A chorus of “Poor Pitiful Me” rose up in my head. I decided it was time for a little self-medication in the form of a margarita. As I headed to the kitchen, a well-muscled man wearing a leopard-print loincloth burst out from behind a clump of azalea bushes.
I let out a surprised yelp, followed closely by a “What the fuck” as I tried to figure out what an ersatz Tarzan was doing in Mary Bennett’s backyard. His hand was pressed above his brow as if searching for someone. When his eyes rested on me, he gave an ear-splitting jungle yell and started shimmying toward me in time with the music.
“Jill?” he said when he reached me.
“Ahhh, yeah?”
“You bring out the beast in me!” he shouted, and off came the loincloth. He wore skimpy animal-print underwear underneath, and started undulating in front of me. I looked over his shoulder. All the Queens had stopped dancing and were now grinning at me.
“Might as well give them their money’s worth,” I said, joining jungle boy in his hot-and-heavy mating dance while the Queens shrieked and hooted.
“Jill Conner,” shouted another male voice from behind the bathhouse. He tooted on a whistle. “You’re under arrest!”
I sensed immediately he was not a real Jackson police officer when I saw his tight little ass and six-pack belly, unenhanced by Krispy Kreme doughnuts.
“What’s the charge, Officer?” I asked in a falsetto voice.
“You’re so sexy, you’re illegal, baby!” he said, launching into his striptease dance.
During the next half hour, a mailman dropped by (whose special delivery package was contained in his G-string), as did an astronaut who promised to send me to the moon. It turned out each Queen had hired a stripper so I wouldn’t feel left out at the party. I had to admit that four gyrating near-nekkid men definitely did lend a festive touch to the occasion.
After the strippers left, and the stereo was in between songs, Brian tapped a spoon against the rim of his beer mug to get everyone’s attention.
“I’d like to thank the Queens for this lovely evening,” he said, in a feigned prim but nonetheless sexy baritone. “Now I know why Mary Bennett always wants to come home to Jackson.”
The Queens whistled and hooted in response.
“Secondly, I have a question I wanted to ask Mary Bennett, but I have to clear it with the Queens,” he continued. “I want to ask for her hand in marriage, but I’d like your blessing.”
He needed no such thing—it was plain that Mary Bennett was going to marry him no matter whether we approved or not, which we did, with all our hearts. I, on the other hand, did think of another related and very important matter that needed to be settled first.
“Not so fast, Buckwheat,” I said, holding up a hand. “We’ll be needing to see the ring first.”
Brian nodded, and withdrew a box from his pants pocket and handed it to me. I motioned for the Queens to gather ’round. I opened the box and there on a bed of deep burgundy velvet glittered a gorgeous antique diamond of sufficient size and clarity befitting any Queen. We all oooohed and ahhed our approval.
“This is one fine-ass piece of joo-ry,” I said, handing it back to Brian. “The girl is all yours.”
Mary Bennett let out a whoop, and ran to her man’s open arms. They proceeded to break every PDA rule in the book until we all shouted, “Get a room!”
By two a.m., Bob had bailed out and gone home. Brian was snoring in a lounge chair, Jack was passed out facedown in a clump of clover near the pool, and I had no idea where Sheila was. The Queens and I were still dancing and laughing, feeding off each other’s energy.
“Pee break,” I said, stumbling my way toward the back entrance of the house. I pushed open the door that opened to the guest bathroom and saw Sheila inside. She was standing in front of the toilet holding up her dress, and she had spoken the truth. She definitely didn’t wear panties to a party. Within the next two seconds, it dawned on me why she was standing in front of the toilet with her skirt hiked up.
“Excuse me,” I said quickly, backing out the door. Sheila turned around and that’s when I saw it. It was king-size, just like everything else about Sheila. I was so shocked by the sight I screamed.
“Oops!” Sheila said, pulling her dress down over her formidable member and flushing the toilet. “I guess my little secret is out.”
My scream brought the Queens running, with Gerald in the lead.
“What’s wrong, Jill?” he asked.
“Gerald, honey,” Sheila said, “Jill just met Mr. Shaft.”
“Mr. Shaft?” Gerald said with a blush. “How did that happen?”
“It wasn’t a formal introduction,” I said. “I walked in on him in the bathroom.”
“Who is Mr. Shaft?” Mary Bennett asked.
“There’s no point in hiding it anymore,” Gerald said with a sigh. “Sheila isn’t a she. She’s a he. Mr. Shaft is…”
“The reason I screamed,” I said.
“Wait a minute,” Tammy said, trying to process all of this with her tequila-addled brain. “You’re a man!” She pointed to Sheila. Then she looked at Gerald. “And you’re a man so that means…you’re gay!” Tammy said, a bit unsteady on her feet. “Glad that’s finally settled.”
“Why would you try to keep this from us?” I asked.
“It’s not like we haven’t suspected it,” Mary Bennett said, and Patsy nodded.
“Really? How long?” Gerald asked.
“Since we first met you. When did YOU finally figure it out?” Tammy said with a snort.
“I guess I knew I was different than other boys since I was a little kid,” Gerald said. “In college, I managed to numb those feelings with drugs, but then one summer, I went to Fire Island with some friends who ‘knew’ about me—even though I didn’t—and we went to something called The Invasion where all the men dress like women and go on boats to this beach bar that once tried to kick out a gay couple and—”
“He met me,” Sheila said, in a voice several octaves lower. She took off her wig and put a protective arm around Gerald. “I’m William—and I’m not really into drag, but for The Invasion and a few other special occasions, I become Sheila.”
“What was the point of trying to fool us?” Mary Bennett asked gently. “Did you think we’d disapprove? And really, William—lovely to meet you, by the way—you can’t really think you look like an actual woman in that getup. I don’t want to hurt your feelings or anything, but you just ain’t exactly what we’d call ‘girly.’”
“I was going to tell you,” Gerald said. “But then I heard Brian and Jack were going to be here, and I didn’t feel comfortable coming out around all those guys.”
“Then I suggested I come to Jackson as my stage persona,” Sheila said. “Gerald liked the idea!”
“I didn’t know if he could pull it off,” Gerald said with a smile. “But when Sheila fooled everyone at the disco, I thought maybe she’d be able to fool my parents, too. Then they’d finally get off my back about not having a girlfriend. I was going to tell y’all about Sheila. Eventually.”
“But then Mr. Shaft outed us,” Sheila said with a guilty smile.
“I should have figured it out when I saw Sheila’s shoes,” I said, shaking my head. “Never in my life have I seen a woman with feet bigger than mine.”
“Hunny”—Patsy leaned in to William and said in a girlfriend-to-girlfriend tone—“next time wear a turtleneck to hide your Adam’s apple—and check your teeth for lipstick before you leave the ladies’.”
“I’m just so relieved it’s out in the open with y’all,” Gerald said, squeezing his lover’s large well-manicured hand. Standing up, he said, “Would y’all excuse me for just a few minutes? There is something I have got to do right this second before I lose my nerve—even if it is two in the morning.” And he went into the house.
We were having a good laugh with William about the events of the weekend when Mary Bennett suddenly gasped and said, “Oh my God—WHAT was it like with Gerald’
s parents? Do you think they suspected?”
Gerald reappeared at that moment, shaking with laughter, and said, “No worries on that score. I just got off the phone with them—felt terrible for wakin’ ’em up in the middle of the night, but I just could not wait another second to BE who I AM—and God bless ’em, they said in their hearts they’d always known about me and they knew about William the second we walked in. They were just waiting for the right time to bring it up. Mother said whatever we wanted to do was fine, but if ‘Sheila’ was scheduled for any more appearances, she’s insisting on giving her some fashion and makeup tips! William, they don’t even care that you’re not Jewish—they just want us to be happy.”
William stood up and declared that he would convert if it would make Gerald’s mama happy. “If Sammy Davis Junior can do it, so can I.”
With eyes brimming, Gerald said, “Y’all, I intend for William to be a big part of my life. What I said about us eloping…well, nobody will marry us legally, not even in Livingston, but we’re together—forever—no matter what.”
“We couldn’t be happier for you guys,” Patsy said.
“That’s the truth,” Tammy said.
“Ditto!” Mary Bennett said.
“And it’s not like we’re losing a Queen,” I said with a smile. “We’re gaining a drag queen! Welcome to the family, Tammy Willie-Sheila!”
PART FOUR
1982
Chapter
14
Three more pounds down,” said Sean Kelly, patting his diminished midsection as he stood on the scale. “I’ll be able to fit into my Speedo this year.”
“If you own a Speedo,” I said, recording the weight in his chart, “I advise you to throw that sucker into the incinerator and bury the ashes. I’ll let you in on a little secret. No man alive, not even Sean Connery, looks sexy in a Speedo.”
“You just haven’t seen me yet,” he said with a wink as he hopped off the scale. Sean had devilish green eyes and a weathered face splashed with hundreds of freckles. Two years before, when he’d first visited the weight-loss center, he’d weighed two hundred and fifty pounds and had been recovering from a triple bypass. Now he was a lean one hundred seventy-eight pounds and healthy as a mule.
“Miss Susan might not approve of me ogling you in your swimsuit,” I said, referring to his wife of forty-five years.
“In Sue’s book you can do no wrong. ‘Jill saved your life,’ she always says to me. I think she’s even written to the pope nominating you for sainthood.” He pumped his arms up and down as if he were jogging. “I’m up to fifteen miles a week now.”
I put a finger to my lips and shook my head.
“Don’t sweat it,” Sean said. “The wicked witch of weight loss was leaving just as I was coming in.”
I’d tried to follow Penny’s rules after she threatened to fire me, but two days later a client burst into tears because her weight was coming off so slowly. She wanted to whittle down to a size eight before her wedding, but she didn’t have a chance in hell without exercise.
That’s when I started scheduling coffee dates with clients who were frustrated by the program. I now had more personal training clients than I could handle.
“When are you going to quit this place and become your own boss?” Sean asked, handing me his credit card.
“Any day now.” I hadn’t quite screwed up the courage to give up the steady paycheck.
“I’ve heard that before,” Sean said. “By the way, will you do me a favor? My buddy Malcolm is putting together Jackson’s very first St. Paddy’s Day parade. You think you could hang a flyer in the window?”
“Parade?” I said, snapping to attention. “With floats and candy-throwing and beauty queens gliding by to wave and blow kisses?”
“That’s the idea.”
“Where do I sign up?”
Sean chuckled. “You want to be in the thing?”
“You better believe it, Buckwheat. Me and the world-famous Sweet Potato Queens will be the highlight of that parade.”
“Can’t say I’ve ever heard of any ‘world-famous’ Sweet Potato Queens.”
“Mark my words, once you meet us you’ll never forget us.”
“I’m looking forward to it,” Sean said, stuffing his wallet into his rear pants pocket. “St. Paddy’s is my favorite day of the year. Susan will make some kind of inedible low-cal, low-fat, but somehow Irish-type food and I’ll console myself by guzzling mugs of green beer.”
“Make that light beer,” I said, pointing at the scale.
Sean made a grumbling sound. “You’re just plain ol’ mean. Just mean.”
The next step was coaxing the Queens to come to Jackson for the parade. I hadn’t seen them together since we’d gathered in Atlanta a few years ago for the birth of Patsy’s son, Mack. The parade would be an ideal opportunity for a raucous reunion.
I spoke with Patsy, who said she’d be thrilled to come. Then I dialed Tammy’s number, and as usual the phone rang and rang. I’d been trying to catch her for the last several days. Just as I hung up, Penny came into my office and slapped a copy of Soap Opera Digest on my desk.
“Isn’t this your friend, the actress?” Penny asked, proving herself to be a chronic eavesdropper.
I opened the magazine and saw a color photo of Mary Bennett sitting in a wing chair, wearing a lacy black dress with enormous shoulder pads. She was filing her blood-red, talonlike fingernails and staring haughtily into the camera. The title of the story read, “Mary Bennett Manning Cast as the Queen of Mean on New Evening Soap Opera Eagle’s Cove.”
“Good gawd almighty,” I said. “I knew she was up for a big part, but I didn’t know she’d gotten it. I can’t believe she didn’t tell me!”
“Look,” Penny said, pointing to the second paragraph. “‘Mary Bennett Manning, who will star in NBC’s Eagle’s Cove, claims that, in real life, she’s nothing like her backstabbing character Electra Frostman. “I’m just a sweet little ol’ magnolia blossom from Mississippi.”’ The article also says she’s been stepping out with her co-star Grant Frazier. Have you seen him? The man is sizzlin’ hot, is all I’m sayin’.”
“You can’t trust one word written in that rag,” I said. “Mary Bennett happens to be engaged.”
Penny gawked at me, awe in her eyes. “I just can’t believe you’re best friends with someone who’s on TV. If she ever comes here for a visit, do you think I could meet her?”
“She doesn’t come home that often,” I said. There was no way I was going to introduce Mary Bennett to a ditch-witch like Penny.
“I’d probably be so starstruck I’d babble like a baboon.”
Kinda like you do now, I thought.
“I’ve never known anyone who’s been on TV before. Will you call Mary Bennett and ask her for an autographed picture? I love my soaps.”
I sighed. Unfortunately Penny was still my boss, and I had a vested interest in keeping her happy.
“All right. I’ll have her send one out.”
“Why don’t you call now?” she said. “Never mind the long-distance charge. Talk as long as you like. Have a little gabfest on my dime.”
I didn’t feel like talking to Mary Bennett with Penny breathing down my neck.
“It’s still pretty early on the West Coast. I’d better wait.”
“It’s ten a.m. in California,” Penny said, in a snippy tone. “I don’t know why you’re being so difficult about this—maybe you’re not such big buddies with her after all.”
“Hold your water,” I said, reluctantly picking up the phone. “I’ll give her a holler.” Maybe I’d sneak in a mention about the St. Paddy’s parade while I had her on the horn.
I dialed, listening to several rings droning in my ear. Finally I heard a click.
“Hello,” said a weary voice on the other end.
“Brian? This is Jill. I was trying to reach Mary Bennett.”
“Hi, Jill,” Brian said in curt voice. “Mary Bennett isn’t here.” He paused for
such a long time I thought he’d hung up. “You heard she got the part, didn’t you?”
“Yes! I just found out.”
“That changed everything. She’s moved out. We split up.”
“You’re kidding.”
“I’m afraid not. It was for the best. Let me give you her number at the studio. I don’t have her new home number.”
Had fame gone to Mary Bennett’s head? Maybe that’s why Brian sounded so abrupt. She’d broken his heart.
Chapter
15
I chewed my fingernails down to the quick as I watched Bob read my essay. He chuckled a few times, and I had to restrain myself from leaping up out of my chair and saying, “Which part made you laugh?”
After a few minutes, he looked up from my pages and started to rub his temple.
“It gave you a headache, didn’t it?” I said. “I don’t know why I asked you to read my pitiful little chicken scratchings. I’m not cut out to be a writer. You could dangle a participle right under my nose, and I’d never know it. I wouldn’t recognize a gerund if it bit me on the butt.”
“Jill!” Bob said with a smile. “Calm down. I really liked it.”
“You did?” I said, resisting the urge to dance the cancan right in the middle of his classroom.
“I think it’s ready to be sent out.”
“Sent out? What do you mean?”
“You do want it published, don’t you?”
“Published?” I said, dramatically clutching at my chest. “You mean in print, out there…for complete strangers to ridicule?”
Bob chuckled. “You won’t be ridiculed. Writers usually write to be published.”
“I told you! I’m not a writer. Writers wear pince-nez and ascots and trade bon mots at Elaine’s. They’re tortured souls who drink whiskey straight from the bottle…. Although come to think of it, I could probably cozy up to the whiskey part, and what the fuck is a pince-nez, anyway?”
“This is funny stuff. Humor’s one of the hardest forms of prose to pull off,” Bob said, handing me my pages. “You’re a writer—like it or not.”
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