Significant Others (17 page)
Humility was in order, so Booter grunted disparagingly and sat down on the cot next to him.
“You want a drink?” asked Jimmy.
“Nah.”
Jimmy poured cognac into a plastic cup, downing it with a satisfied smack. “Low Jinks sounds good,” he said.
Christ almighty. Was that tonight?
“It’s called ‘I, Gluteus,’” Jimmy added, picking up a Grove program to read: “ ‘Bohemians and guests will thrill to love duets by Erotica and Testicus, shiver at the plot hatched by Castrata against Fornicatio, giggle at the airy antics of Flatus, and feel tension mount between Nefario and Intactica, leader of the Restive Virgins.’ ”
“Fart jokes,” said Booter. “Can’t we do better than that?”
“Well … you laughed your ass off at that song I did for … What the hell are you talking about? You helped me write it.”
“I was drunk,” said Booter.
Jimmy snorted.
“I can’t go tonight, Jimmy.”
“Why not?”
“I’m … going into town.”
“Town?” said Jimmy.
“Yeah.”
“Monte Rio?”
Booter nodded.
“Why the hell would you leave the Grove on the night of the Low Jinks?”
“You’re not gonna be in it,” said Booter.
“Well, I know, but … what the hell, forget it.”
“I’ll be at the Grove Play, Jimmy. Wouldn’t miss it.”
“Yeah, yeah.”
Booter felt the weight of his guilt. He and Jimmy hadn’t missed a Low Jinks together for at least a decade. Jimmy was a born annotator, a bantamweight Boswell who loved nothing so much as the act of explaining. Without a listener, he was lost.
“Look,” said Booter. “If you keep your trap shut, I’ll tell you the real reason.”
Jimmy’s scowl slackened. He scratched himself under his arm. “Go on,” he said.
“It’s George,” said Booter. “He’s coming in tonight.”
Jimmy blinked at him.
“The Vice-President.”
“Yeah. So what? I knew that.” He scratched again and frowned. “What does that have to do with Monte Rio?”
“Nothing,” Booter replied. “Forget I said that. There’s gonna be a reception up at Mandalay.” This was a much safer lie, since Jimmy had never been invited to Mandalay.
“A reception?” Jimmy said quietly. “During Low Jinks?”
The truth, Booter decided, might have been preferable to this tangled web. “It’s very small,” he said at last. “They don’t wanna make a big noise.”
Jimmy nodded slowly, taking it in.
“You know I wouldn’t miss the Jinks with you if there wasn’t a good reason.”
Jimmy ran his fingers through his wispy hair. “Yeah, well, that’s a reason, all right.”
Booter could tell he was hurt.
Jimmy looked up dolefully. “Tell him I said hello, will ya?”
S
TINGING FROM THE INCIDENT AT THE GATE, DEDE RETURNED
to her campsite, to find it empty. D’or and Anna were gone, apparently still on their shopping spree at the Crafts Tent. In her current state, she found solitude unendurable, so she doubled back to the boys’ compound and asked for Edgar.
He arrived dripping wet, fresh from the swimming hole, already the color of a new catcher’s mitt. “What’s up, Mom?”
“Oh … nothing in particular. Just thought I’d stop by and say hi.”
He nodded. “I’m O.K., Mom.”
“I know that.”
Gesturing behind him, he said: “There’s this really major water fight …”
“Go for it,” she said, smiling at him. He smiled back, then vanished into the undergrowth.
She headed inland toward the Day Stage. The walk and the music would be just the thing for her blues. She was here to have a good time, wasn’t she? Why let somebody like Rose Dvorak ruin her day?
Once out of the woods, she rejoiced in the feel of the sun against her skin. Linda Tillery was on stage singing “Special Kind of Love.” An endless line of women snaked jubilantly across the clearing, drunk on the music.
She had been there less than five minutes when she saw Sabra Landauer.
The first thing she noticed was the skunk stripe. The second thing was the tall, bare-breasted woman who stood at Sabra’s side, deep in animated conversation with the poet-playwright.
It was D’or.
Her throat went dry. Her skin grew prickly with dread.
Before she could retreat, D’or spotted her and waved. “Come join us.”
As if in a nightmare, she moved across the field.
“I want you two to meet,” said D’or. “Sabra … this is DeDe Halcyon.”
Not “DeDe Halcyon, my lover,” just plain old “DeDe Halcyon,” thank you very much. Sabra, of course, didn’t need a last name.
“Hello,” said DeDe, shaking the large, bony hand of the poet-playwright. She was certain she wouldn’t be remembered, and she wasn’t. She turned back to D’or and asked: “Where’s Anna?”
The accusation in the question wasn’t lost on her lover, but she remained breezy. “Over in Day Care, bless her heart. She wanted to show off her treasures to the other kids.”
She’s not the only one, thought DeDe.
“This is Sabra’s first time at Wimminwood,” D’or added. “I’m giving her the grand tour.”
Sabra smiled obligingly. “It’s truly wonderful,” she said.
“Isn’t it?” said DeDe.
“Can you join us?” asked D’or.
“Not really.”
“Oh … O.K.” D’or’s insistent smile finally faded. “See you back at the homestead, then.”
“That’s up to you,” said DeDe.
Twenty minutes later, when D’or returned to the tent, DeDe was waiting for her. “One of us should go get Anna,” she said coldly.
“She’s meeting us at the chow hall,” D’or said, kicking off her boots. She turned and gazed at DeDe. “I wouldn’t have believed it.”
“What?”
“You are actually jealous.”
“I’m embarrassed, D’or. I’m embarrassed for you.”
“Oh, really?”
“Yes.”
“Do you mind if I ask why?”
“C’mon. Look at you. Flashing your tits all over the place as soon as a famous woman—”
“Now, wait just a goddamn minute.”
“It’s unworthy of you,” said DeDe. “That’s all.”
“It was hot today.”
“I noticed,” said DeDe.
D’or drew back. “Oh, boy … ohboyohboyohboy.”
“I also don’t appreciate your blabbing it all over camp about Booter working for Reagan. If you can’t respect our privacy—”
“Wait a fucking minute.”
“Well, did you or did you not tell Rose?”
“Who?”
“The one who deported our son.”
D’or looked totally dumbfounded. “I haven’t even seen her since—”
“Well, you told
somebody!”
D’or’s brow wrinkled. “I may have
mentioned
it to Feather at the Salvadoran workshop.”
“And Feather told that runty, big-mouthed lover of hers….”
“DeDe …”
“O.K., forget runty…. Vertically challenged. How’s that?”
D’or shook her head slowly. “It was just a lighthearted remark. I can’t imagine how …”
DeDe rose. “I’m sure you get plenty of mileage out of it. Why don’t you try it on Cruella de Vil?”
Slack-mouthed, D’or observed her, then broke into raucous laughter.
“Keep laughing,” said DeDe as she charged out of the tent. She was heading for the loud-and-rowdy zone.
A
S NIGHT FELL, WREN DOUGLAS FOUND HERSELF ON
the deck at Fife’s, a gay resort on the outskirts of Guerneville. The evening was so balmy that several dozen people were still gathered outside. Shaking the rocks in her Scotch and water, she stood at the rail and watched as a blond man in parrot green shorts swam laps in the pool.
She felt crisp and glamorous tonight in serious makeup and a turquoise-and-white sailor suit, fresh from a country Martinizing. She’d expected to be recognized—hoped for it, in fact—and she was.
“Excuse me,” he said. “You’re Wren Douglas.” He was brown-haired and brown-eyed, mustachioed. The mischief and sweetness in his expression would have betrayed him as gay at a PTA meeting in Lynchburg, Virginia.
“Yes,” she replied.
He stuck out his hand. “I’m Michael Tolliver. I was in the audience when you did
Mary Ann in the Morning.
You were fabulous. You’re always fabulous.”
She smiled and squeezed his hand. She was used to this kind of homo hyperbole, but it never failed to please her. “You didn’t see me on
Donahue,”
she said with a rueful expression.
“No. What happened?”
She shrugged. “Some large lady from Queens called me … let’s see … ‘an insult to
decent
fat people everywhere.’ ”
“Oh, no.”
“It was a big breakthrough for me, I’m tellin’ ya. I wasn’t just fat anymore … I was a
fat slut.
What a revelation! A minority within a minority, and getting more specialized all the time.”
He laughed, but it sounded a little lame, carrying the weight of dutiful fandom. She wondered if he’d heard her tell the same story on the Carson show.
“What … uh … brings you here?”
“Where? This place?”
“Well … the river.”
“I’m staying over in Monte Rio,” she explained. “A friend of mine rented a house there.”
“Same here,” he said. “We’re in Cazadero. Know where that is?”
“Mmm. Love their general store.”
“Well, we’re not very far from there.”
“And ‘we’ means …?”
He pointed down to the pool. “The guy who’s swimming laps, and … over there, under the trees … the one in the plaid shirt.”
“Well …” She raised an eyebrow artfully. “How nice for you.”
He laughed. “The one in plaid is straight.”
She nodded soberly. “Gay guys haven’t worn plaid for years.”
Another laugh. “As a matter of fact, he’s married to Mary Ann Singleton.”
“Who?” she asked.
“The woman who interviewed you.”
“Oh, God, yes. Miss Terminally Perky. Poor guy. He’s
married
to her?”
He looked a little upset. “She’s O.K. once you get to know her.”
“I’m sure.”
“She just hasn’t … responded well to being famous.”
Right, thought Wren. World famous in San Francisco. She glanced over at the man in the plaid shirt and admired his dimpled chin with a sudden twinge of déjà vu. “Oh,
him,”
she exclaimed. “We’ve met. I tried to pick him up at the general store.”
He laughed. “Seriously?”
“You bet. I
seriously
tried. He didn’t mention me?” She made a hurt face. “I’m crushed.”
“Well, he’s been kind of under the weather lately.”
I could cure him, she thought.
“This is such an honor,” said Michael.
She cocked her head at him. “Thanks.”
“Would you … uh … possibly care to have dinner with us?”
“Thanks, but …” She checked her watch. “I’m meeting my friend back at the house.”
“Oh.”
Her eyes perused the man in plaid again before returning to Michael. “He’s leaving about ten o’clock, though. You could come up for a nightcap.”
“Really?” He seemed genuinely elated. “Are you sure?”
“Sure I’m sure.”
“All of us?”
“By all means,” she replied.
D
ARKNESS HAD COME EARLY TO THE LOUD-AND-ROWDY
zone, a loose configuration of tents and RVs near the gate at Wimminwood. After less than half an hour there, DeDe had come to feel curiously comfortable, like a child who’d been kidnapped by gypsies and had grown to like it. Or maybe like Patty Hearst; she wasn’t sure.
“Pour that girlie another drink!” This was Mabel, apparent high priestess of the Party Animals. “She’s lookin’ all mopey again.”
“No,” said DeDe, covering her tin cup with her hand. “I’m fine, really.”
“Pour her a damn drink. Ginnie, get some more rum out o’ the tent. Get your ass in gear and fix this sweet thing a drink.”
Ginnie, who’d been absorbed by her own bongo music, stopped playing and looked at DeDe.
“Well,” said DeDe, “maybe a little one.” She’d been holding back out of some sense of obligation to the kids, but it seemed silly at this point. Edgar had his own life now, and Anna was at the chow hall with D’orothea.
Oh, God. Was Sabra with them?
“Smile,” barked Mabel.
DeDe smiled.
Mabel winked at her. “Attagirl.” She was reclining on an air mattress in front of her Winnebago. With her short gray hair and lumpy gray sweatsuit, she bore an uncanny resemblance to a plate of mashed potatoes.
“I know that bitch,” said Mabel. “Her and me go waaay back.”
For a moment, DeDe thought she meant Sabra. Then she remembered her other nemesis, the one she’d told them about. “You mean Rose?”
Mabel grunted. “She confiscated my crossbow at the Michigan festival. Fuck her.”
DeDe tried to look sympathetic, but had a hard time of it. Mabel with a crossbow? Mabel
drunk
with a crossbow in the midst of a thousand people? Please.
“All that shit about Goddess this and Goddess that. I told her: ‘I’m gonna get you back, I swear to God.’ And she said: ‘Anybody who swears to God is only bowing to the patriarchy.’ And I said: ‘I’m gonna patriarchy your butt all the way to East Lansing, if you don’t get the hell out o’ my Winnebago.’ ”
One of the other rowdies let out a whoop. “Go get her, Mabel.”
“I’ve been beatin’ men at their own game for sixty years. You think I need some sorry-ass little drill sergeant tellin’ me how to talk like a dyke? Tellin’ me I’m a threat to the general welfare because of a harmless little crossbow?”
DeDe watched as the bongo player swapped smirks with a lanky woman seated on an ice chest next to Mabel’s air mattress. Mabel and her trusty crossbow had obviously become a central motif in their shared familial lore.
“And now,” Mabel added, “she’s treatin’
you
like dirt too. Small damn world, huh?”
“I guess so,” DeDe said.
“Somebody should have a talk with that girlie.”
“Oh, no,” said Ginnie wearily. “Here we go again.”
Puffing a little, Mabel hefted her weight onto her feet. “Somebody should just go tell her it’s time to stop pushing my friends around.”
