Maybe the Moon (26 page)

Unless…

The microphone! Jeff was supposed to get it down for me!

Already computing the time it would take to get back to the dressing room and find Jeff, I spun on my heels and ran smack into…Jeff’s legs.

“Jesus,” I whispered.

“I’m here,” he whispered back.

“I completely forgot.”

“When does it go black?”

“After Bette finishes.”

“Shit, that’s her, isn’t it?”

“That’s her,” I said.

“Which mike do you want?”

“The one in the middle.”

“The one she’s using?”

“Right.” I gave him a faint, ironic smile as if to say I deserved it.

“It’s yours,” he said.

When I was little, Mom used to read to me from a novel called
Memoirs of a Midget
, by Walter de la Mare. It was written in the twenties, I think, though its flowery, slow-going style was strictly Victorian. The narrator, known only as Miss M, was an over-wrought little prig whose chief object in life was to disappear completely from the public eye. Given all that, you’d think I’d have detested her, but I didn’t. I related completely to the endless abuse she received at the hands of cruel bourgeois patrons and under the wheels of speeding carriages. She was such a deity around our house, such a defining force, that I actually thought she’d cut an album the first time I saw her nickname applied to Bette Midler.

I tell you this because it’s what I was thinking as I stood there in the wings, waiting for my turn in the spotlight, just behind that
other
Miss M, feeling a curious, wet heaviness begin to spread in my chest. My first thought, silly as it seems, was that I was somehow in that suit again, enduring its weight and heat and confinement. My second thought was the right one, the one that has circled my consciousness, buzzardlike, ever since Mom bit the big one in the parking lot at Pack ’n Save. I put my hand against Jeff’s leg to steady myself.

“What is it?” he asked.

I remember trying not to scare him, trying to say something flip about my fabulous timing as usual, but there wasn’t breath for words, or the strength to form them. I was a block of hardening concrete—or a fly caught in the center of that block. The pain, however, was something polished and metallic, something completely new. Before Bette had finished her song, I was on my back and Jeff was on his knees next to me, blowing into my mouth and yelling into the blackness for Renee.

The last thing I remember was the sound of Velcro being torn.

O
BVIOUSLY
I’
M NOT DEAD
. I
WROTE THAT LAST ENTRY YESTERDAY
morning—my first morning here—in secret defiance of my doctor, who gave me strict orders to vegetate. According to my nearest neighbor, a grumpy old Greek in the next bed, they always say that to people in the cardiac unit, and almost never enforce it, so I’m having another shot at it, knowing they can’t do shit to me if I get caught. I’m writing sheet by sheet on pink three-hole paper Renee found in the hospital gift shop. She didn’t want to get it for me at first, putting up a big fight, until I reminded her sweetly that the movie of our lives will never be made if nobody knows how the fuck it turns out.

I’ve had a “mild heart attack.” Nothing to be terribly concerned about, they say, unless I have another one in the next few days or so. Swell. I feel pretty good, except for a sort of shadowy ache in my chest—more like a lingering body memory, I think, than anything else. I was wheezing like a calliope when they brought me in, but I’ve since had regular hits of oxygen and seem to be pretty much back to normal.

In case you’re interested, my untimely collapse never made so much as a ripple at the tribute. Before Fleet Parker had finished his
speech, the stage manager delivered a note to him explaining my indisposition, and Fleet ended up presenting the award himself; the audience never even heard that line about “someone as old as all the rest of us put together.” Since Philip sent a mammoth pot of hydrangeas to the hospital, along with an unusually sweet note, I harbored the hope that he might have told the press about me, but there was nothing in the paper this morning and zilch on
Entertainment Tonight
last night. The event itself was covered in scrupulous detail, right down to the gowns in the audience, but there was no mention of the minor medical crisis in the wings.

Jeff and Renee rode with me in the ambulance to the hospital, so we’ve since lost track of the world back there, knowing only what we learn from the media. I’m not even sure if Philip is aware of my heretical change of costume. I’m assuming the stage manager told him, or told someone who told Philip, so it’s a little perplexing that he’s being so sweet now. Taking a wild guess, I’d say he knows the score but is nervous I’ll blab to the tabloids, thereby tarnishing his moment of glory (
THE REAL MR. WOODS IN BIZARRE BACKSTAGE MISHAP
). Which, come to think of it, wouldn’t be the worst idea in the world. The
Star
pays big money, I hear.

There hasn’t been a peep out of Callum. Jeff thinks Leonard may have advised him against contacting me, since he, Jeff, is here most of the time, and that could only mean trouble. Who knows? You’d think he would’ve called, at least—for the news-grabbing symbolism of the act if nothing else.

Renee and Jeff have been here from the beginning, though they spell each other occasionally, dashing off for hot showers and fast food. They’re both plagued by varying degrees of guilt, each holding himself personally responsible for the heart attack, since, in their eyes, they abetted the activity that seems to have brought it on. I haven’t wasted a lot of energy dispelling this tiresome notion, because there isn’t energy to spare, but I told them to lighten up in no uncertain terms.

Renee and Jeff seem to have formed a sort of shaky unofficial partnership, based solely upon this turn of events. In less than three
days I’ve seen them learn to catch each other’s eyes and finish each other’s sentences like an old married couple. They accommodate one another in ways I wouldn’t have believed possible. Jeff doesn’t yell anymore when Renee reads to herself from her little white Bible—even though her lips move just as much—and Renee no longer winces at Jeff’s Keith Haring throbbing-dick T-shirts. We have a system, the three of us, now that one of us is in the hospital. Jeff and I had a system like that with Ned once, so there are curious echoes all the time, moments of shared déjà vu that pass without acknowledgment, between the two of us.

There are five cardiac patients in this room, each with his own curtained cubicle. I’ve met only the old Greek guy and a southern-sounding lady on the other side, who seems to think I’m an extremely precocious child, judging by the tone she uses with me. I haven’t seen the others, since their curtains are always closed. I hear them, though—sometimes in the middle of the night—and the sounds are not encouraging.

No, I have not called Neil.

Renee and Jeff have both been pushing for that, but I’ve resisted so far, since I never told Neil about the plan and he would probably think I’m looking for validation after the fact. I have no strength for explanations at the moment. There’s also the chance he might try to convince me that what happened at his house that morning wasn’t a true measure of his feelings. Or, worse yet, the chance that he might not. I’m sorry, but I can’t open that can of wienies right now—not for a while.

I don’t blame him for anything, really. The mere fact of my sexuality is tough enough for most people to handle, so there’s no reason to think that Neil would be any different, especially when it comes to defending his own role in that uncomfortable reality. Because of who he is and what I’m not, he’s made deviate by a culture that claims to regard sex as the union of kindred souls but doesn’t really believe that—and never will.

Renee is in a chair by the bed, standing guard while I write. She is reading a back issue of
Highlights for Children
she found in the waiting room. She looks quite lovely today, wondrously soft and peachy, even without her makeup. There’s a becoming new light in her eyes I can only attribute to a certain Mike Gunderson, that Icon technician we evicted from the dressing room the night of the tribute. Mike, I’ve learned, helped Jeff fend off the curious after I dropped, staying close by Renee’s side and calmly reassuring her until the ambulance arrived. Renee has remarked more than once about how sweet and kind and absolutely adorable he was, so it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s happened.

A little while ago I told her she should call Mike at Icon and thank him for his trouble.

“Why?” she asked warily.

“For me,” I said.

Her eyes narrowed. “Why don’t you call him, then?”

“Because I’m not the one who wants to fuck him.”

“Caaady…”

“What’s the big deal? If you like him, why don’t you say so?”

“Because it’s tacky.”

“Oh, and those blind dates of yours aren’t.”

She pouted into her magazine for a moment, then looked up again. “You aren’t writing that, are you?”

“Writing what?”

“About me and Mike.”

“What’s to write? Anyway, it’s none of your business.”

She looked down again.

“I can tell he likes you,” I said. “I could tell it that night. If you let him get away, it’s your own fault.”

“Same to you,” she said.

S
PEAK OF THE DEVIL
. J
EFF JUST RETURNED WITH ONE OF THE
trashier tabloids, fresh from the checkout counter at Ralph’s, the front cover of which is dominated by a stock shot of Jeremy and Mr. Woods and the headline:
MR. WOODS KID TARGET OF UGLY GAY SMEAR
. Inside, next to a recent picture of Callum, is the news that “fanatical gay activists” have been circulating “vicious rumors” about the homosexuality of the former child star, but that “megabucks superagent Leonard Lord” had “categorically denied” the truth of those rumors. “Callum Duff is all man,” Leonard was quoted as saying.

Jeff saw me grin when I got to that part. “Can you fucking believe that?”

“He’s too smart to say that,” I said.

“I’m sure he didn’t.”

I asked him if he thought Leonard had called the tabloid or vice versa.

“I don’t think they even talked to each other. This was just the safest way to break the story—as an indignant denial. It lets ’em reaffirm the awfulness of being queer and dish the dirt at the same time. And Leonard can’t do shit about it.”

“Why not?”

“What’s he gonna do? Deny that he denied it?”

I asked him what he thought would happen now.

“Oh…the so-called
responsible
press will feel sorry for Callum and run lots of items about the special girl in his life, whoever the lucky dyke starlet happens to be, and it’ll all be fine, because there are no queers in Hollywood.” He collapsed into the chair with a sigh and peered into the paper sack he’d brought with him. “Can you be arrested for smuggling jelly doughnuts into a cardiac ward?”

I must admit, I hadn’t thought he’d actually bring them. “Be still, my heart.”

“Yeah, exactly,” he said.

“How many?”

“One,” he said, handing it to me. “And take it slow.”

I nibbled away at what I thought to be a reasonable rate. “What else is in there?”

“Well…Big Ed, for one.”

I laughed. “You’re lying.”

He smiled at me. “No.”

“You nasty thing. What else?”

“Just some magazines. How’s the diary going?”

“OK.” Since this seemed as good a time as any, I added: “I need to ask a favor, Jeff.”

“What?”

“Would you deliver it for me? To Philip Blenheim?”

“The diary?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“When I’m finished,” I told him pointedly.

Jeff blinked at me for a moment, absorbing the implications of that. “OK,” he said finally.

“You’ll have to transcribe it first. I don’t want him having the only copy.”

He nodded.

“And don’t edit.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

I smiled at him, and he smiled back.

“Is that it?” he asked.

“That’s it.”

“You aren’t planning to…finish it anytime soon, are you?”

I told him I didn’t know.

I
’
VE BECOME
E
XHIBIT
A
AROUND HERE
. T
HERE ARE MORE AND
more doctors all the time, a Great Wall of clipboards surrounding the bed. Whether this was provoked by my present condition or my lifelong one, I couldn’t begin to tell you. They smile a lot and take notes and leave, often returning with eager reinforcements in a matter of minutes. Everyone has remarked on this, even Mrs. Haywood, the tight-lipped southern lady in the next cubicle, who can barely contain her resentment over all the attention I’ve received. I’ve been gracious about this so far, but I’m on the verge of telling her to fuck herself.

Renee arrived this morning with Mike Gunderson in tow. She finally worked up the nerve to call him, and they had their first quasi date last night—dinner in the hospital cafeteria. She was so pleased with herself. She looked the way a cat looks when it drops an impressive corpse on its owner’s doorstep. Which is not to say our Mike is even slightly inert. He exudes a vigorous midwestern earnestness that Renee interprets as “a great personality.” I’m keeping my fingers crossed.

Last night, while Renee and Mike were at dinner, Jeff came by and dropped a small bomb on me.

“Don’t get mad,” he began.

“What is it?”

“I know what you told me, but…”

“
What
, Jeff?”

“Neil is outside.”

“Oh, fuck.”

“He left a note on the door. I had to tell him.”

“Left it where? Here?”

“At the house.”

“What did it say?”

“He just wondered where you were. He’s a great guy, Cadence.”

“You’ve talked to him?”

“Some. Yeah.”

Don’t ask me why, but I immediately got paranoid. The very thought of those two guys getting together to discuss me was supremely unnerving. I had no choice but to bully Jeff with sarcasm. “Have you two been bonding or something?”

“Cadence…”

“You have, haven’t you? That’s cute.”

“Piss off.”

“You’ve been reading to each other from
Iron John
.”

“Do you want your purse?”

He held it in front of me without waiting for an answer, so I took it from him and began fixing my face.

“You know,” he said, sulking, “that shows how little you know about me.”

“How’s that?”

“
Iron John
is the last thing I’d read. Fags don’t need that Hairy Man shit. We’ve always been tribal.”

“Who cares? How do I look?”

“Even.”

“
Even
?”

“The lipstick is on the lips, Cadence. What do you want me to say?”

I stuck out my tongue at him.

“I’ll send him in,” he said.

Neil was in his nice gabardine slacks, looking ominously well shaven and dressed. “Hi.”

“Hi.”

“You look good,” he said.

“Better than you expected?”

He shrugged, smiling.

“You heard about…the caper?”

He nodded.

“Pretty nuts, huh?”

Another nod, another smile.

“That’s why I didn’t tell you,” I said.

“I figured.”

“You’re such a pussy.”

“I know.”

“Well, stop it, then,” I said. “It’s not healthy to be that scared.”

Unfinished business hung in the air like ozone after a thunderstorm.

“I plan to tell them about us,” he said.

“Forget it.”

“No. I want to.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me.”

“Why?”

“I don’t know…but it does.” He sat on the edge of the bed and looked around. “I should’ve brought you flowers. These are nice.”

“I’ve got flowers out the ass,” I told him. “Or somebody does. I left a bunch back at my dressing room.”

“I’ll bet you did.” He reached over tentatively and stroked the side of my face. “I brought you something else, though.”

“What?”

“Is this a good time?”

“Well, no,” I said, “now that you mention it, but a week from Thursday might work out.”

“I just wondered about disturbing your roommates.”

“What is it, for God’s sake?”

He smiled and stood up. “I’ll get it.”

He left the room and returned sheepishly a moment later with a bulky wooden four-wheeled object that had to be turned on its side before it would fit through the door. I didn’t realize what it was until he rolled it across the floor and I saw two sturdy little steps jutting out from one side.

“My stage,” I said.

“Or pedestal…whichever you prefer.”

“My stage-pedestal.”

“See…” He knelt next to the thing and fiddled with something at the bottom. “I put a little brake down here that stabilizes it once it’s in place….”

“So I don’t slalom into the audience during the big finale.”

He laughed. “Exactly.”

“Good thinking.”

Curiosity, I noticed, had gotten the best of Mrs. Haywood, who was leaning so far out of her bed she looked as if she’d hit the floor any second. “It’s a pedestal,” I yelled.

“For what?” she called back.

“For me.”

“Oh.”

“She hates me,” I told Neil under my breath. “She was the star here until I arrived.”