A huge, hungry-looking creature was patrolling the sky above the canoe. Nothing dead down here, fella. Beat it. It was a predatory bird of some sort, probably an osprey. Or was it a turkey vulture? Jimmy would know….
But Jimmy wasn’t there, was he? He had marked out his life in encampments, summer to summer, and now he was gone, rocketing down the freeway, stiff as a board, robbed of his finale.
Just like that, Jimmy, just like that.
He closed his eyes and let his fingers trail in the water. For some reason, this pose struck him as vaguely Pre-Raphaelite, like that painting of the Lady of Shalott, supine in her boat, drifting off to her death.
Tennyson. How did it go?
“And down the river’s dim expanse, / Like some bold seer in a trance, / Seeing all his own mischance,—/ With a glassy countenance / Did she look to Camelot….”
It was his mother’s favorite poem. He had memorized it four or five years after she died, for an English lit project at Deerfield.
“And at the closing of the day / She loosed the chain, and down she lay: / The broad stream bore her far away, / The Lady of Shalott.”
He opened his eyes. The great bird of prey was a dark smudge against the sun. The brightness was too much for him. His eyelids caved in under the weight.
“And as the boat-head wound along, / The willowy hills and fields among, / They heard her singing her last song, / The Lady of Shalott.”
Her last song … Mother’s last song … Jimmy’s last song …
The canoe found the current and swung around as he melted into the mattress and entered a realm of sweet release. His progress down the river was marked only by the vulture, who made several lazy loops in the air and returned to her nest in the forest.
The Honeymoon Period
MICHAEL AND THACK HAD DRIVEN OUT TO THE ocean that afternoon. From Cazadero they had followed a crumbly one-lane road which snaked through the dark green twilight of the redwoods before climbing to a mountain meadow the color of bleached hair. There were gnarly oaks here and there, and Wyeth-gray fences staggering down to the sea.
“Look,” said Michael, pointing to the roadside. “Naked Ladies.”
Thack blinked his pale lashes once or twice.
“Those lilies,” Michael explained. “Pink, see? And no leaves. Naked Ladies.”
“Oh,” said Thack.
“You don’t have ‘em in Charleston?”
Thack shrugged. “We might. I’m not good on flowers.”
“Just houses, huh?”
“Yep.” He smiled faintly and returned his hand to Michael’s denimed thigh. It had been there for most of the drive, pleasantly warm and already familiar.
“This was nice of Brian,” Thack said.
“What?”
“Giving us time to ourselves.”
“Oh … well, actually he wanted some time alone himself.” This was true enough, even though it had been Michael who’d broached the subject to Brian. “He’s a good guy,” he added, feeling vaguely guilty again.
“I like your friends,” said Thack. “Was that Charlie who called this morning?”
“Yeah.”
“Just … checking in?”
“Yeah,” said Michael. “Wondering how the cabin was.” This was a bald-faced lie.
“Has he been sick long?” asked Thack.
“A year or so,” said Michael. “He came down with Pneumocystis last month.”
Thack made a little whistling sound.
“He’s O.K. now,” said Michael.
“He seems to be. I mean, aside from the lesion.”
“It usually gets better,” said Michael, “before it comes back. They call it the honeymoon period.”
“Oh.”
Michael gave him a rueful glance. “Isn’t that a terrible expression?”
They passed a parched field, the carcass of a barn. The sea burned blue below them.
“Do you know anyone with AIDS?” Michael asked.
“A few.”
“In Charleston?”
“No. New York, mostly.”
“You have them in Charleston.”
“I know,” said Thack.
“Sometimes I think we’re all gonna die.”
Thack paused. “Have you thought about taking the test?”
“I’ve taken it,” said Michael.
Thack looked at him.
Michael managed a rueful smile. “I was not amused.”
Thack hesitated. “It doesn’t really mean anything, you know.”
“Promise?” said Michael.
Thack returned his smile, then faced the blinding blue of the Pacific. “I haven’t taken it,” he said. Michael nodded.
“Are you sorry you took it?” Thack asked. “No,” said Michael. “I hate surprises.”
They spent an hour or so roaming through the old Russian settlement at Fort Ross, then found a niche at the foot of a cliff where they leaned against each other and watched the waves. “Sometimes,” said Michael, “I feel like Hermione Gingold.”
Thack chuckled.
“You know … in A Little Night Music. What was the name of that song?”
“ ‘Liaisons,’ ” said Thack.
“Exactly.” He gave Thack a teasing nudge. “Fags are so handy.”
Thack smiled at him. “Why do you feel like Hermione Gingold?”
“Oh … everything seems like such a long time ago.”
“Like what?”
“Just … the good ol’ days. There used to be this beach up at Wohler Creek. Still is, I guess. It was a nude beach, only it was divided up into straight, gay and hippie. The hippies were a sort of buffer zone between the straight part and the gay part.”
“That makes sense,” said Thack.
“Somebody told me once that it belonged to Fred MacMurray.”
“What? The beach?”
“Well, the land, I guess. People just showed up there by the hundreds, and he was nice about it. He just owned it, apparently. He was never there.”
“Oh.”
“The gay part was amazing. Dozens of naked guys, all stretched out on the beach, and everybody had a raft. You could lie on the beach and look out across the water, and it was nothing but a sea of beautiful butts.” He smiled. “They called it the San Francisco Navy.”
Thack laughed.
Michael looked out to sea. “That was nineteen eighty-one … the last time I went.”
“Four years,” said Thack.
“It seems like forty,” said Michael. He turned and looked at Thack. “Does it bother you that I’m positive?”
Thack returned his gaze, then gave him a gentle, leisurely kiss on the mouth.
“Is that an answer?” said Michael.
“Well … it’s the best I can do right now.”
Thack pulled him closer and kissed him again. Beneath the burnished ribs of his old corduroy shirt, his back felt like warm marble. His lips were incredibly soft, tasting faintly of apple juice.
“That’s more like it,” said Thack.
“Uh-huh,” said Michael.
Thack smoothed the hair over Michael’s ears. “You know what?”
“What?”
“Our sleeping arrangement is fucked.”
Michael smiled. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“Stop being sorry,” said Thack, kissing him again.
Shortly after four, they followed the wiggly road back to Cazadero. When they parked in front of the cabin, Michael spotted Brian in a lawn chair by the creek and gave him a wave. “Yo,” Brian hollered.
“See you inside,” Michael told Thack. “I’m gonna go talk to him.”
He walked down to the creekbank in the slanting afternoon light. Brian looked healthier, more relaxed, with color in his face. “How was it?” he asked.
“Great,” said Michael.
“Good. I’m glad.”
“That drive is incredible.”
“Maybe I’ll take it,” said Brian. “You guys need the car tonig
ht?”
“Tonight?” asked Michael.
“Well … for the next three or four hours.”
“I guess not.”
“I thought I’d go look at the sunset, maybe eat dinner at that place in Jenner.”
“By yourself?” asked Michael.
“Sure.”
“Brian, listen …”
“I want to, Michael. I like being alone. I’ve had fun today.”
“Are you sure?”
Brian nodded.
“Well …”
“So …” Brian rose, picked up his copy of Jitterbug Perfume, folded the lawn chair. “The drive was nice, huh?”
“Wonderful,” said Michael. “Great.”
They walked back to the cabin together, Brian’s arm across Michael’s shoulder.
“Oh,” said Brian, “I put fresh sheets on the sofa bed.”
Michael looked at him and smiled.
“Just thought I’d mention it,” said Brian.
He left in the VW twenty minutes later. Thack turned to Michael and said: “Beer?”
“Hug,” said Michael.
Thack obliged him, kneading the knots in Michael’s back. “Shall we eat before or after?”
Michael laughed. “Anything but during.”
“Right.” Thack let go of him and headed for the bathroom. “I’m gonna shower.”
“O.K.”
Thack called from the bathroom. “Is it too warm for a fire?”
“Not for me,” said Michael.
“Great. Why don’t you build us one?”
Michael gazed at the freestanding fireplace—hooded, orange and hideous—and decided that it was easily the finest fireplace in the Western world.
His kindling had just begun to crackle when the phone rang. If this was Charlie again …
“Hello.”
“Uh … Michael.” The voice was velvet-gloved and unmistakable.
“Wren? I thought you’d gone.”
“Well … that’s sorta the problem. Something kinda weird has happened.”
“What?”
“My friend has disappeared.”
“Your friend. You mean …?”
“Yeah, him.”
“What do you mean, disappeared?”
“Well … it takes some explaining. Could you come up here?”
No way, he thought. “Gosh, I’m really sorry. Brian took the car, so Thack and I …”
“I could come get you.”
“Now?”
“Yeah.”
“Wren … this is really not a good time.”
“Oh.” She knew what he meant immediately. “I’m sorry.”
“I hope you understand.”
“Well,” she said, “you told me to call if I needed anything.”
This was true, and he kicked himself for it. “Can’t I help over the phone?”
“No,” she replied. “I have to show you.”
The bathroom door opened. Thack emerged towel-wrapped, on a cloud of steam. “What’s the matter?” he asked, seeing Michael’s grim expression.
“Wren’s friend is missing.”
“What?”
“Tell me where you are,” said Wren. “I’ll come get you.”
Michael heaved a sigh and told her. He couldn’t help wondering if she always got what she wanted.
The three of them stood on her deck above the river. “That’s where he’s supposed to be,” said Wren, pointing to a distant chunk of water. She was wearing voluminous white Bermuda shorts and a pink cotton blouse with the collar turned up.
“What’s down there?” asked Thack.
“The Bohemian Grove. Ever heard of it?”
Thack shook his head.
“It’s a club,” said Michael. “For society people.”
“Not people,” said Wren. “Men.”
“Right,” said Michael.
“When did you last talk to him?” asked Thack.
“This morning. I canceled my flight for him. He called and said he wanted to see me. He sounded really out of it and desperate.”
Thack’s brow furrowed. “In what way?”
“I dunno. He made me cancel my flight, for one thing.”
“Made you?” asked Michael. He was still a little angry with her.
“Asked me. He sounded desperate, so I did it. He said he’d be here no later than three, and I know Booter well enough to know that he would never—”
“Booter?” said Michael. “His name is Booter?”
“No jokes, all right?”
“No…. I think I know him.”
“Oh, God.”
“Booter Manigault?”
“Jesus,” said Wren. “How small is that town, anyway?”
“Small,” said Michael. “Microscopic.”
Thack turned to Michael. “He’s a friend of yours?”
“No,” said Michael, “but I know who he is. My lover delivered his …” He thought for a moment. “Step-grandchildren.”
“Oh, well,” said Wren dryly, looking at Thack. “Clears it right up, doesn’t it?”
“Why don’t you just go down there and ask?” said Michael.
“Where? The Grove? I did, darling. It’s strictly Tubby’s playhouse. No Girls Allowed.”
“Couldn’t you leave a message?” asked Thack.
“I did. They said they’d write it on the chalkboard at the Civic Center … whatever that means.”
Michael chuckled. “I picture them walking around in togas or something.”
“The thing is,” said Wren, “the whole damn place is designed to protect them from women. If you haven’t got a pecker, they don’t wanna hear from you.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Michael. “Why don’t you just take off? If he didn’t show, he didn’t show. What’s the big deal?”
“Because,” said Wren, “I feel an obligation.”
“How long have you known him?” asked Michael.
“Not very.”
“How long is that?”
“A week, ten days.”
“Well, maybe this is the kind of stunt he pulls.”
“No,” she said. “I don’t think so.”
“O.K.,” said Michael. “Then maybe he got called home on an emergency or something. You could call his house in Hillsborough.”
“No way,” she replied.
“I’ll do it,” he said.
After at least eight rings, an ancient-sounding maid answered the phone. He asked to speak to Mr. Manigault, deciding that he could either hang up or make a landscape gardening pitch if Manigault should be at home. The maid, however, reported that he was “up at the Grove” and that Mrs. Manigault had “gone to a fashion show in the city.”
Michael thanked her and hung up. “He’s still here, apparently.”
Wren looked troubled. “Something’s the matter, guys. There’s no way I can fly home without knowing …”
“We could go down there,” said Thack.
“Would you?” asked Wren.
Michael frowned. There went their evening at home.
“Maybe,” said Thack, obviously getting into it, “we could talk to the guard, tell him we’re friends of Booter.”
“No,” said Wren. “The gate’s no good, if they don’t have your name on a list.”
“Then what?” asked Thack.
“Well … there’s another way in.” She turned to Michael and asked: “Are you as good a swimmer as Thack?”
Foreign Shores
BOOTER AWOKE TO FIND HIMSELF STARING AT THE stars. They were bright tonight, brighter than ever, pulsing like the light bulbs in the cellars of his childhood. He felt oddly peaceful in his mattress-lined cocoon, even though it was night and he was sunburned and the canoe had beached itself on the shores of God-knows-where.
How long had he slept? Three hours? Four? And how far had he drifted?
He gazed up the moonlit river for some reassuring point of reference—the Monte Rio bridge, a neon-trimmed road-house, an
A-frame bathed in the blue light of television.
But there was nothing.
Only bone-pale sand and gray shrubbery and black trees pricking the blue-black sky.
And drums. And the song of sirens.
It was a dream. That was his first thought.
He remembered the whiskey (tasted it, in fact) and remembered his sleeplessness after Jimmy’s death. He had needed sleep and it had come to him, so he was still asleep, that’s all. And whiskey invariably made him dream.
The breeze, though, seemed real enough as he climbed out of the canoe. So, too, did the ache in his limbs and the rodent squeak of aluminum against sand as he pulled his craft ashore and tried to get his bearings again.
So why were the drums still beating, the sirens still singing?
The voices were female, certainly. And lots of them.
He moved in their direction, shaking the stiffness out of his joints. There were Christian retreats in the area, he remembered. Baptist Bible camps. These girls could easily be part of such a place.
He headed into the underbrush somewhat warily, fearful of frightening them. Beet red and rumpled, he knew he must look like a wild man, but he had no choice but to ask for their assistance.
They could lead him to a phone, and he could call the Grove. Someone would send a car for him. He’d be back in time for the Campfire Circle, no worse for wear and no one the wiser. Hell, he might even tell them about it, make it into a story. The way Jimmy would have done.
Following the music, he threaded his way through a dense thicket of madrone trees. There was a campfire up ahead—quite a large one—and he caught glimpses of swaying figures and faces made golden by the fire.
The drums stopped abruptly as he approached. Spurred by this primeval sign of danger (or the memory, perhaps, of Tarzan movies), he ducked behind a redwood, then chuckled at the absurdity of his reaction.
He emerged again, to see something extraordinary:
A tall, full-breasted woman, naked but for slashes of blue and green body paint, lifting her arms toward the heavens.
He hid himself again, collecting his wits as the woman began to chant:
“We invoke you, Great One … in the memory of nine million women executed on charges of witchcraft …”
What on earth …?
“We invoke the name of the Great Goddess, the Mother of all living things …”
Peering incredulously around the tree, he saw that the other women were naked too. Some held bowls of fruit or bunches of flowers. Others were draped with amulets or holding amethyst geodes in their cupped hands.