How Long Has This Been Going On (81 page)

"Well, twenty years ago you couldn't have imagined this game. Now it's like the Yankees play the Dodgers."

"Huh."

"Granted, the die-hard haters don't show up, so it's a misleading picture. But a voice in you says, Could maybe some of them have switched over from loathing to tolerance? Did someone come out to them—a

brother, a son, a colleague? Hell, a father? And did they suddenly realize how common this thing is, how right-around-the-corner? Gays are... We're..."

"Gays and lesbians."

"Gay
is
lesbian."

"Elaine says you have to say both words now. 'Gay' is just men."

"It used to be coed. Like first grade."

"Elaine likes 'queer.' It covers everything."

"Terms!" the Kid cried. "Remember when there wasn't a word for what we were—I mean, a real one? The only people who could speak of us were psychs and sociologists. Jesus, we weren't there! And now we hold parades."

"Looking real forward to the next one," said Lois. "All those bold young women, nipples straight out and everyone stand clear. That's
my
queer nation."

"Amen, brother," said the Kid.

"What's so strange," said Elaine, "is that they harp so on this family thing just when the news breaks out that the American family is the great repository of sinful secrets. Fathers seduce daughters, mothers scream their sons into catatonia or serial killing, and, through it all, the nation's First Family, those unbelievably disreputable Reagans, turns out to be practicing every lunacy and vanity available. Family values? That must mean Screw the kids and fuck the country."

Elaine and Walt walked along, now under the trees, now under the sun.

"It makes me so angry," Elaine went on, "that it's just as well I live off and away. I'd be shouting all day at people, reforming them."

"I made up a cure for being too angry," said Walt. "I call it Taking a Left Turn. It's where you would usually get mad, but you do nothing. You wait and think it over. You can always yell later. But, if you consider the whole thing, maybe you won't need to."

"Interesting."

"That's why I broke up with Blue—because I was yelling so much. And the more I yelled, the more I wanted to. Now that I know how to create deep inner peace, it's too late. But, you know?, all these three years I have been thinking about the word 'home.' Because my original home wasn't a great place to be, except for Tom and Luke and Chris watching out for me. So then my home was with them, but now it's kind of broken up because... well, you know."

"Isn't home what you have with Johnny?"

"I suppose so...."

"Believe me," said the Kid, sharing a Rome apple with Lois on a bank of the Merrimack, "I've tried and tried. It's as if he vanished. You know these marginally socialized gay boys—they change addresses the way Madonna changes her pubic hairdo."

Lois guffawed.

"Thank God for a woman who doesn't go
Shame, shame!
at gay humor."

"Could this guy be dead?" Lois asked.

"I hunch otherwise. He's out there, somewhere or other. I kept thinking he'd call us one day: Hey, it's Blue, can I talk to Walt? Back when we moved to New York, I wouldn't let him—and I still dread it, because... Well, think what I'd lose."

"You love Walt that heavy?" asked Lois. "Yet you're scared he'd leave you?" She was trying to picture herself and Elaine on that level, couldn't see it. Leave for what?

"It's my neediness that scares me. I can blow an evening standing by the window watching the street if he's out late. I can read his mind by the way he eats his soup. I can feel the cream slowly filling his dick as he's fucking me, stroke by stroke. He doesn't know it, of course, but he's utterly in charge of me. No feeling is authentic until I share it with him. No personal or professional triumph is secured till he hears of it and congratulates and admires and maybe even likes me a little for it. I live... entirely within his compass."

"That's love, sucker."

Raising the core of the eaten apple, the Kid said, "This is me, the day Blue shows up and takes Walt away. But, you know, I'm a smart lover, give the boy plenty of room. That was the trouble with Blue—those two were so all over each other they were strangling." The Kid tossed the apple high, into the water. "Recycling," he explained.

"You really think Blue shows up and Walt walks? Just like that?"

The Kid shrugged. "The thing is, I always used to go around as Jerrett Troy, and if Blue's trying to find us, that's who he'd ask for. But nowadays I'm using my real name, and all he knows of that is Johnny.'"

"What's the rest of it, come to that?"

"It doesn't matter, because I'm the Kid—ever was and will be. It's not the name that matters, it's the me I invent. Dig, old pal?"

* * *

The late-afternoon wine flowed freely, and all were in a merry mood for dinner, giggling (Elaine), chuckling (Lois), crowing (Walt), and holding the stomach to roar uncontrollably (the Kid) at a fanfaronade of camp and satire. The Kid's main contribution was an improvisation on
Gone With the Wind
with Bombasta as Scarlett O'Hara, Lois as Rhett Butler, George Bush as Ashley, and Candice Bergen—"the woman every lesbian loves!" the Kid noted; and he's not far off—as Melanie, with Transvesto, every so often, trying to sneak his Sondheim cabaret act into the narrative.

The Kid had never been sharper; some of his uses of Lois-as-the-world's-most-virile-man were so persuasive that Elaine's eyebrows rose in awed alarm. Should parody be so perceptive? At the end, the other three gave the Kid an ovation, and Elaine said, "Johnny, you're ready for the world stage!"

"No, because straights still don't get it. Some of them hate us, some of them don't care, and some are probably trying to figure out and befriend us. But even they don't see what we see."

"What do we see?"

"Them."

The phone rang.

"At last they'll hear it," Lois told Elaine.

"Oh—our greeting tape. Yes, Lois stamps right over and picks up when it rings, but I'm always afraid that another of my intense fans..." She halted as the tape switched on. "Hello," came Elaine's voice. "This is Elaine. We're not in right now, but if you'd kindly leave a message..."

Lois's voice cut in, from some distance away: "Don't tell anyone, but I'm here, too!"

"Lois," said the Kid, "your sense of nuance!" He blew her a kiss.

"I'd redo it," said Elaine, "but it feels so true to life like that."

The caller had come on—a man's voice, rough, beery, possibly disguised through a handkerchief: "I'm going to firebomb your lives, you shit-fag queers. You lesbos." A pause, some rattling. Then: "You won't know it's coming, you hag fuck bitch-kill, but you'll be burning. I'll blow you away to your bones!" More rattling, a click, the dial tone.

Elaine looked at Lois; Lois shrugged.

"Late with the gas bill again?" the Kid asked.

Walt said, "Has that happened before?"

Elaine shook her head.

"I cut Peter Smith's father down to size in the store today. Got him arrested and what all. This is his idea of revenge—threatening women with anonymous phone calls. There's a straight man for you, every time. Sneaks, rapists, and pieces of shit."

"Oh, my God," said Elaine. "What if he comes around some night and—"

"I surely
hope
he comes around. Because tomorrow I'm buying the biggest, fiercest German shepherd I can find, and he can tear Peter Smith's father's balls off right here on my property, and then it'll be over."

"Who's Peter Smith?" asked the Kid.

"I'll get some lights for outside. Floodlights."

"For the store, too," Elaine put in.

"Already got night-lights there, front and back. All-nighters."

"You do?" Elaine asked, feeling safer.

"You didn't know that? You don't think I can protect my stuff? My people?"

"Isn't she wonderful?" Elaine asked—told—the men. "I'm no good for battle. I can't even deal with tragedy in art now. Every time the
Grapes of Wrath
movie comes on television, Lois pulls up a chair and I run upstairs to hide."

"I like that mother," said Lois. "No fancy stuff—just hangs in there and gets it done."

The guests were impressed with Lois's cold-blooded response to the hate call, and the weekend went on unimpeded. But Lois decided to move quick and cool, to counter any possible attack. Heck knows, such things were happening more and more, as church leaders and family fascists eagerly stirred up youthful daredevils while dressing themselves in masks of blameless reason.

"No time," Lois cried the next morning, waving customers away as she pored over the ads. "Estella will help you."

"I was wondering about that bear trap," said a man.

Lois looked up. "It came in with a buy. It's not for sale."

"Well, I just wondered. Does it work?"

Lois looked at him. "You ever see a bear trap that didn't?"

"I've never seen a bear trap. I was curious about this one. I mean, does one dare even open it?"

"One
might not," said Lois. "But I sure can. Stand way back." Yet, as she moved, Lois hesitated. "No, heck that. I've got a dog to buy."

"I breed dogs," said the man.

"Sure." "Really."

"Shepherds? Or a pinscher, maybe? I need a guard on my place. Intruder comes on the property, dog goes wild, jumps at his throat if necessary."

"I don't breed attack dogs, but I don't think you could do better than one of my Labs. Smart, loving, alert, and they'd jump the Lord Himself if He pulled a piece on you."

"Always saw them as placid animals."

"Well, they're house pets. Friendly's their style. But you declare war on them and they fight. Fast, sharp fighters, I'd say. Shepherds and pinschers are terrifying but they're unpredictable. A Lab'll stick."

"Hmm."

"I'd give you a look at my puppies if you'll trade me a look at this here trap."

"Don't want a puppy," said Lois, warming to this. "I want a full-grown. I could have trouble
tonight."

"Got those as well. I could let you have Rock Hudson, though he'll cost you some."

Lois considered the guy. "Now, Rock Hudson could be just what I'd use."

"You willing to show me that trap, now?"

Lois had to follow the man's car all the way to New Boston for the dog, but she was happy with him: a big, dignified animal with bossy eyes and a formidable bark.

"How's he going to feel about separating here?" Lois asked the man.

"We have a few tricks," said the man, tying a red handkerchief around Rock Hudson's neck, as the dog preened. "They only get the bandanna on special occasions, so it makes them proud. Proud dog's an independent dog, you know. Then"—the guy stood up and picked through a box of dog toys—"we set him up with the red ball he used to chase when he was a tad." Noting the ball, the dog tensed a bit. "You'll find him easy to manage with the ball around. It's like the clock we put into the puppy basket to soothe them on their first night in the world."

"The ticking," said Lois, remembering. "They still do that?"

"Well, I do."

"Funny how some things in life are totally permanent and other things totally change, huh?"

"Hmm. Yeah, well. But I always say, it's not that things change so much as that we see them different. They're the same. We're just better informed."

"Well, how true that is," said Lois, shaking hands.

"Been a pleasure, ma'am. Really liked that bear trap."

Coming back into Lenapee, Lois was tooling down the Post Road when she saw Peter up ahead, walking home, followed at a slight distance by a gang of boys, presumably his schoolmates. Slowing as she neared, Lois could tell that Peter was nervous and the boys were laughing and shouting at him.

Wish I had one of those ball bats, Lois thought, getting out of the car. Peter looked as if he were lost in the desert and she were a Coke, but she signaled him to keep moving along right past her, to continue on home. They'll get him today, she was thinking, and me and Elaine tomorrow, as she strode up to the boys looking like an order of bloody murder to go. No, not up to them—into them, forcing them to fall back in surprise as she grabbed two heads by the hair and banged them together.

"Who else?" she said, as the boys made the usual outraged noises of the truly guilty. Move quick, keep at it, they'll back off. "Oh, you?" she asked, crashing two more skulls, this time in cymbal style, glancing off each other.
"Nice,"
she said. "Now, get the fuck
back"
—shoving one of them—"in
that
direction"—shoving another—"or what are you gonna do, strike a
lady?"

"Who the shit are you, Batwoman?" cried one of the boys. Handsome, Lois noted, with Casanova hair and sensitive eyes. What gets inside such nice-looking people that they want to hurt others?

"Yeah, you should mind your fuckin' business, will ya?" said one of the boys.

"Yeah, because who the
fuck
she thinks she—"

Lois grabbed this one by the hair and collar and threw him into the parked car next to them with such triumphant vehemence that he momentarily passed out. Her father, long before, had a favorite piece of advice: "If the pie's so good, eat the whole thing."

Again, Lois asked, "Who else?" Seventy as she was, she had strength and commitment. The boys saw that she had made a very certain choice and was going to up the stakes by the second until they gave in to her will and retreated. One of them tried to hold his ground; him she slammed against one of the car windows, hoping it would break and disfigure him.

It didn't, but the other boys backed farther away and, oddly, were suddenly silent, lurking and staring and shaking themselves.

"Get in the car," Lois called over her shoulder, knowing that Peter had to be there. "We're going to call the police."

The enemy immediately dispersed, because the first thing a New Hampshire cop does when summoned to a scene of any kind is to find out who has Substances on his or her person.