The Sweet Potato Queens' First Big-Ass Novel (21 page)

I
t had to be the cabana boy,” said a buxom blonde who was sitting at the juice bar sipping on a cup of green tea. “She was
so
hateful to him after she ended their affair.”

“I think it was her cousin, Felicity,” said her companion, a sharp-nosed woman with a shiny black bob. “The one she had the huge catfight with.”

“Who in the world are y'all talking about?” I asked, swiveling my stool in their direction. The two women worked out regularly at the Adonis Gym.

“You haven't heard?” said the blonde. “It's all over the news. Everyone wants to know who electrocuted Electra.”

“Electra's been electrocuted?” I hadn't watched
Eagle's Cove
the night before because my cable went out. “What happened? Did she survive?”

“Someone dropped a hair dryer in her Jacuzzi!” the blonde continued. “And no, she's dead as a boot. The paramedics couldn't find a pulse.”

“It doesn't mean she's
really
dead,” said her friend. “Remember Bobby Ewing on
Dallas
? And how Pam dreamt his death for an entire season? You can
never
be sure with soaps.”

“Did you know Mary Bennett Manning is originally from Jackson?” the blonde said to her friend. “It's hard to believe the producers of the show would kill off Electra. She's the biggest thing since Madonna.”

Over the last couple of years Mary Bennett, a.k.a. Electra, had become a huge phenomenon. There were dolls, a clothing line, perfume, playing cards, and even dartboards. Whenever Mary Bennett came home, she'd have to dress in disguise or fans would mob her. You'd think such great fame would give her a big head, but not our Mary Bennett. She was utterly dismissive of her Electra persona.

“It's a fuckin' soap opera, for God's sake,” she'd say if anyone got too gushy on her.

Mary Bennett was her same ol' self, especially with the Queens, and she didn't like to talk about her public life. She said that she wasn't like other stars. She didn't snort cocaine (“I was always taught not to stick anything smaller than a finger up my nose,” she'd said) and she didn't have an eating disorder. She'd had a very long, public series of torrid affairs after she and Brian broke up, but they were extremely short-lived. In fact, as far as anyone knew, she hadn't had a serious relationship since Brian.

“You're the most boring superstar I've ever met,” I often said to her with mock disappointment. And she'd counter with, “I'm the ONLY superstar you've ever met.”

Patsy barreled into the juice bar, wearing a painter's smock. “Did you hear?”

“Let's go outside,” I said, slipping off the stool. I didn't want to talk about Mary Bennett in front of the two other women.

Patsy followed me out the glass front doors of the gym and we settled on the stone bench under a large water oak.

“Has Mary Bennett said anything about this to you?” Patsy asked. Six months ago Patsy and her son Mack had moved in with her mother in Jackson. Jack had turned out to be a serial cheater and she'd finally divorced his sorry ass.

“Nope. Not a word,” I said.

“Sometimes the writers kill off actors and don't even let them know,” Patsy said, pushing a strand of hair back behind her ear with a paint-stained hand. She commissioned portraits, and gave art lessons out of her studio.

“I guess we'll get the full scoop tomorrow night.”

The Queens were getting together to celebrate our all-singles' Valentine's Day.

“You hear anything from Tammy?” Patsy asked. Tammy, unfortunately, would be the only Queen not there. Gerald, to my surprise, had agreed to come even though it conflicted with a Persons Affected by AIDS meeting.

“Not for a couple of months.” When she'd first moved to the UK, Tammy wrote frequently on stationery embossed with a fancy coat of arms. She sent photos of her and James standing in front of their seventeenth-century manor house. “It's been so bloody rainy here in the Cotswolds that James and I spend most of our days watching the telly,” she wrote, showing off her Britishisms. “We may be off to Cannes soon. Cheers!”

But lately, her correspondence had been spotty, at best.

“I ran into Bob at that new Italian restaurant the other night,” Patsy said. “He looked so happy.”

After Tammy left, Bob, as predicted, had fallen into a deep, dark funk. He dropped out of grad school and took a leave of absence from his job. I helped him pack up and store all the clothes and personal items Tammy left behind. I visited him several times, but eventually he asked me to stop coming by because it was too painful for him.

Six months later, he perked up and started dating again. After a year, he was granted a divorce on the grounds of desertion.

“He was with Katy and Hannah,” Patsy said.

“I'll bet she's as cute as a bug's ear.” A year ago Bob sent me his and Katy's wedding announcement, and nine months after that, a baby announcement.

“Hannah is our honeymoon baby,” the proud papa had written inside the card.

I've always liked Bob, so I was thrilled to death at how his life was turning out. He claimed he regularly read my columns, which now appeared weekly in Jackson's daily paper
The Clarion-Ledger.

“Does Tammy ever ask about him?” Patsy asked.

“No,” I said with a sigh. “And I don't volunteer anything. I don't think she has a clue about Katy and Hannah.”

Patsy bent forward and rested her chin in her hands. “I miss her. It's been over two years. Tomorrow won't be the same without her.”

B
eer belly, nine o'clock,” I called out to Patsy, and we both eagerly marked our cards.

Patsy's gaze searched the room. “I spy…a mullet.”

“Where?” I said, trying to follow her line of vision.

“The guy next to the cigarette machine. Oh, and a double bonus, he's got on white socks. Bingo!” Patsy said, holding up her card.

“Shit!” I said. “All I needed was a pair of Sansabelt pants.”

A short man wearing a turban and sunglasses approached our table.

“Hello, beautiful. May I buy you a drink?” he said in a thick foreign accent.

“Sorry, buster,” Patsy said, holding her hand slightly above his swaddled head. “You gotta be at least this tall to ride.”

“How very rude of you,” the man said with a frown. “Perhaps your friend will be more agreeable.

“Save your breath,” I said. “You'll need it to inflate your date.”

Patsy and I shared a grin—we were getting good at keeping the weirdos at bay.

“If I cannot buy you ladies a drink, what about a small, Middle Eastern country?” the man persisted.

“Didn't you hear what I said, cat toy?” I asked.

“Take a powder, purse hook!” Patsy said with a sneer.

The stranger lowered his sunglasses, and I saw a familiar pair of gray eyes peeking over the top.

“You bitches are a couple of tough customers.”

“Mary Bennett!” Erika said.

“Shhh!” Mary Bennett said, holding a finger to her lips. “Don't say that too loud. We don't want a stampede.”

“We heard about Electra,” I said in a low voice. “Is she really, truly dead?”

“Deader than disco, darlin',” Mary Bennett said, taking a seat at our table.

“Why?” Patsy asked.

“I'll tell you all about it once I get a drink.” She picked up my bingo card. “What's this?”

“Bad Bubba Bingo,” I said. “Patsy and I amuse ourselves with it when we go out.”

“And what's that?” Mary Bennett said, pointing to our martini glasses.

“Try some,” Patsy said, offering her a drink. “Jeff, the bartender here, he made it up. It's a Revirginator—in our honor.”

Mary Bennett raised an eyebrow. “Hmmm, very tasty. I'll get one after y'all explain.”

“It's been a while since our last booty call,” I said.

“A loooooong while,” Patsy said, taking a sip of her drink.

“Because it's been forever since our forests have been trod upon, so to speak, we figured we've reverted back to being virgins. This drink is symbolic of the return to our unsullied state.”

“Like a virgin,” Patsy sang, running her fingers up and down the buttons of her dress, “touched for the very first time.”

“Hmmm,” Mary Bennett said. “I'm sensin' a smidgen of hostility toward the opposite sex?”

“It's far more than hostility. It's a healthy-size and burgeoning loathing,” I said.

“Men suck,” Patsy said, happily. “I only need BOB.”

“Who's Bob?” Mary Bennett asked.

“BOB stands for Battery Operated Boyfriend,” Patsy said, nearly knocking over her drink.

“Known also as PIG. Plug-in guy,” I added, and both Patsy and I went into a fit of hysterics.

“Stop,” Patsy said, trying to control her laughter. “I gotta go to the ladies', I'm about to PIMP.”

While she hurried to the restroom, Mary Bennett turned to me. “Pimp?” I explained it was shorthand for Pee In My Pants. “Well, our little Swiss Miss is acting more like Sloshed Miss, and you're hardly Miss Clean and Sober yourself. How long have you two been at it?”

“On Valentine's Day, I prefer to start at sunrise, but actually not that long today. We're really just getting cranked up, we ain't drunk—just a little bit silly,” I said with a hiccup.

“Seems our little Yankee has joined your she-woman manhaters club.”

“Why not? Every worthy man I know is either married, gay, or dead. And believe me, it doesn't take us long to fill up these bingo cards around here.”

“I hear ya, hunny. But I'm just not sure this is the healthiest tack for you or Patsy to take.”

“Who died and made you Dear Abby?” I asked.

“Ooooh,” Mary Bennett said, drawing back. “Was there some Tabasco in your drink?”

“Sorry. That
was
a little testy. But you don't know how many Big Bad Bubbas there are in this town.”

“Hunny, I live in Hollywood, the dickwad capital of the world. If you think garden-variety jerks are bad, wait until you meet some rich-and-famous ones.”

“Point taken,” I said. “It's just been a rough couple of years. When I finally got the nerve to get back on the bike, all I got was flat tires and rusty chains. When you're creeping toward your forties, there is
nothing
out there.”

Mary Bennett nodded. “You're preaching to the choir.”

“The irony is everything in my life is going
great,
except my love life. I can't get it all together.”

“Getting everything to go well at once is like trying to stuff an octopus under the bed. One leg's always flopping out.”

“Speaking of love life, do you ever hear anything from Brian?”

Mary Bennett jutted out her lower lip. “Just from reading
People.
Supposedly he's still happily married to his co-star.”

“That was a relief,” Patsy said, as she wandered back to the table.

“Glad everything came out all right, Swiss Miss,” Mary Bennett said. She squinted in the direction of the door. “Here he is. Our very own HueyAnn Lewis.”

Gerald strode to us, dressed immaculately and sporting a lapel pin with the pink feline logo of the one social action group he finally succeed in organizing: the Pink Panthers, dedicated to the furtherance of any and all gay causes everywhere, all the time. He had no trouble recruiting members—Gerald was cute, the pins were cute, and the meetings provided ample opportunity for dressing up cute and bitching. Gerald was still seething most of the time, but his constituency didn't seem to notice or care.

“Hi everybody,” he said as he sat down. He noticed Mary Bennett in her turban and glasses and said, “I'm sorry. We haven't met.”

Mary Bennett looked over her glasses, winked, and said, “It's me, Geraldine. Incognito.”

“Well, it's certainly an effective disguise.” He wrinkled his nose at our Revirginators. “Barbaric women.” Looking up at the waitress, he said, “A Kir Royale, please.”

“Good lord, Jill,” Patsy said, listing slightly to the left, “do you think there is a faggier drink on the planet than a Kir Royale?” I allowed as how I doubted it seriously. Our attempts at levity fell on the deaf ears of the two we were trying to levi-tate.

“It's been a while, Gerald,” Mary Bennett said with forced politeness after she gave her order to the waitress. “How are you?”

“Tired,” Gerald said, brusquely. “I'm trying to coordinate a fund-raiser for the AIDS hospice, and all the Pink Panthers want to do is have a big drag show so they can prance around like big ol' girls. I spend most of my time trying to shout them down, and you can't even IMAGINE what THAT'S like.”

“Sounds like that new group of yours is a pretty fun deal, in spite of the leadership—a vast improvement over that whole Ignorant Asshole concept you had going earlier,” Mary Bennett said, lighting a cigarette.

“I read the morning's paper,” Gerald said, ignoring her comment. “Your picture was on the front page.” The waitress set a drink in front of him. “Thank you,” he said.

Patsy and I swapped a look. Now Mary Bennett was ignoring HIS comment—they were both talking, but neither one was answering or listening to the other. We watched in morbid fascination, but without much hope for a pleasant outcome.

“Have you quit the show?” Gerald asked. “Not that I watch it—it comes on during my P.A.B.A. meeting. You'll be happy to know that ALL the Pink Panthers watch it religiously, although mostly for the fashion tips, I expect. I understand your character is a complete and total BITCH—however DID you get that part?”

“Well, Geraldine, you'll be glad to know that Electra Frostman is no more. I'm back to being plain ol' Mary Bennett Manning.”

“Why?” I asked. “You were the most reviled TV star in America. People loved to loathe you.”

“Yes. As much as I relished people yelling ‘bitch' at me when I walked down the street—oops, sorry Gerald—it was time to get out,” Mary Bennett said. “Plus, there was something else.” She paused, toying with a straw on the table. “It's my daddy. He's dying. I came back home to take care of him.”

“Oh, no! I hadn't heard that he was sick—I am so sorry. Is there anything we can do?” I said. Patsy and Gerald murmured similar sympathies. Gerald squirmed uncomfortably in his chair. “I didn't think y'all were speaking.” Mary Bennett never stayed with her father when she came to Jackson—not since he'd cut her off financially for dating Brian.

“We've talked a time or two over the years,” she said. “We're far from close. Still, he doesn't have anyone else, and even a sonof-a-bitch like him shouldn't have to die alone.”

“What's wrong with him?” Patsy asked.

“Brain tumor,” Mary Bennett said. “He has some lucid days but barely recognized me when I stopped by tonight. There's a full-time nurse looking after him. She'll take care of his physical needs. I'll just be there as family.”

“I'm thrilled you're back, even if it is under such shitty circumstances,” I said.

“I might be here indefinitely,” Mary Bennett said. “I don't have anything on my plate for a long time.”

“I'm glad you're gon' be here for a while,” I said. “It's just a little over a month until St. Paddy's Day.”

“I'll come for the parade, but not to Hal and Mal's after,” Gerald said, mopping up a wet spot on the table with his napkin.

“Why not?” I asked. Gerald had become more disapproving of the parade festivities as it had gotten larger and rowdier over the last two years—“useless frivolity,” he called it. “I promise, no one will puke green beer on your shoes like last year.”

“It's not that,” Gerald said. “I have to leave right after the parade to attend a seminar,” he said, pulling out a brochure from the pocket of his sports jacket and handing it to me.

“Gay Guerrilla Warfare,” it said. I guess our expressions said it all. Gerald said he wanted to learn new political and civil disobedience tactics in hopes of inspiring the Pink Panthers to become more aggressive.

“Sounds pretty grim,” Patsy said with a shrug.

“You aren't seriously going to go through with this?” I said, dropping the brochure on the table as if it were nasty or burning.

Gerald swiftly picked it up and tucked it back into his jacket with a flash of his now-chronic anger. “I certainly am. I can't go on living like this—flitting through life as if there isn't oppression and death all around me. I've got to DO something about it. I've got to…”

“Gerald,” I said, gently. “It probably won't even work. I don't think your Pink Panthers are gonna want to chain themselves to anything that doesn't involve Judy Garland. They don't strike me as the angry mob type.”

“And why would you want them to be?” Patsy said. “Why do YOU want to be? We thought you were perfect before…” She stopped short of saying what we were all thinking: “before William died.” Mary Bennett kept her mouth shut, but she looked just as concerned as Patsy and me.

“How can you say that?” Gerald said, his chin shaking. “I taught silly kids stupid shit they didn't need to know—nothing that mattered, nothing that made a difference in the world.”

“We're not trying to be contrary,” I said. “We love you and we're proud of your achievements and your teaching—you were, too, back then. We're worried about you right now. You're really mad—a lot—and we don't understand it. We think the Pink Panthers CAN do a lot of good, and make a real difference, but this gay guerrilla thing is gonna be bad for them.”

“Very bad,” Patsy said with a nod of her head. The serious nature of our conversation had sobered her up completely.

“Being gay is what's bad for me!” he said, blowing his nose into a tissue. “It's ruined my whole life.” He sprang from his chair. “Excuse me a minute.”

“Can somebody explain to me what the hell is happening here? Why's Gerald so mad? Why does he want the Pink Panthers to be gorillas—it's
way
too hot here for gorilla suits and I really don't think his crowd will go for 'em. And now he doesn't even want to be GAY anymore? Can you QUIT?” Patsy was indeed nonplussed, as were me and Mary Bennett—completely nonplussed, not a plus among us to be had.