’s.

  The first time she’d heard the blare of that loudspeaker, she’d held her breath and waited for word that a coup had been declared. Even now, almost three weeks later, she suspected it of fascist leanings. Who knew what it was saying, anyway? Maybe it wasn’t just a laundry truck. Maybe it was issuing some sort of public edict.

  Attention all dykes, attention all dykes. The season is officially over. Please vacate the streets immediately and return to your home countries. This is your last warning. I repeat: This is your last warning…

  She smiled and peered out the window. A lot of the shops and restaurants had been boarded up in her absence, now citadels against the coming rains. In the tiny high street, the sea-green grotto of Melinda’s Restaurant harbored the last of the tourists. The men at the Old Guys’ Café—her name for the place where Stratos usually ate—seemed tickled to death that Moliveos was about to be returned to them.

  Who can blame them? she thought. I wouldn’t want to share it either.

  She disembarked at the wisteria-covered end of the high street and paid her driver. She had chosen this approach to the house, rather than the easier one from the esplanade, for the sheer navigational thrill of threading her way down the maze of cobbled walkways. She enjoyed knowing where she was going in such a completely foreign place.

  When she reached the Turkish fountain that identified the base of their terrace, she stopped and, looking up, saw the flutter of silk against the sun. Anna cooed a greeting. “You’re home.”

  “I am,” said Mona, and smiled at her, one seasoned traveler to another.

  “It was truly elemental.”