Aloha, Candy Hearts (26 page)

“Besides,” Anthony insisted as he helped his fiancé guide me out the front door, “this isn’t public. It’s just a few friends. Half of them have seen you naked anyway.”

“That’s not true!” I protested.

And so the futile argument continued as we trekked the short distance to the house next door, the great Nureyev being dragged by two white-haired filmmakers.

Sereena has many passions. One of them is redecorating. I have seen her kitchen decked out in Greek village style, her bedroom in Asian chic, and her master bath in Egyptian splendour. Tonight, the large area that sometimes serves as her living room, sometimes her dining room and sometimes as a ballroom, had become a medieval banquet hall, complete with rough-hewn wooden furniture, brightly coloured royal standards, thick woven wall hang-ings, and sconces and floor torches alive with dancing flames. A large table, set for about twenty, dominated the centre of the room.

It was laid with several ornate candelabras and a mixture of silver and gold goblets. No plates. No cutlery.

In deference to the happy, romantic occasion, the room was ablaze with hearts. Great big electric glowing hearts. About two dozen of them, ranging in size from a foot tall to one that was almost six feet. They were fashioned after the candy hearts we used to pass around (or, in my case, eat by the handful) on Valentine’s Day when we were kids. Each bore a syrupy sweet saying, like “Be Mine,” “I’m Yours,” or “Cute Stuff.” Every heart pulsed pastel—pink, green, yellow, and orange—throwing the DD6AA2AB8

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room into a slightly amusement park-ish haze.

The couple of the hour having been whisked away by well-wishers the second we entered the wild scene, I looked around for more people I knew. Instead, I saw Edward VIII and Mrs. Simpson, Spencer Tracy and Katharine Hepburn, Anne Morrow and Charles Lindbergh, Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy, and several other couples whose claim to romantic fame I couldn’t quite figure out. For a moment my heart sank. Everyone here was in a couple. Except me.

Then Elizabeth Taylor came to my rescue.

“Where’s Richard?” I asked Sereena, who, since I’d seen her at the Childhelp luncheon, had completely transformed herself into Liz Taylor, circa 1960s. Her head was piled high with mountain-ous, bouffant black hair, she wore plenty of eye makeup and loads of jewellery. The heaving bosom, though, was all her.

“I’m so dreadfully tired of him.” Her nasal, sex kitten tone was perfect. “I’m in the mood for a senator this week.”

With my hands strategically placed in front of me, I said,

“Sereena, about this outfit…”

“Hello.” We were joined by someone wearing a dowdy, brack-ish-hued outfit that might have been natty in the 1920s (probably the last time it saw an ironing board).

“Let me guess,” I said as I appraised Errall’s new look. “Alice B. Toklas.”

“Close. Gertrude Stein. I don’t really know much about the avante garde literary world, but they were the most famous lesbian lovers I could think of that I had the wardrobe for.”

“You had that in your closet?”

“Long story.” She gave my package an assessing stare, her right eyebrow raised high. “Who are you supposed to be? Jeff Stryker?”

“Who’s that?”

“Famous gay porn star from the Eighties? Why don’t you know that?”

Why don’t I?

Sereena gave each of us a piece of paper. “Before the end of the evening I want you to return these to me.”

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I looked at the blank slip. “What’s this?”

“I want you to write out a message for the newlyweds.

Nothing lengthy required. We’ll be entering them into the electric sign, along with the telegrams, e-mails, and well-wishes that have been pouring in from all over the world.”

She pointed to a corner of the room where a road-sign-sized monitor sat. It was the kind that usually delivers messages like:

“Reduce Speed—Construction Ahead” or “Traffic Reduced to One Lane” or “All Rose Bouquets 50% Off.”

“That’s a great idea, Sereena.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “It’ll be set up on the lawn during the reception, and scroll through each message while we have our cocktails.”

“Hi!”

Everyone looked at the new addition to our group. He was also wearing tights, but, unlike mine, his magnificently embroidered, laced tunic fell modestly to mid thigh. His sleeves were proudly puffy, as was his chest. It was Damien, looking very dashing, I suppose.

“Wow, that’s quite the outfit,” Errall commented.

“From the fifteen-hundreds,” Damien said with a curt nod of his head, which was resplendent in a plumed hat. “The men were all about being fancy back then.”

I shook my head. There he goes, I thought, showing off that he’s smart as well as pretty. Gawd, I hate when that happens.

“Who exactly are you supposed to be?” I asked.

He gave me a killer smile accompanied by an arched eyebrow.

“Romeo Montague at your service,” he announced with a bow and flourish of his arm.

Oh save it.

“Does that mean…?” Errall started off, quickly surveying the room until she found what she was looking for. She shrieked. We all turned to see what had elicited such a reaction.

“Oh my,” Sereena commented dryly. “Juliet has certainly filled out.”

Big, burly, bulky Ethan Ash was lumbering towards us, decked out as the pride of the Capulet family. His dress was crim-DD6AA2AB8

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son with gold brocade detailing, his hair a hip-length shaft of brown mess. There’d been an unsuccessful attempt at cosmetic application.

I couldn’t quite tell from the set of Ethan’s face whether he was mad, sad, or simply in shock to realize he’d never make even a half-decent drag queen. Many gay men, whether they actually ever plan to do it or not, assume—with no real evidence to support this—that throwing on a frock, a pair of stilettos, and applying some lipstick, will magically morph them into Marilyn Monroe, with the voice of Barbra and the wit of Bette (Midler or Davis, doesn’t matter). They figure it’s one of their unassailable rights as a homosexual. The fact that they have broad shoulders, hairy legs, a baritone, and have never told a joke in their lives doesn’t dis-suade them for a second. The result is often shockingly and hideously disappointing.

As the ungainly Juliet stepped into our circle, Damien fell to his knees and recited in a dramatic voice, “What’s in a name? That which we call a rose, by any other name would smell as sweet. See, how she leans her cheek upon her hand! O, that I were a glove upon that hand, that I might touch that cheek! Good Night, good night! Parting is such sweet sorrow, that I shall say good night till it be morrow.”

Oh, good, lord.

Errall, however, thought it quite the show of chivalry and gal-lantry. “Oh Romeo, where art my very own just like you?”

I was about to point out that he’d mixed up the quotes, taking the best bits from Acts I and II, not to mention one of Juliet’s lines, but quickly concluded that it would be petty. And, in truth, I knew I was just mad because I wanted to be the man kneeling down before Ethan—ugly Juliet or not. Instead, I looked at him and smiled. We’d not talked since the night of the kiss. I knew I should apologize for it, but I really didn’t want to. So I said nothing.

Ethan gave us his good-natured smile and said, “Does this dress make me look fat?”

We laughed. Damien explained how he’d come up with the idea of Romeo and Juliet, but at the last minute couldn’t go through with wearing the dress. Ethan sportingly took on the role DD6AA2AB8

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of Juliet, the gown meant for a smaller man, and the ill-conceived makeup job.

“Come with me,” Sereena said as she pulled Ethan from our group. “We have a few minutes before the rehearsal begins. You’re a girl in desperate need of a visit to the powder room.”

Damien scurried after them.

“Does it seem weird to you,” Errall remarked, “that Anthony and Jared are getting married tomorrow?”

I gave her a look. What was she getting at? “No, I don’t think so. Why do you say that? Don’t you think they should?”

“Of course I do. It’s just that there’s been such a rash of gay weddings. It’s like a runaway train. I feel like it’s taken over my social calendar for the last couple of years. Every weekend I’m going to a ‘gay wedding.’ And why do people call them that?

They’re just weddings, people, not gay weddings!

“I don’t know,” she continued with a sigh, “it just seems kind of weird. Imagine if all this time eating cornflakes was outlawed.

Suddenly the law changes and everybody can eat cornflakes wherever they want, whenever they want. So they do, whether they really want to or not. I just wonder if half the people eating cornflakes are doing it before they’ve even had a chance to figure out if they like the damn things.”

I gave Errall a sideways look. “Would you and Kelly have gotten married?”

“Hell yeah,” she said without hesitation, then quickly laughed at herself. “It just seems so odd going to all these weddings at once, all our friends getting married at the same time. These are weddings that should have happened fifteen years ago. But here we are, heading into our forties, attending our first round of nuptials and getting hitched ourselves. How will we ever find the time to have kids, fool around, get divorced, and discover the joy of second marriages?”

I chuckled. For a moment we stood in comfortable silence, watching the people around us. I wondered if now, given her rare companionable mood, was a good time to bring up our concerns about the fate of PWC and Errall’s future. “Errall, about this women’s clothing store…”

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“Oh yeah, yeah, yeah, I’ve been meaning to ask you,” she said, her eyes glistening with excitement. “I’ve been trying out names for the shop. What do you think of Errall’s Place?”

I flinched. “Are you offering country fries with your blue plate special?”

Her face hardened. “Okay. What about No Strane? I really like that one. You know, with my last name being Strane, no strain on your pocketbook, no strain garments…meaning they’re affordable and fit well…get it?”

“Uh, yeah, I get it,” I said, looking even less impressed.

“No?”

I shook my head.

“Then what great ideas do you have, Mr. Creative Gay Guy?

What would you call the store? It has to have some kind of name.”

“What about, Errall Strane, Attorney at Law?”

She made an unhappy sound and, glancing about, asked, “Can we smoke in here?”

In some ways, Errall was cut from the same cloth as my sister.

“No. Errall, I think you’re rushing things. Kelly has only been gone a year. You just spread her ashes this week! Give yourself time to settle into a new normal.”

“Kee-rist, have you been reading self-help books again?”

“I’m not kidding around. I wonder...we’ve all been wondering if maybe you’re being just a wee bit rash.”

“’We? Meaning you, Dr. Phil, and the Amazing Kreskin?”

“Errall, of course Beverly and Alberta and I don’t want to leave PWC. But we also care about you and what you’re doing with your life. We’ll leave in three months, hell, we’ll leave right now if you want us to, but don’t change PWC just yet. Don’t give up your law practice. Don’t rush into something you might regret. Just…just chill for a while.”

“What makes you think you can tell me what to do?” Her piercing blues were flaming. “Then again, I suppose you of all people should know about regret.”

“What do you mean by that?” Big mistake. I’d taken the bait.

“Tomorrow you’re going to watch a man who you’ve lusted after for a decade, walk down the aisle with a man who has always DD6AA2AB8

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looked out for you and been the best friend you ever had.” Her words were heavy and spit out like nails meant to be driven into my chest. “Do you regret never telling either of them the truth?

Don’t you think it’s about time you told Anthony that your friendship is a sham, because you’re in love with Jared? And what about Keith?” she changed direction without hesitation. “Kelly told me all about you and him. Four years the two of you were together.

From what I hear, you just walked away. Do you regret that?”

“We weren’t ri…” I stuttered, but she wasn’t letting me off the hook yet.

“And what about now, Russell? You’re hiding an engagement with one man, while hanging around here giving puppy dog looks to another man, who you know very well is in love with someone else!”

The silence that followed the outburst was truly deafening. It felt like an explosion of nothingness in my ears. My cheeks burned with fury and embarrassment and surprise. How could she say these horrible things to me? Had I really betrayed my friendship with Anthony and Jared? Had I been unfair to Keith, my lover for almost four years when I was in my twenties? Was Ethan…in love?

Our eyes met and all the hurt and pain and fear we felt inside were communicated in that gaze, a look too potent to sustain for long. Seldom have I ever seen tough-as-nails Errall Strane cry.

Today was no different, but as she stalked off, I saw the sharp blades of her thin back shudder.

The rehearsal went smoothly. Luckily there were enough jovial people about, behind which Errall and I could hide our misery. We both half-heartedly partook in the medieval feast. We both left early.

By the time I got home I was feeling black and blue all over, without anyone laying a finger on me.

Giving in to longing looks, I handed Barbra and Brutus each a ham-flavoured doggie treat (a favourite). I made myself a strong gin and tonic with a quarter of a fresh lime squeezed into it. We made the pilgrimage from kitchen to den and settled on the couch.