Come Back

by Sky Gilbert

  It was an ancient, tiny knife.

  We all must have something that is simply ours, something that is just private. Yes, even my therapist’s mother’s henpecked husband had private places. But I cannot hide anything from you. It’s all open. This has much to do with the fact that long ago you accepted me unconditionally. I will never forget that. For someone like me — who never knew unconditional love — receiving it, finally, is utterly overwhelming. And even though our romance was never sexual, it might as well have been. I really do wish I was a lesbian, or was lesbianic — a more proper twenty-first-century appellation. No, I must tell you everything. And what I am going to say — I’m sure it will irritate you. But isn’t that what happens when people love, even if they don’t have sex with each other? But you will always come back. I know you will. Anyway, this is the small thing. I don’t know how you could not think it small. I don’t know how we could be that out of sync.

  Allworth convinced me to take another trip to the Tranquility Spa.

  You are right to suggest he is a bad influence. This is something I remember from so long ago. Boys — usually homosexuals — always love to indulge my every whim because they are in love with me. Or my fame. Allworth is not in love with my fame, though he knows of it. But I think he finds me divinely entertaining. He gave me that sly look and, to his credit, that sly look absolutely gives me permission to say no. There was a little giggle. “Would you like to go again to the Tranquility Spa?” At first I said, “I don’t think so.” And he said, “That’s fine, I don’t want to force the idea on you. I have no reason to go there and no reason to take you there. I simply thought you might want to go.” And I could see that he really was thinking of my feelings, which immediately made me realize I wasn’t being judged or pressured. “You know, I don’t think I would mind going again,” I said.

  I don’t know why I agreed to go. Perhaps it was just that Allworth was so easygoing. And not only didn’t I feel pressured, but I also didn’t feel observed. It is one of the things that makes me sure that Allworth isn’t star-struck. I mean, he is, somewhat. But star-struck isn’t his ultimate attitude. I simply delight him. I wish I was more attracted to him, but I’m not. (For, as you know, I’m quite capable of persuading even the most recalcitrant homo to submit to my lips.) I think he might have sex with me, though he prefers men. I think he would have sex with anyone, especially if it was someone he liked. And if he thought it would please them.

  You know, for some people, offering sex is like offering coffee or dessert. That’s what so many don’t understand. Sex was often like that for me. Other people — those like June Allyson — offered more innocent fare: a hot-cross bun or candy from a pink dish. I offered blow jobs. I didn’t then, nor do I now, find my behaviour abhorrent or disgusting. In fact, I find people who don’t understand the sheer practicality of sex simply rude. It is, after all, a bodily function. Many a man was nonplussed by the suggestion of fellatio — partly because women aren’t supposed to do such a thing. But you know, it often happens. And once they get over the novelty of my taking the initiative, they can breathe a sigh of relief. What would happen if sex was as normal as eating? Being guilty about sex makes as much sense as being guilty about an eating binge. These days there is no reason to be guilty. There are too many solutions: the fat can be sucked out; a pill can make the pounds disappear. And it is rare that anything we eat is actually fattening. Ingeniously, food just looks and tastes that way now. So why feel guilty? “Oh, I’ve just done a terrible thing . . . I’ve eaten.” But eating is something we all need to do. But then there’s: “I’ve just done a horrible thing, I’ve given a man a blow job as routinely as June Allyson might have offered him a croissant.” Don’t these statements seem ridiculous?

  Allworth understands this, even though we haven’t talked about it in so many words. We do discuss sex. That is, he enjoys relating his exploits without bragging or being distasteful. He talks filth, but he does not aggrandize himself. Sexual anecdotes only disgust me if they smell of boasting. So it was easy to say yes to Allworth’s suggestion that we return to the Tranquility Spa. Allworth is also very indulgent about how long it takes me to get out of the house and into a cab. And what I really value is that he continues talking to me even when people are horrified or unduly perturbed by my shape. At least when I’m with him I forget momentarily the horror that is my appearance. I had taken the liberty of wearing a little black dress. It was, in fact, a Chanel. They are timeless, of course, but it’s something I usually don’t dare wear. Not because the dress is revealing — rather because it seems a little presumptuous for something so ugly to encase itself in something so beautiful.

  When we entered the Tranquility Spa all was casual; no one took any notice of us. As per usual we were not the most grotesque beings present. I recognized some of the old crowd. The woman with the cantilevered face was in her usual place, chatting up the nippleless bartender whose gender we had not yet determined. (I know we’re not supposed to care — but we still wonder, don’t we?) Off in a corner, the handless man was nursing a drink in a bowl. He was pushing it about on the table with his stumps. Now and then he would dip his head and lap at it . . . It was very sad. As I sat down at the bar with Allworth, I thought of how easy it might be for the Handless Man if the Cantilevered Lady were to sit down with him. After all, she could lift the bowl and pour it. But it was not to be that simple. Life, human relationships, are not that simple. It’s not simply about getting a hand when you need one. Unfortunately, there is shame, repulsion, revulsion and sexual preference. And the Cantilevered Lady is a handful, pardon the pun. This is almost preposterously evident.

  As we slowly made our way from the door to the bar, the dilemma was whether or not to sit close to the Cantilevered Lady. If we were to sit beside her, it would seem too familiar, an invitation to discussion. If we were to sit too far away, it might be viewed as insulting. I chose a seat about halfway down the bar. Allworth, recognizing that I had forged a solution to this sticky predicament, helped me into my chair.

  Once I got there I happened to glance at the door to the backroom. I noticed that the Doll Boy was standing there, doing nothing really — looking rather listless. There was a creature sitting at another table, all alone, at the other end of the room. It was not easy to see this creature because of the lighting. This made me want to swivel myself in the chair, for the angle at which I was sitting offered an indirect view. But once I have sat, as you well know, there is very little possibility of me actually wriggling around. The creature seemed to be male. But, as I say, there is no telling how any of these creatures started out. He seemed a neutral sort of figure. His movements were neutral as he pulled the glass to his face and sipped. The light was falling over him in such a way that he constantly moved in and out of it. In fact, the light was flashing off him. I couldn’t help looking at him again and again. But if the creature had caught me, it wouldn’t have mattered, because the angle at which I was seated veiled the fact that I was staring. After a moment or two, I realized he had two faces.

  It would be more accurate to say that his face was divided in two. I noticed this because he would turn his head to take a drink and look to the side; but there was nothing to look at, so I was suspicious of this movement. When he did this, different parts of his face would hit the light. This was clearly an unfinished plastic-surgery job. One side of his face was perfect and the other looked like a barely congealed mass of ground chuck. It was hard to discern anything on the ground-chuck side. There was a lump where the side of his nose should have been. The other side of his face was perfect. But not in the way the Doll Boy’s face was perfect. It was not seamless, not smooth and plastic, but instead perfectly human. It looked just like a real face. Was it possible that one half of his face had been dipped in battery acid and not the other? Well, why then could they not fix it? I had heard of instances where people had so many plastic surgeries that they became allergic to it — that their bo
dies rejected the chemicals that were inserted in them. Perhaps this was what had happened to him. Because it was as if a line had been drawn down the middle of his face, and one half of his face had been fixed, while the other had not.

  After I had figured out what was going on, I looked back at Allworth, and realized I had been staring. But to his credit, he didn’t chide me. I could see that he thought my interest in the lone creature at the table was a typical human reaction, and he forgave me for it. I wanted to make a remark about the creature’s face just so Allworth would understand what was obsessing me. For Allworth couldn’t see it from where he was sitting. But I’m sure he knew — even if he couldn’t clearly see the creature’s half-face — why I was staring.

  I tried to remember that my own appearance was certainly more disgusting and off-putting than the visage of this creature who had perhaps become immune to plastic surgery. I was, after all, a creature for whom plastic surgery was hopeless. As you know, my bones are now so brittle they could not take any sort of bruising. So I am simply a living, breathing demonstration of human disintegration in all its glory.

  His half-face reminded me of the mask worn by the Phantom of the Opera. I remember when I was recovering from one of my liver operations, in Dubai (the successful one), I woke up in a hospital bed. There was an episode of Entertainment Tonight on TV that featured scenes from The Phantom of the Opera — the hit megamusical at the time. I was experiencing one of those odd, dreamlike moments that you always remember. I was half awake and half asleep, very much in pain, and powerless to correct my condition. The scenes from The Phantom of the Opera seemed to be taking a terribly long time. They kept repeating themselves, over and over. I remember John Tesh or Mary Hart saying, “This play is going to revolutionize musical theatre.” I remember being vaguely interested (in my gormless state) because, of course, I myself had something to do with the development of the American musical when I was young. What, after all, might have been revolutionary at such a late date? I don’t remember anything more about the program except that it became nightmarish to watch — and that it made me anxious. I do remember leaving both the hospital and Dubai, many months later, and asking someone — a male nurse who was taking care of me — about The Phantom of the Opera. The inveterate old fag said, “It was all stolen from Puccini and it destroyed musical theatre.” I didn’t really understand. But it seemed a shame.

  All this was running through my mind. And then, before I knew it, the Cantilevered Lady was sitting next to me. She had sprinted over from the other end of the bar. She was remarkably limber — though doubtless very old with that wreck of a face. So I was now sitting between her and Allworth. This was an impossible situation. Her comment the last time about “the man that got away” had made me very insecure. And it had been made about the Handless Man, who was now ignoring her. Was she so very unappealing as a person — beyond her deformity — or were they just not suited to each other? Well, anyway, there was something about her I didn’t like. Unfortunately, it was not her face. Her face certainly appalled me, but only in the way one is appalled by a car accident. That’s not hatred or moral judgement, just a visceral response. No, what appalled me was that I realized immediately she was a slimy character. It’s the kind of thing one realizes all too quickly. This is partly, or even completely, because she pretended immediately that we were intimate.

  This is perhaps the most repellent of human tendencies. I certainly experienced it when I was a star and I was never left unfazed. People would walk up to me and address me by my Hollywood name. I would turn out of politeness, and they would proceed, chatting away about their dogs or the weather. It really was amazing and frightening. They would then proceed to use my Hollywood name over and over, as if they were practising it, or savouring it, or, even more alarming, masturbating with it. I often felt the urge to yank out the hoary old phrase “That’s my name, don’t wear it out!” But, of course, my Hollywood name wasn’t my name at all. Invariably the chat would be of the most mundane variety. It was as if it were a test. “How long will it be before she breaks, bolts or just plain hits me?” Yes, certainly, incidents like this were expected — part of the job. But surely they knew that I was caught, trapped, because it was my job, and therefore I could not simply ignore them. Of course they knew, and they took cruel advantage. And on top of that, I was such a good little MGM girl. So I would just smile and search desperately for any means of escape.

  The Cantilevered Lady began chatting in a similar familiar fashion (but, thankfully, without using my old star name) as soon as she was beside me. She spoke as if we were, in fact, in mid-conversation, as if we had only been cut off momentarily and were now back on track. She leaned into me intimately and whispered. It was disconcerting. I was worried she might wound me with part of her face. She spoke in a drunken tone. Allworth could not hear her little diatribe. He looked at us curiously, not sure if I had found a new friend or an irritating pest.

  I couldn’t believe what she was saying. She began by pointing part of her face in the direction of the Man with Two Faces. I suppose she thought this was more polite than pointing a finger, but there was really no difference. “Get a load of him, ” she said — or words to that effect. There was definitely something of the truck driver’s moll about her, faintly reminiscent of Ida Lupino in They Drive by Night. “Can you believe it?” she said, referring to the poor man’s face. “What kind of accident was that?”

  I was truly appalled. Such situations are always very difficult for me, because I am, essentially, a nice person. I never want to be rude. So I smiled and nodded and even perhaps laughed with her. But it hurts for me to laugh. So I did not, thankfully, laugh too hard. I think Allworth recognized I was uncomfortable. But he didn’t know what to do. Of course she kept going on and on — she was not the type to speak briefly or worry about taking up too much of your time.

  As she continued, I began to think about the horrors of humanity — even to the point of pondering the Holocaust. It seemed to me that she was a person who was ultimately and pathetically human; someone who epitomized mankind’s grossest evil. You see, though she was perhaps, other than myself, the ugliest creature on earth, she could not pass up this opportunity to make fun of someone who might possibly be perceived as less fortunate. She was not merely condescending to, or pathologizing, the creature in the corner; ultimately she was dehumanizing him.

  And is this not, ironically, what it means to be human? Aristotle suggested that it was our ability to learn, or our capacity to reason, that ultimately separates humans from animals. But is it really that? And surely it’s not just opposable thumbs! I would suggest, instead, that what makes us fully human is, paradoxically, our tendency to treat fellow human beings as if they were animals. Or worse. We love animals, and pity them in a way we do not pity other human beings. Perhaps one should say it is our ability to treat other human beings as if they were rocks or stones. Whatever tragedy had befallen the Man with Two Faces, nothing could be crueller, especially in the Tranquility Spa, of all places, than to make fun of him. The woman’s jibes obviously forced a comparison: “He is so much worse off than I am.”

  What is it? Do we so fear death that we must wish it upon others? Are we so superstitious that we imagine misfortune is like a malignant spell that might waft from someone else upon us? Is the only way to protect ourselves, therefore, to put a safe distance between ourselves and the “other” with mockery? Why does it invariably make us feel better to cause other people pain? Of course, my mother’s heartless, unrelenting sternness in that room in San Gabriel is very much on my mind here.

  I didn’t know what to do; I had to get away. If I continued smiling and nodding, which was my deeply inadequate modus operandi, she might have gone on all night. Perhaps she might have slipped into pantomime, fully visible to her poor victim, and acted out her condescension and ridicule. I turned to Allworth and said, “Where is the washroom?” Of course, he knew at once this was a r
use, that I had to get away from the woman beside me. We couldn’t simply leave — we had only just walked in. It seemed like the only solution. He pointed to a door in the centre of the wall opposite where the Handless Man and the Man with Two Faces were sitting. I am not capable of going to the bathroom in the way normal people do, in a public convenience. But there was no way this vicious, boring creature could have known that. I would just hide in the bathroom and wait until I came up with a better plan. Perhaps Allworth could tell her that I had been ill and we had to leave.

  This plan was forming as Allworth offered to assist me in the complex process of disembarking from my stool, but I waved him away. It occurred to me that a couple of minutes alone with that monster would make what had compelled me to leave all too clear.

  When I reached the washroom, the door was remarkably light. Was it made of paper? A good thing, at any rate, as I am very weak. Inside was like nothing I could have imagined. It’s been a long time since I used a public washroom. And, of course, it has been many years since they abolished gender-specific toilets. I never seem to get used to the neutral streamlined atmospheres that are the typical twenty-first-century washroom environment. I long for the antique powder rooms — the baroque mirrors and makeup tables, comfortable chairs, curtains and attendants. There is nothing like that now. But it struck me as odd that the washroom was so very dark. Then suddenly it made sense. Obviously — although the backroom was “arranged” for people to have sex — it was the washroom where people more routinely consummated their assignations.