Michael Tolliver Lives

by Armistead Maupin

  But I’m getting ahead of myself.

  Irwin’s eye was flinching again.

  “Do you remember,” he said slowly, “what you told me out in the boat?”

  It took me a moment. “About Mama wanting to leave Papa?”

  He nodded darkly.

  I still wasn’t getting it.

  “It’s the same reason, Mikey.”

  “The same reason as what?”

  Right about then our drinks arrived, though I have no memory whatsoever of interacting with the waitress. The glasses just materialized and remained there undisturbed, while my eyes stayed glued on my brother’s flinching eye.

  “The same reason as what?” I repeated.

  “The same reason I threw Lenore out. Her and Papa…they were having a…I mean, you know, they’d been…” He lifted his palms from the table and tilted them to parenthesize the unspeakable. The gesture wasn’t graphic but it screamed its meaning.

  I gaped at him. “How do you know this?”

  “Mama told me last week. Right after you left.”

  “Papa and Lenore?”

  “Don’t make me say it again.” He reached for his scotch and drank half of it, then pushed the other glass toward me. “Keep me company.”

  I picked up the glass, took a swig, and set it down again.

  “Jesus,” I murmured.

  “Mikey—”

  “Sorry.” I hardly knew where to start. “When did this happen?”

  “Just before Papa died. Mama drove up to Deltona to spend the day at that big outlet store, but it was closed for some holiday…Martin Luther King or something…so she came back. She couldn’t find Papa at the house, so she went down to our place. They didn’t even lock the door. She found ’em in the family room.”

  “In flagrante?”

  Irwin flinched violently. “I don’t know how they were doing it.”

  I did my best not to smile. “I mean…they were actually in the midst of…?”

  “Yes sir. Yes they were.” Irwin just rocked for a while, his hands between his knees, like one of those plastic birds bobbing into a glass of water.

  “All righty,” I said, always ready with the brotherly wisdom.

  “Mama said they were buck naked.”

  I wanted to be the unhysterical one. I wanted to guide my brother rationally through the labyrinth of sex like enlightened queers are supposed to do. But I screwed up my face as if I’d just caught a whiff of a flaming cow pie.

  “Papa just hit the ceiling,” Irwin went on. “Throwin’ stuff all over the place. Like Mama was the one who’d done something wrong.”

  Wouldn’t he just? I thought.

  Irwin polished off the rest of his scotch. “And then he died.”

  “What?”

  “He had a heart attack. Right there in front of them.”

  “But he died of cancer.”

  “Cancer can cause heart attacks. The coroner just considered it…a complication.”

  “I’ll say. Was Papa still naked when the coroner arrived?”

  Irwin shook his head. “They got his clothes back on and put him on the sofa with the clicker.”

  “The clicker?”

  “Like he was watching TV when it happened.”

  “Jesus…sorry, sorry!”

  Irwin offered me a weary smile. “You’re entitled.”

  “In that case, Jesus H. Christ! How the hell did Mama make it through the funeral? She looked so…composed.”

  “I guess she was kinda in shock. She said she prayed a lot.”

  “Did that help?”

  Irwin scowled at my sacrilege.

  “It’s people who have to be good to us, Irwin. Not God.”

  “You think I don’t know that?”

  I apologized for the preachiness—the last thing he needed right now. Still, I couldn’t help thinking how biblical the whole thing sounded. All that begetting and begatting among kinfolk. Not to mention those wailing women dressing the dead patriarch.

  “Where were you?” I asked.

  “Out showin’ a house. By the time I got home, Papa was already at the funeral parlor.”

  “And Mama and Lenore had worked out their story.”

  “Yep.”

  We just sat there for a moment, silent as men, working out our own story, each in his own way. “It’s just so…pathetic,” I said finally.

  “What?”

  “That Mama just buried it all these years. She never had closure of any kind.”

  “She didn’t want folks to know. She didn’t want me to know. And Lenore sure as hell didn’t want me to know. Mama was pretty much stuck, I reckon. So they drove up to Georgia after the funeral and got born again where nobody would know ’em.”

  “I’m sorry…who did?”

  “Mama and Lenore. The preacher baptized ’em both. One after the other. Little church on the highway. One o’ those aboveground pools.”

  “Did you know about this at the time?”

  “Sure.”

  “And that didn’t strike you as strange?”

  Irwin shrugged. “Mama said the womenfolk had to grieve on their own. And Lenore was a Presbyterian, so she’d never been born again. I just reckoned Mama was killin’ two birds with one stone. So I stayed home and took Kimberly to Disney World.”

  Poor Mama, I thought, living with this gothic shit for almost twenty years, protecting Irwin’s heart at any cost, while Papa got off scot-free and Lenore grew more and more sanctimonious with guilt. No wonder Lenore had been so solicitous of Mama. And no wonder my unapologetic homosexuality became their mutual obsession; it was something they could fix together, a sin that, unlike Papa’s, could still be eradicated.

  “So why did she change her mind?”

  “Who?”

  “Mama. Why did she spill the beans now?”

  “Her and Lenore were at each other’s throats all week, so I went out to the Gospel Palms and told Mama she owed Lenore some respect since Lenore only wanted the best for her. And Mama went ballistic, said she didn’t wanna die lookin’ at that evil woman’s face, and I asked her why on earth she would say such a thing, and…she told me.”

  “In front of Lenore?”

  “No. I went to Lenore myself. She was doin’ a puppet show up in Eustis.”

  I could almost see the felt flying. “What did she say?”

  “She said it happened only once or twice, and she did it to keep peace in the family.”

  “What?”

  “Papa had been at her for years, she said. She just wanted to put it to rest.”

  “Do you believe her?”

  “I don’t know what I believe,” said Irwin.

  23

  Terms of Abasement

  My brother’s second drink arrived with the food. He polished it off before the waitress left and ordered another.

  “You sure?” I asked.

  “I’m sure,” he said, sawing ferociously into his steak.

  I felt awful for him. As Papa’s innately unacceptable son, I’d known the sting of the old man’s narcissism for decades, but Irwin had been blindsided in the worst possible way. “He didn’t do it to hurt you,” I told him. “He did it because he could—because everything revolved around him. He didn’t think about anyone else. He took what he wanted.”

  He grunted as he chewed on a mouthful of steak.

  “I’m really sorry, Irwin.”

  Another grunt.

  “At least you’ll have the Promise Keepers.”

  “Say what?”

  “The convention in San Jose. That should be a good boost for your spirits. The fellowship and all.”

  Silence.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “There’s no convention,” he said. “I just said that because…I didn’t want you to think I was comin’ out just to see you.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugged. “Too much pressure, I guess.”

  “Pressure? On who?”

  “I dunno—
”

  “I like the pressure, Irwin. I like that you thought of me.”

  He stared bleakly at the tabletop. “Who else am I’m gonna think of?”

  It wasn’t the declaration one might have hoped for, but it almost warmed my heart. Unless that was the scotch. Whatever the reason, I was grinning over a brand-new irony.

  “You lied about the Promise Keepers?”

  We circled the grotesquerie again and again, making less and less sense of it. When Irwin was done with his third drink, I decided to cut to the chase.

  “So what are you gonna do now?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Are you gonna…lift the banishment?”

  He made a nervous circle on the table with his glass. “How can I live with her now, knowing what happened?”

  I shrugged. “How can you not?”

  “I could do it…believe you me.”

  “Irwin, you can’t make scrambled eggs.”

  “Well, that’s not—”

  “Has she asked for forgiveness?”

  “She said she asks the Lord every day.”

  “Has she asked you?”

  “I s’pose…I was yellin’ a lot.”

  “Understandably.”

  A long silence.

  “Do you still love her?”

  “Mikey…she did this in our house! Her and Papa were—”

  “I’ve got the picture, Irwin. But it was eighteen years ago, and you’ve got a nice new house and a sweet grandkid, and you and Lenore are each other’s person in the world. The only way to take your life back is to forgive her. It’s obvious she’s tried to atone for this. She’s been atoning us to death for years. Forgive her and stop the damn puppets.”

  I caught him suppressing a smile.

  “You must love her,” I added. “You bought her a Thomas Kinkade.” (I couldn’t believe I was citing that god-awful “chapel in the dell” as proof of anything, but a desperate situation called for desperate measures.)

  “It’s not as simple as that,” said Irwin. “Mama never wants to see her again.”

  “Then see that she doesn’t. Tell Lenore to stay away from the Gospel Palms. That shouldn’t be hard. Just be the man—tell her what you want and what Mama wants. Isn’t that what the Promise Keepers would tell you?”

  I thought I’d gone too far, but he was still listening.

  “And cut yourself some slack. None of this shit is your fault. It’s okay to enjoy yourself, Irwin. Especially right now.” I widened my eyes suggestively. “If you ask me, the Lord owes you one.”

  Irwin gazed at me morosely. “What do you mean?”

  I picked up the bill holder and slipped my credit card into the slot. Irwin mumbled in protest, but I shooed him away. “You can pay for dinner tonight.”

  “I have to get back to work,” he said nonsensically.

  “You have to sober up,” I told him. “You have to go back to your room and have a nice hot shower and a nap. I’ll pick you up at seven.”

  “Where are we going?” he asked.

  “To town,” I replied.

  I called Shawna as soon as I’d pulled off 101 onto Cesar Chavez.

  “Hey, babycakes.”

  “Oh…hi, Mouse.”

  “Listen, sweetie…I need to talk to you about something.”

  This must have sounded ominous to her. “Oh, shit, it’s not Dad, is it?”

  “No, no. He’s fine. I mean…other than the foot. My brother’s in town, and he’s really depressed, and…I thought I might take him out tonight. I was wondering if you could recommend somebody nice at the Lusty Lady.”

  “You’re kidding?”

  “No…I’m not.”

  “Your born-again brother from Orlando?”

  “It’s complicated. He’s had a blow to his self-esteem, and I just wanna make him feel better for a while. Help him let off some steam, you know.”

  “What does he want?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In a woman, Mouse.”

  “He doesn’t know about this, actually.”

  “Okaay.”

  “I just thought if there was someone…you know, really easygoing…that he could talk to…and mess around with maybe…it might make him feel better.”

  “And he won’t consider this a sin?”

  “Is it a sin if it happens behind Plexiglas?”

  Shawna laughed. “Fuck if I know.”

  “He can always say no, if he doesn’t want to. I just thought I’d pave the way for him. Make sure he got the right one.”

  “What would be the wrong one?”

  “Well, Pacifica the Pregnant Lady for one. And you for another.”

  “I’m way past that story, Mouse. And Pacifica has a beautiful baby boy.”

  “I’m thrilled for you both.”

  “I take it you haven’t been reading my blog.”

  “Maybe not lately.”

  “You should. You’re in it.”

  “Doing what?”

  “Coming to the Lusty Lady. Well, maybe not coming, but—”

  “Jesus, Shawna—”

  “Okay…my bad. I promise you’ll like it, though. I call you my green-collar gay uncle. I didn’t mention your name, if you’re worried about losing your queer clients.”

  “Gimme a break.”

  “You might wanna think about Lorelei.”

  “What?”

  “For your brother. She’s blond and hella sweet, and she’s famous for her feet.”

  “Her feet?”

  “You should see them. They’re perfect.”

  “What can you do with feet behind Plexiglas?”

  “What can you do with anything behind Plexiglas? Oh, wait…Cressida…that’s the one. She really digs older guys.”

  “Do older guys dig her?”

  “Oh, yeah.”

  “Cressida as in Troilus and Cressida?”

  “She used to work down at Shakespeare Santa Cruz. She listens well, and she, you know…talks them through it.”

  “So how do we do this?”

  “I’ll just call ahead and tell ’em he’s coming. What’s his name again?”

  “Irwin.”

  “Will you be with him?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “You big pussy.”

  “Don’t be disrespectful.”

  She giggled.

  “And don’t put it in your blog, either. This is strictly private therapy. It can’t get back to Florida.”

  “You have my word on it, as a pimp.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I think it’s sweet, actually. What you’re doing. I’ll leave a message for Cressida. Make sure he brings some cash for the slot.”

  That evening I took Irwin to Joe DiMaggio’s Chophouse on Washington Square. Back when I was still living on Russian Hill, this corner was occupied by the Fior d’Italia, the city’s oldest Italian restaurant and the birthplace of chicken tetrazzini, a spaghetti dish concocted in 1908 in honor of a visiting opera singer. (Mama used to make a version of this herself, using Velveeta cheese and Campbell’s Cream of Chicken soup.) I hadn’t been to the new restaurant, but I figured its blend of baseball memorabilia and oversized Marilyn photographs would keep both of us sufficiently amused.

  While Irwin was working on his first scotch, a pianist was tinkling out a dreamy rendition of “I Wanna Be Loved by You.”

  “Clever,” I said, smiling. (I wasn’t drinking tonight, but I had vaporized before leaving the house.)

  “What?”

  “That was Marilyn Monroe’s big number from Some Like It Hot.”

  “Don’t think I remember that one.”

  “Sure you do…blond. Big boobs.”

  Irwin shot daggers at me. “The movie, dickwad.”

  It felt good to be called that again. It reminded me of the old days—the days of the unsaved Irwin—when his terms of abasement were almost a form of intimacy. We might have been back in that dinghy at Lake Tibet looking for alliga
tors in the dark.

  I smiled at him. “They had their wedding photos taken just across the square here.”

  “Who?”

  “Marilyn and Joe. At Saints Peter and Paul.”

  “Oh.”

  “They weren’t actually married there. They were married at City Hall.”

  Irwin nodded slowly. “Like you and Ben.”

  I grinned at him. “That wasn’t my point, but…yes…come to think of it. That’s pretty cool, actually.” I was touched that he’d made the connection.

  “You’re too old to be saying ‘cool,’ bro.”

  “You’re right. And fuck you.”

  He took another slug of his drink. “It don’t mean shit, anyway.”

  “What?”

  “Marriage. You give it all you got, and it blows up in your face. It’s nothing but heartache in the end.”

  Mama had said the very same thing when I’d told her about marrying Ben. She and Irwin had come to the same conclusion about the same moment of betrayal by the same two people. It made sense, in a way. Southern families are nothing if not close.

  “I can’t forgive her, Mikey. I can’t do it. I wouldn’t know how to start.”

  I shrugged. “Maybe you could forgive each other.”

  He frowned. “What have I got to be forgiven for?”

  Recognizing my cue, I reached into the pocket of my sports coat and removed the envelope I’d brought with me. I handed it to Irwin without a word. He hesitated a moment, then opened the envelope and removed the hand-tinted Victorian postcard I’d found in a Noe Valley shop earlier that afternoon. It depicted a naughty lady in a corset vamping on a saloon piano. On the back I’d written: “GOOD FOR ONE NIGHT OF FUN IN OLD FRISCO. Kearny and Broadway. Cressida.”

  “Cressida?” said Irwin. “What do I need with a car?”