Music From Another World: One of the most empowering books for women, bestselling author Robin Talley’s gripping new 2020 novel

by Robin Talley

  You didn’t mention it in your letter, maybe because you wrote it before the news came out, but you’ve probably heard by now that we lost another city. In Oregon this time. There was another march in the Castro. These protest marches are getting almost routine now. Getting angry and yelling about it. Shooting defiant looks at the cops. Carrying signs that say things like ANITA, THIS OBSESSION WITH US ISN’T AS CHARMING AS YOU THINK IT IS. (I made that one, but my brother carried it. He snuck it out to the car in a garbage bag in case Mom was watching.)

  I wish you could come to one of these. Well, actually, I wish we didn’t need to have any more of these, but it’s not looking good. The latest polls on Prop 6 have it passing by a landslide. Our goal is just to win San Francisco—which is hardly a guarantee—and if we get anywhere else in the state, that’ll be nice, too. That won’t be enough to kill the initiative, though.

  By this time next year, it’ll probably be illegal to be a teacher if you’re gay in California. Or if you just support gay people. Which I guess means if I want to teach, I’ll have to leave the state to do it.

  As for my mom…well, at least she works in a private school. Not to mention, she doesn’t support gay people. Yesterday on our way in I heard her talking to Mr. Goodwin, one of the science teachers at St. John’s. He said he was worried his students would feel pressured to accept homosexuality because of all the media attention Harvey’s getting. Mom said, “Remind them that if they read the Bible, they’ll see God doesn’t accept it.”

  I hope she never finds out about Peter. Is it really possible to keep it a secret forever, though? Is that something you think about?

  Sorry—you’d probably rather not talk about that. I’d go back and cross it out, but we said we weren’t going to do that anymore, so please just ignore it.

  At least today was the last day of school. Huzzah! I won’t have to worry about Sister Catherine for the next three months. At graduation tomorrow I’ll try to keep in mind what you said about my brother. I don’t know if I believe it, but I’ll take it!

  Write back soon and tell me all about prom, please.

  Yours, Sharon

  P.S. I forgot to mention—I saw an ad in the newspaper for a Christian radio show called New Way on the Air. Isn’t that the name of your church? Did your aunt and uncle finally get their show, thanks to all those bribes in that check register you wrote to me about? I want to listen to it with Peter so we can make fun of it together.

  Tuesday, May 30, 1978

  Dear Sharon,

  God, I wish I could go to a march in San Francisco. About anything, honestly—I’d happily go to a Save the Whales protest.

  I could never travel that far on my own, though. Girls in our family aren’t allowed to go anywhere unsupervised. Once my sister and two of her friends planned a ski trip, just one night in someone’s uncle’s cabin out by Big Bear Lake, and my parents grounded her just for asking.

  So… I don’t know what to say about prom.

  At least it’s over, and… I survived? I guess? The walls didn’t collapse and crush me to death? Even though there were times when I wouldn’t have minded if they had.

  The grossness started before we got there. Brett’s dad rented a limo, but it turns out limos aren’t that big on the inside, and there were eight of us jammed in. The guys had clearly already been drinking before they picked us up. I don’t know if that’s why it happened or if this is how it would’ve gone, anyway, but we weren’t halfway to school before Tim—whose lap I was half-sitting on, since there was literally nowhere else to sit—started pinching my butt.

  I was so mad I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t do anything in front of everybody else. I guess he knew that, because he kept doing it even when I tried to squirm off his lap. I finally reached back and grabbed his wrist, but he only laughed.

  Brett laughed, too. I’m positive he knew what was going on. Carolyn didn’t notice, thank God.

  When we finally got there the guys hung out in the gym with us for long enough to get our cheesy official photos taken, then disappeared. There were dozens of chaperones, but none of them seemed to notice them sneaking out to get high. Even my aunt, who was wearing about ten yards of ugly pink caftan fabric wound around her, just smiled her usual smug smile as they went by.

  That was when I pulled Carolyn into the hall. I wasn’t sure I’d get another chance, so I led her straight to our stairwell. I’d had to hide the collage in my dress, because my mother would only let me bring a tiny clutch big enough for lipstick and a blotting tissue. (Though I guess it could have also held a little more, because I know for a fact that at least three of the other youth group girls had the exact same clutch but somehow managed to fit condoms inside.) Fortunately, my skirt had so much extra puffy fabric no one noticed the cardboard backing of the collage taped to the underside.

  “Close your eyes,” I told Carolyn, so she wouldn’t see me awkwardly lifting up the ruffled hem of my floor-length skirt to pull out the collage. Besides, it seemed more romantic if she didn’t see the logistics at work.

  Carolyn closed her eyes. She looked beautiful that night. Her dress was even puffier than mine, with baby blue lace running from the frilly collar to the frilly hem, and it had a pale pink sash that tied around her waist. It was a lot, but it suited her perfectly. Her hair was curled into soft waves that framed her face, and the deep red corsage Brett had given her was strapped to her wrist, clashing brilliantly with her strawberry-colored hair.

  “Okay, you can open your eyes,” I said when I had the collage out in front of her.

  She blinked down at it slowly. “Oh. Wow. Is this—? Did you make this? Like a craft project?”

  “Um, yeah. It’s for you. I make collages sometimes. Here, turn it over.”

  She turned it over. Her eyes widened, and she flipped it back again without looking up at me. “Um, thanks…but I can’t take this home. I don’t have any way to get it out of here.” She held up her own tiny clutch.

  I felt stupid for not thinking of that before. “Oh. Uh, well, I taped it to my skirt to get it in here. I guess you could do that, too?”

  She glanced down at her lace dress. “It won’t work. They’d see.”

  “Okay, well…” I felt stupider with every passing second. “I guess I’ll take it back home.”

  “You can’t. It’s a miracle no one noticed you had it already. We have to get rid of it.”

  “What do you mean? Get rid of it…how?”

  “Yeah, I guess it’s not as if we could put it in the trash. Anyone could see.” She glanced around us. “You don’t have any matches, do you?”

  “Matches? No, I…why?”

  “Never mind. We’ll put it in my locker. It’s closer than yours. Then next week we can take it out in one of our school bags.”

  So that’s what we did. I poked my head out the door to make sure no one was in the hallway, and we crept silently away and stashed the collage in Carolyn’s locker, shutting it carefully so it wouldn’t clang.

  There was no time left for kissing. We’d already been gone too long, so we left, the same way we always did—me first, with Carolyn following after I’d turned the corner.

  When I got back to the gym, Tim was there, standing by the punch table in his burgundy tuxedo with the ruffled shirt and bow tie. He asked me to dance. My aunt was looking right at us, so I didn’t have much choice. The band was playing “Stayin’ Alive” and Tim was doing a ridiculous John Travolta strut, with his top button undone and his collar spread open, and I had to hobble along behind him as if this was the most fun I’d ever had in my life.

  A few songs later I told him I had to get some air, thinking he’d want to stay inside and show off more dance moves (though thankfully one of the chaperones had made him fasten his top button by then). Instead, he followed me out. But this time, when he tried to grope me, I slugged him in the chest.

/>   He staggered backward, even though I couldn’t have hit him that hard. For a second he just stared at me, his eyes red and his mouth gaping open like a fish.

  “Bitch,” he grunted. Then he turned around and shuffled back into the gym.

  I’m not going to lie, Sharon. I didn’t feel bad. Even when we were in the limo on the way home and Tim was sitting as far away from me as he could get, huffing in my direction every couple of minutes, I didn’t regret a single thing.

  I did worry he might hold a grudge, though. When I saw him at school yesterday, I half expected him to swear at me again, but he only sneered, the same way my dad sneers at the TV when Notre Dame is losing. I only wished I had a reason to punch him all over again.

  But tomorrow’s the last day of school, and our youth group usually takes a break in the summers. I might be able to get away with not seeing him much until September. Punching him again isn’t worth it.

  Carolyn didn’t say anything more about the collage, but I hope she liked it. She must’ve taken it home by now. We haven’t had a chance to talk since prom, anyway. She had to stay after Bible class yesterday and today to talk to Mrs. Harrington about some last-minute extra-credit project.

  Sometimes, when I’m with Carolyn, it feels as if my life might finally be okay. Then other times it feels like I’m about to suffocate. I only wish I knew which it was going to be in the end.

  Yours, Tammy

  P.S. Yes, my aunt’s stupid fucking radio show is finally happening. I don’t know how I forgot to mention that. No one at church talks about anything else anymore.

  Thursday, June 1, 1978

  Dear Tammy,

  Wow! Sorry, I’ll write you a real letter tomorrow about everything you wrote in your letter, but for now I just wanted to say how awesome it is that you punched that guy! I’m sorry you had a reason to punch him, but still!

  I’ve got to go, since I’m late to babysit (again), but I’m going to put this in the mailbox on my way just so you know you’re my hero.

  Yours, Sharon

  P.S. Now I’m picturing my mom’s face if I told her my lesbian pen pal from Orange County was my hero, and that it was all because she punched a guy. Ha!

  Friday, June 2, 1978

  Dear Diary,

  Wow. Wow. WOW.

  I had to bring this diary out again, because…well, you’ll see.

  It started early this morning, with knocking. It was soft at first. So soft, I thought I was dreaming.

  It took me hours to fall asleep last night. I don’t know why—everything was normal enough, except I had this strange sense that something was wrong. Deeply wrong.

  I guess I slept, though, because as I sat up this morning, fumbling for my alarm clock, an odd dream was lingering in my mind.

  I was standing beside a swimming pool. It was big, the kind of pool you’d see at a park—or maybe the country club where Tammy works in the summers, come to think of it—but no one was in sight. The space was empty except for the water at my feet and a high, dark fence on every side. The wall was smooth, with no doors or gates to break it up. Only steep, sheer walls and, in the middle, the deep expanse of water, impossibly blue and shimmering.

  The pool lapped silently at the concrete edges, as if the water was inviting me in, but somehow I knew—I knew—that if I didn’t get away from that water fast, something terrible would happen.

  I shook off the remnants of sleep and peered at the clock. Then I shot up in bed. I’d slept through my alarm, and I was supposed to be at the O’Sullivans’ in twelve minutes. It’s really bad if I’m late, since that makes Mr. O’Sullivan late to work, too. Mrs. O’Sullivan’s pregnant again, and the doctor just put her on bed rest, so her husband is taking on extra shifts to make up for her lost wages. I’m watching their two kids, Penny and Chris, every weekday this summer, and some weekend days, too.

  I rolled out of bed, took a thirty-second shower and stepped into my clothes with my hair still wet. I never bother with makeup on babysitting days, so I had time for a quick bowl of cereal.

  Mom and Peter were already gone for the day, Peter at work and Mom running errands, so I hurried to the empty kitchen and gulped down my food while I glanced at the Chronicle spread out across the kitchen table. There was a photo of Senator Briggs at the bottom of the page, next to yet another article predicting a landslide victory for his initiative banning gay teachers. The only thing I could safely predict was that I never wanted to see another photo of Senator Briggs while I was trying to eat. My cereal was already threatening to come back up.

  The O’Sullivans’ house is a two-minute walk downhill from ours, and when I unlocked the front door I had exactly three minutes to get there. I stepped out into the morning fog, letting out a fat yawn and flicking my wet hair over my shoulder.

  “Hi,” a soft voice said.

  I blinked.

  There was a girl on my front stoop.

  She was several inches taller than me, with long, tangled blond hair and dark circles under her wide blue eyes. Her clothes were rumpled, but her pants were the same ones Rhonda had shown me in a magazine last month, by that French designer she’s obsessed with. The girl’s purse looked expensive, too, and there was a map of San Francisco sticking out of its front pocket.

  I’d never seen her before, not even a picture of her, but I was absolutely certain it was Tammy.

  “Sharon?” There was no doubt in her voice, either.

  A million words bubbled up in my throat at once, but I seemed to have forgotten how to speak. I stepped back into the foyer, waving frantically for her to come in. I was moving so fast I almost tripped, my loafers squeaking on the linoleum.

  She stepped inside, her eyes shifting around, taking in everything at once. The lumpy plaid couch under the front window. The stained shag rug. The dark doorway to the kitchen with the breakfast dishes piled in the sink.

  Then her gaze slid to me, and I remembered my wet hair and lack of makeup and the frayed pair of Peter’s corduroy pants I’d thrown on when I couldn’t find anything decent in my own laundry pile.

  None of it mattered, somehow.

  “I’m sorry to show up this way.” She was looking right at me, but her gaze didn’t linger on my disheveled hair or my lumpy 49ers sweatshirt or the zit on my chin. Her eyes were bloodshot, with the remnants of what must’ve been yesterday’s mascara underneath, but she held my gaze, even though she looked exhausted enough to fall over at any second. “There wasn’t anywhere else I could go, and—Well, um, could I…?”

  “Yeah.” I tried to think quickly, which wasn’t easy given how hard my heart was pounding. “I have to go babysit, but you can come with me. We’ll talk there.”

  “I don’t want to impose…”

  “It’s okay.” I didn’t know what was happening, but I knew I wanted to help. In that moment, I wanted to help Tammy more than I’d ever wanted to do anything. “The O’Sullivans won’t mind. You know how to take care of little kids, right?”

  She smiled thinly. A very, very tired smile. “That’s one of the few things I actually do know how to do.”

  “Good. We’ll have to be fast.”

  I locked the door behind us and led Tammy down the block at a near-run. I didn’t ask her any questions, and she didn’t volunteer anything. But she wasn’t carrying a suitcase, or even a backpack—only her purse. Whatever had brought her four hundred miles from home, it must’ve happened fast.

  We reached the O’Sullivans and rang the bell. I turned to Tammy, trying to think of some kind of story we could tell them, but before I could say a word Mr. O’Sullivan swung open the door and stepped out onto the porch, his coat in his hand. Three-year-old Penny and one-year-old Chris thundered across the kitchen floor behind him after a toy truck. “Morning, Sharon. I’ll be back by five.”

  He was already halfway down the steps when he noticed Ta
mmy standing next to me and paused. I started to babble. “This is my friend Tammy, she’s, uh—”

  “I’m visiting from out of town and I offered to help Sharon today. I hope that’s all right, sir. I won’t need any pay, since I’m still learning how to babysit.”

  Mr. O’Sullivan smiled, and Tammy smiled right back at him. A completely different smile than the thin, fatigued one I’d seen thirty seconds ago on my doorstep.

  Now, out of nowhere, she was bright and sunny. Even the circles under her eyes seemed to have lightened.

  There was no time to figure out how she’d pulled that off. Mr. O’Sullivan was already nodding. “Fine. See you girls at five.”

  “SHARON!” Penny lunged through the door the second her father disappeared, throwing her arms around my calves. “Chris broked my truck!”

  “Oh, no! Well, I bet I can fix it. Hey, Penny, this is my friend Tammy. Tammy, this is Penny, and that’s Chris.”

  Tammy immediately squatted down to Penny’s level. “What a cool truck!” She pointed to the bright yellow bulldozer sliding to a halt by Chris’s feet. He promptly picked it up and started gnawing on it. As far as I could tell, the truck was intact. “What kind is it?”

  “A bullbozer,” Penny said knowledgeably. “Bullbozers push rocks. My brother eats them, ’cause his teeth are hurting, but that’s okay ’cause it’s not a real bullbozer, it’s a pretend bullbozer.”

  Tammy sat on the floor beside Penny and the two of them began an in-depth discussion about trucks while I checked to see if Chris needed a diaper change. The next thing I knew, Tammy had fixed whatever problem the truck supposedly had, and Penny was sitting in her lap holding a copy of Goodnight Moon. Once his dry diaper was in place—Chris always pees as soon as I arrive—he toddled over, too, and Tammy lifted him up to sit beside her. Before long the three of them had read the entirety of Goodnight Moon five times and were starting on a sixth.