“D’or, goddamnit!”
“All right. Jesus … don’t hit me.”
“Then tell me what you told him.”
“I told him I explained things all wrong.”
“Is that all?”
“No. I told him it wouldn’t be any fun without him along, and that I love him just as much as you do. Then Anna woke up and asked me what smegma was.”
“What?”
“That Atkins kid called her smegma today.”
DeDe groaned. “That little brat has the foulest—” The phone rang before she could finish the tirade. D’or reached for the receiver, mumbled hello, and passed it to DeDe. “It’s your mother,” she said, grinning. “Ask her what smegma is.”
DeDe gave her a nasty look, then spoke into the receiver. “Hello, Mother.”
“Don’t use that tone with me.”
“What tone? I just said hello.”
“I can tell when you’re being snide, darling.”
“It’s after midnight, Mother.”
“Well, I would have called you earlier, but I got busy.” “Busy” sounded more like “bishy.”
“Go on, then,” said DeDe.
“Were you asleep?”
“No, but we’re in bed.”
“Don’t be vulgar, DeDe.”
“Mother …”
“All right, I called to ask if you and D’orothea would come for lunch on Sunday. With the children, of course.”
“That’s sweet, Mother, but we’ve already made plans. I was giving a lunch myself, but I’m canceling it.”
D’or smiled victoriously, then reached over and stroked DeDe’s thigh.
Her mother wouldn’t give up. “Oh, darling, please say yes. I’m gonna be all alone.”
“Why?” asked DeDe. “Where’s Booter going?”
“The Grove,” said her mother bitterly.
“Oh. It’s that time of year again.”
“Do you realize,” said her mother, “how many times I’ve been a Grove Widow? I counted it up. Thirty-two times. It isn’t fair.”
DeDe had heard this sob story all her life. Grove Widows, as they were popularly known, were the wives left behind by Bohemian Club members during their two-week encampment at the Bohemian Grove. The Grove was a sort of summer camp for graying aristocrats, an all-male enclave in the redwoods, whose secret fraternal rituals were almost a century old.
DeDe’s father had been an ardent Bohemian, provoking her mother to bouts of acute depression during her annual ordeal of separation. Since her mother’s new husband was also a Bohemian, the torment had continued unabated. “You should have married a commoner,” DeDe told her.
“That isn’t a bit funny.”
“Well, what do you want me to say?”
“I want you to come to lunch.”
“Mother … we’re going away.”
“Where?”
“Just … up north. We’re packing the kids in the station wagon and taking off.” Wimminwood, in fact, was only a mile or two downriver from the Grove, but to say as much would only heighten her mother’s sense of familial desertion.
“I worry about her,” she told D’or later. “I can’t help it.”
D’or pulled her sleep mask into position. “What’s the matter this time?”
“Oh … Booter’s taking off for the Grove.”
“Christ,” sighed D’or. “The crises of the rich.”
“I know.”
“This happens every year. Why didn’t she plan something?”
“She did plan something. She invited us to lunch.” DeDe reached over and turned off the light.
“And now you’re feeling guilty as hell.”
“No I’m not.”
D’or paused. “Of course, we could always bring her along,”
DeDe flipped on the light. “What?”
“Sure. Gettin’ down with her sisters … tits to the wind. She’d like that.”
DeDe turned off the light again.
D’or kept at it. “Turkey baster study groups, S and M workshops …”
“Shut up, D’or.”
Her lover chuckled throatily and snuggled closer, hooking her leg around DeDe’s. “It’s gonna be great, hon. I can hardly wait.”
DeDe said: “We don’t have to go topless, do we?”
Another chuckle.
“Don’t laugh. I think we should discuss it.”
“O.K.,” said D’or. “Discuss.”
“Well … whatever we decide, I think we should be consistent.”
“Meaning?”
“That we either both do it, or … you know … both don’t do it.”
“Maybe,” said D’or, “if we both bared one breast …”
“Ha ha,” said DeDe.
“Well, gimme a break.”
DeDe paused. “I just think it would be disorienting for the children, that’s all.”
“What are you talking about? The kids’ve seen us naked plenty of times.”
“I know, but … if one of us goes topless and the other one doesn’t …”
“What you’re saying is … you plan to keep your shirt on, and you want me to do the same.”
“O.K.,” said DeDe. “Yes.”
“Why?”
DeDe hesitated. “We don’t … well, we don’t need to prove anything, that’s all.”
“Who’s proving anything?” said D’or. “It feels good. What’s the big deal? You went topless all over the place in Cabo last summer.”
“That was different. It was secluded.”
“This is secluded.”
“Hundreds of people, D’or. That is not secluded.”
“Well, they’re all women, for God’s sake.”
“Exactly,” said DeDe.
“What are you talking about?” asked D’or.
She was talking about jealousy, of course, but she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Something for Jed
THE DEFLORATION OF HIS NEPHEW BECAME BRIAN’S PET project. After reviewing half a dozen candidates for the job, he narrowed it down to Jennifer Rabinowitz and Geordie Davies, two Golden Oldies from his personal Top Forty. Jennifer, it turned out, was in Nebraska visiting her brother, so the honor fell by default to Geordie.
Geordie was thirty and lived alone in a garden apartment near the southern gate of the Presidio. They had met one night at Serramonte Mall while buying software for their Macintoshes. Feverish with lust, they had babbled clumsily about Macpaint and Macdraw before beating a hasty retreat to the parking lot. He’d followed her home in his Jeep.
Since that night—two, almost three years ago—he’d visited her cottage less than a dozen times. Neither her lover nor his wife had intruded on their lovemaking, which was refreshingly devoid of romance. Geordie was a true bachelor girl, who liked her life exactly the way it was.
The problem, of course, was how to set it up without scaring Jed off, but Geordie would probably have a few ideas of her own. When he called her cottage in midafternoon, he got her answering machine, which surprised him with its minimalist instruction to “leave your name and number at the tone.” Usually her tapes featured barking dogs or old Shirelles tunes or her own unfunny impersonation of a Valley Girl.
His guess was that she was home auditioning callers, so he used his manliest tone of voice when he left his name and number. It didn’t work, or she was out. You never knew for sure with Geordie.
By evening, he had decided to make his request in person. The scheme might not seem as cold-blooded if there was eye contact involved. “Do me a favor and fuck my nephew” wouldn’t quite cut it on the telephone.
After dinner, he told Mary Ann he was going down to Barbary Lane to visit Jed.
She looked up from her homework, a book about scalp reduction, the subject of tomorrow’s show. “Don’t let her corner you,” she said.
He didn’t get it.
“Mrs. Madrigal,” she explained. “She’s obsessed with those steps. It’s sweet, but it’
s a hopeless cause. Hasn’t she told you about it?”
“Oh, yeah … she mentioned it.”
“Personally,” said Mary Ann, “I think she gets off on being colorful.”
“I like the steps,” he said ineffectually.
“Well, so do I, but they’re lethal. And the city isn’t about to build brand-new wooden ones.” She returned to her book, closing the discussion.
He headed for the door. “I won’t be late.”
“Say hi to Jed,” she said.
It took him twenty-five minutes to reach Geordie’s cottage. He parked in the driveway of the house in front and made his way through the fragrant shrubbery to the rear garden. There was a light on in her living room.
He rang her bell, but there was no response. He had never before shown up unannounced, so it was entirely possible that her lover was visiting. She was probably madder than hell.
When she came to the door, however, her pale face seemed drained of all expression.
“I was going to call you,” she said.
Escape to Alcatraz
ON HIS FIRST DAY OF VACATION, MICHAEL TOLLIVER took his mail to the Barbary steps and stretched out in the sunshine. According to the paper, there were fires still blazing to the south, and the warm spell showed no sign of imminent departure. His sluggish Southern metabolism had ground almost to a halt.
He plucked a stalk of dried finocchio and chewed it ruminatively, Huck Finn style. In the spring, this stuff was lacy and pale green, tasting strongly of licorice, a flavor he had never understood as a kid. It grew anywhere and everywhere, remaining lush and decorative in the face of constant efforts to exterminate it.
Finocchio, he had read somewhere, was also Italian slang for “faggot.”
And that made sense somehow.
He set aside the less promising mail and tore into a flimsy blue envelope from England. These short but vivid bulletins from his old friend Mona had become enormously important to him.
Dearest Mouse,
The tourist season is upon us at Easley, and we’re up to our ass in Texas millionaires. I’d say to hell with it, if we didn’t need the money so badly. I am actually dating the postmistress from Chipping Campden, but I’m not so sure it’s a good idea. She uses words like Sapphic when she means dyke. Also, I think she likes the idea of Lady Roughton more than she actually likes me, which is pretty goddamn disconcerting, since I don’t feel titled. (Mr. Hargis, the gardener, insists on calling me Your Ladyship when there are tourists around, but I’ve got him trained to lay off that shit the rest of the time.)
Wilfred got a mohawk for his eighteenth birthday and has taken to lurking in the minstrels’ gallery and terrorizing the tourists. He’s grown at least three inches since you last saw him. The mohawk looks good, actually, but I haven’t told him so, since I’m afraid of what he’ll try next. He’s signed up for fall classes at a trade school in Cheltenham, but he’ll be able to commute from here.
They’ve finally heard of AIDS in Britain, but it mostly takes the form of fag-baiting headlines in the tabloids. According to Wilfred, their idea of safe sex is not going to bed with Americans. He misses you, by the way, and told me to tell you so. I miss you too, Babycakes.
MONA
P.S. Did you know there is still a Greek island called Lesbos? It’s supposed to be wonderful. Why don’t we meet there next spring?
P.P.S. If you see Teddy, tell him Mrs. Digby in the village wants to install an automatic garage door. I’m pretty sure this isn’t allowed, but I want his support before I say no.
Smiling, Michael put down the letter. Mona’s green-card marriage to Teddy Roughton was apparently the best thing she’d ever done for herself. By swapping countries with a disgruntled nobleman, she’d found a perfect setting for her particular brand of eccentricity.
And Teddy, obviously, was enjoying himself here.
Michael had yet to decide on the disposition of his vacation time. Some of it would be spent on reassuring domestic rituals: writing letters, painting the kitchen, helping Mrs. Madrigal with her garden. He had also promised to distribute fliers for her save-the-steps campaign, which had so far met with indifference in the neighborhood.
After lunch, he drove to Dolores Street for a Tupperware party hosted by Charlie Rubin. Charlie had come home after another scary stint at St. Sebastian’s and was making up for lost time.
The Tupperware saleslady was a big-boned Armenian woman whose spiel had been written expressly for housewives. A creature of cheerful routine, she apparently saw no reason to alter the scheme of things now. When she proudly displayed the Velveeta cheese dispenser, the thirteen assembled men erupted in gales of laughter.
Mrs. Sarkisian smiled gamely, pretending to understand, but he could tell her feelings had been hurt. He felt so sorry for her that he bought a lettuce crisper immediately thereafter and later spent five minutes telling her in private how much it would change his life.
When the rest of the guests had straggled home with their booty, he joined Charlie on the deck. “Well, that was different,” he said.
Charlie stared out at the neighboring gardens, a patchwork of laundry and sunflowers. “I always wondered what one was like,” he said. “Didn’t you?”
Michael nodded. “And now we know.”
They were both quiet for a while. Then Charlie said: “I made a list when I was in the hospital, and that was on the list.” He paused, then looked at Michael. “You haven’t commented on my new lesion.”
What was there to say? It was a dime-sized purple splotch on the tip of Charlie’s nose.
Charlie cocked his head and struck a stately Condé Nast pose. “It doesn’t suit me, does it? Should I get my money back?”
Managing a feeble laugh, Michael moved closer to him and slid his hand into the back pocket of Charlie’s Levi’s. “It doesn’t look so bad,” he said.
“Please,” said Charlie. “It makes me look like Pluto.”
Michael smiled at him. “C’mon.”
“Not even Pluto. He was friendly looking.”
“You’re friendly looking.”
“Who were those guys who were always robbing Uncle Scrooge’s money bin?”
“The Beagle Boys,” said Michael.
“That’s it,” said Charlie. “I look like a Beagle Boy.”
Michael reproved him with a gentle shake. “What else is on your list? Besides Tupperware.”
Charlie thought for a moment. “A balloon ride, a fan letter to Betty White, finding you a husband …”
“Well”—Michael chuckled—“two out of three ain’t bad.”
“Don’t be that way. There were some nice guys here today. Didn’t you get any phone numbers?”
“No, I did not.”
“Why not?”
“Because,” said Michael, “I don’t pick up men at Tupperware parties.”
“You don’t pick up men, period. You don’t even date. When was your last date?”
“Stop nagging. It won’t work. Let’s go for a balloon ride.”
Charlie inspected his nails. “Too late. Richard and I are going next week. You could join us.”
“That’s O.K.,” said Michael.
“What about Alcatraz?” asked Charlie. “I’ve never been to Alcatraz.”
“Neither have I,” said Michael.
“It could be depressing, I guess.”
“Yeah, maybe.”
Charlie’s fingers traced the grain of the railing. “I heard they gave the view cells to the worst offenders, because that was considered the greatest punishment. To see the city but not be able to go there.”
Michael winced. “You think that’s true?”
“Probably not,” murmured Charlie.
“Let’s check it out … take the tour.”
“You sure you want to? It’s awfully Middle American.”
“And a Tupperware party isn’t?”
Charlie smiled. “Did you absolutely hate it?”
“No. I thought Mrs. Sark
isian was very sweet.”
“She was, wasn’t she?”
A seagull swooped over the neighbor’s laundry, then landed on the fence. “Everything is sweet,” said Charlie. “It makes no sense to me at all.”
Michael looked at him and thought of finocchio, popping up again and again through the cracks of the sidewalk.
Their tour boat was called the Harbor Princess, much to Charlie’s amusement. The other passengers were a Felliniesque assortment of pantsuited tourist ladies and their husbands, plus a gaggle of Catholic schoolgirls in blue-and-gray plaid skirts.
There was also a singular beauty aboard—a strawberry blond with long, pale lashes and eyes the color of bleached denim. Charlie was sold on him.
“I’m telling you, Michael. He’s cruising you like crazy.”
Michael lifted his coffee cup and blew on the surface. “Don’t make a scene, Charlie.”
“Well, do something, damnit. Stop being coy.”
“He’s not even looking at me.”
“Well, he was, for God’s sake.”
“Look at those gulls,” said Michael. “It’s amazing how long they can drift without flapping their wings.”
Charlie heaved a plaintive sigh and peered out to sea. “What am I gonna do with you?”
A thin scrim of fog covered the island as they approached. The cellhouse was still intact, crouching grimly along the crest of the Rock, but many of the outbuildings were skeletal ruins, rubble overgrown with wildflowers.
Above a sign saying FEDERAL PENITENTIARY Michael could barely make out the word INDIANS, painted crudely in red—obviously a relic of the Native American occupation in the late sixties.
They disembarked with the mob, flowing across the dock and past the ranger station into a building that felt curiously like a wine cellar, with clammy walls and low, arched ceilings. There, a ten-minute slide show assured them that inmates at Alcatraz had been the meanest of the mean, incorrigibles who deserved the isolation of the Rock.
Afterwards, they assembled at the rear entrance of the cellhouse to await further instructions. When their ranger arrived, he explained that due to the size of the crowd, visitors would be required to split up and choose among three lecture topics.