She was finishing her frittata when she got the tweet—four words screaming obscenely from her BlackBerry—BETTIE PAGE IS DEAD. One of Shawna’s fans, the self-described Piercing Diva of Dubuque, had jumped at the chance to share the news with her. The iconic fifties pinup who had somehow made naughty so nice had suffered a fatal heart attack after a bout with pneumonia. She was eighty-five.
Shawna was surprised by how hard it hit her. She had always loved Bettie—or at least the idea of her—but Bettie had also seemed slightly unreal, a human-size Minnie Mouse in the Disneyland of desire. Now all she could see was an old woman who’d been living with her brother somewhere in L.A. She remembered Bettie’s three divorces and her struggles with schizophrenia and how she’d regretted tossing out her fishnet stockings after she found Jesus and went to work for the Billy Graham Crusade. Mostly she remembered how Bettie had avoided cameras after her “rediscovery” in the nineties, striving to protect her myth. That myth was finally safe. Now that she was dead.
Shawna rose from the kitchen table with a sigh and went to the rose-tinted mirror at the end of the hall. She studied herself soberly for a moment, checking her lipstick, testing the silken weight of her pageboy in her hands. What now? Do I hang on to this pelt out of respect for Bettie or abandon it for the same reason?
She would think about that later. Her blog needed attention (not to mention her advertisers), so there was really no time for reinvention. Besides, she was meeting her boyfriend for lunch, and he might have some thoughts on the subject.
FOR THE FOURTH TIME THAT month Shawna met Otto at the Circus Center. This was a yellow-brick building on Frederick, an old high school gymnasium, very Deco-looking, with huge metal-frame windows that filled the room with soft gray light as acrobats practiced on the trapeze. Shawna sat in the top row of the bleachers, as far away from the action as possible, since she hated the thought of embarrassing Otto in his element.
Otto was actually his real name, though he’d lengthened it to Ottokar for his professional handle. The original Ottokar had been emperor of Bohemia—something Otto had learned from a Tintin comic book. He was a lanky, lion-maned man who rode a beat-up bicycle, when he wasn’t riding a unicycle, and carried coffee-stained paperbacks in his knapsack. The night they met (the night Iron & Wine came to the Café du Nord) they’d talked mostly about the music, learning next to nothing about each other. Shawna liked that—not because she was in any way ashamed of her work but because Otto had come to their hookup with none of the usual expectations. He’d never even heard of Grrrl on the Loose, much less followed a blog, so her raffish online persona had never worked its cheap tricks on him. This guy wanted the girl—not the Grrrl—and that made all the difference to Shawna. Bettie Page, poor thing, should have been so lucky.
When Otto told her he was a clown—came out to her, in effect, with a mortified grimace as if he’d just confessed something horrendous—her heart had gone out to him. She’d tried to show him she was totally cool about it, that she understood his art form beyond the kitschy creepiness of Ronald McDonald and Bozo the Clown. She’d told him about her passion for Fellini and how her gay uncle Michael (who wasn’t technically her uncle) had introduced her to Cirque du Soleil when she was seven years old.
But all the while she’d been fixated on something else: a report she’d once written for her blog about a local group whose fetish was fucking in clown costumes. She had witnessed this phenomenon herself one rainy night on Minna Street, though it had struck her as more of a stunt than an actual fetish. (“Call me old-fashioned,” she would later write, “but when I feel something red and round and hard, I don’t want it to be a nose.”) She had left the party early, apologizing to the host, having learned nothing beyond the obvious reality that lube and greasepaint were not each other’s friends.
Of course those people had just pretended to be clowns. Otto was the real deal; he approached his craft with a dignity that bordered on the sacramental, especially when he made his rounds at schools and nursing homes. She respected him for his charity work and admired his expertise with unicycles and bowling pins, and generally found him to be sweet and a great deal of fun in the sack, but she never started taking him seriously—much less gazed into his heart— until she met Sammy.
Sammy was a life-size monkey puppet who rode on Ottokar’s arm. In the routine Sammy would poke teasingly at Ottokar until the clown became angry and smacked the monkey in the face, knocking him to the ground. Aghast at what he had done, Ottokar would scoop Sammy into his arms, where, like a simian pietà, Sammy would hang as limp as the rag that he was. Ottokar’s frantic efforts at reviving Sammy would eventually succeed (to the audible relief of the audience) only to be undone when the clown stumbled and fell, crushing the monkey under his weight. For a long time all the audience could see was Ottokar’s inert form. Then, limb by skinny limb, Sammy would appear again, pulling himself from beneath the body of his friend.
What was it about this bit that had endeared Otto to her? Had it simply shown he was a nice guy, a compassionate person, or was it something to do with his irony, his weary grasp of life’s betrayals? Whatever it was, her defenses had fallen on the spot. Her previous lover, a Brooklyn lighting designer named Lucy Juarez, had worn Shawna down with her melodrama and free-range jealousy. Lucy had been the ultimate buzz-kill, in fact, the final nail in the coffin of Shawna’s two-year New York experiment. She had moved East to sell a book (or a “blook,” as Lucy had once snidely called it, since almost all of it had come from the blog) and partly to show her doting single dad that it was time for them to pursue separate lives. But her dad had long ago hit the road in his RV, and Brooklyn, for all its pioneer charm, was starting to wear a little thin. When she packed her bags and headed back to San Francisco, she felt no shame about it whatsoever, only a determination to simplify her life and cut out the neurotic bullshit once and for all.
Maybe, come to think of it, that’s why Otto had seemed so right.
HE WAS IN THE RING now, walking on stilts, except they were more of a cross between stilts and skis, and he could bounce on them, like some sort of alien marsupial. Shawna remembered that he was trying out an act that he was taking to Pier 39. He was wearing his “civvies,” as he liked to call them, loose jeans and a ragged gray T-shirt. His only piece of clown gear was the nose itself—that inevitable fucking red rubber ball. She watched him for at least fifteen minutes, enjoying the flirty moves of his muscles, before he spotted her in the stands and raised his arm in a solemn salute.
Ten minutes later, having finally shed the stilt-ski contraptions, he sat down next to her and pecked her on the cheek, still wearing the nose.
“Hello, Mr. Kar.”
“Hey, Puppy.” She had once made the fatal mistake of sharing this childhood nickname with Otto, so he felt called upon to use it from time to time. She found that somewhat endearing, in spite of the seriously heavy shit it dredged up for her.
“I brought sandwiches,” she said, patting the plastic bag next to her. “I thought we could go to the park. Ever been to the AIDS Grove?”
He shook his head. “Can’t say I have.”
She smiled faintly. “I know it sounds morbid. Like . . . Cancer Valley or something, but it’s incredibly gorgeous right now and I think you might—”
“Hey. I’m there.”
So they walked into the park through the Stanyan Street entrance, passing the usual array of bongo players, children, and homeless people until they arrived at the AIDS Memorial Grove, a sunken dell full of redwoods and winding paths. They ate their lunch on the curving stone bench next to the Circle of Friends, where hundreds of names were engraved in ever-expanding circles, like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond.
“Are these all dead people?” Otto asked, munching on his sandwich.
“Not all of them. Some are just donors. See . . . there’s Sharon Stone over there.”
Otto screwed up his face. “That’s kind of confusing, isn’t it? How can you pay your res
pects to them if you don’t know who’s dead and who isn’t?”
She agreed with him and told him so. How badly, really, did Sharon Stone need to see her name in print? Wasn’t there a friend—or even some stranger—she could have memorialized instead? And Calvin Klein, for fuck’s sake. Why did he have to put his name here, of all places, when it was already on half the asses in the country?
She rose and moved closer to the circle, squatting so she could point to a name.
“Here’s one I know about for sure.”
Otto leaned forward to read it. “Jon Fielding. You knew him?”
She shook her head. “He died before I was born. He was Michael’s partner.”
He was struggling to place the name, so she helped him out. “You met him at the farmers’ market. The gay guy I call my uncle?”
“Oh . . . yeah. With the young . . . uh, husband.”
“Very good,” she said, smiling at him.
“Hey, I’m from Portland, okay?”
She laughed and looked back at Jon’s name. “He was hella handsome. I’ve seen pictures of him. My dad really liked him.”
She could see his wheels turning for a moment. Then, hesitantly, he said: “So your dad is gay, too.”
“No. He just . . . lived among them.” She was amused by the anthropological sound of that, like some overly serious voiceover on the Discovery Channel. Brian Hawkins has explored the darkest reaches of San Francisco, where for many years he lived peaceably among the homosexuals.
“Well . . . that’s cool,” said Otto.
“Yeah. I had some fierce uncles.”
“What about your mom?”
Shawna shrugged, since they had talked about this before. “She was a flight attendant or . . . whatever they called them. She died when I was born.”
“I meant your adoptive mom.”
“She left when I was five. Left us . . . me and my dad. I really don’t know her.”
“You haven’t seen her since then?”
“Oh, I’ve seen her. She came out several years ago when my friend Anna was sick. And I went to see her once in Connecticut when I was still living in Brooklyn.”
“And?”
“She was married to a retired Republican CEO and lived in a big house on a golf course. The sandwiches she served—I swear to you—had the crusts cut off.”
Otto winced sympathetically. “Do you know why she left in the first place?”
“A job in New York, my dad said. I don’t remember it. She was a local TV personality. She had a show here called Mary Ann in the Morning.”
“Aha. So that’s where you got it from.”
“Got what?”
“Being a personality.”
She felt her face turning hot. “I’m not a personality! Where did you get that? Don’t call me a personality.”
He smiled in appeasement. “I just meant . . . media in general. And you moved to New York and all . . . for professional purposes . . . like she did.”
Shawna grunted. “I wasn’t following in her footsteps, believe me.”
“I do, Puppy. I believe you.”
“And while we’re at it, could you lay off the Puppy stuff? I told you that in the weakest possible moment, and I really hate being called that.”
“Sorry . . . I thought your dad called you that.”
“Only because Mary Ann did.”
“And that would be . . . ?”
“The woman we’re talking about.”
“Right. Got it. No more Puppy.” He seemed to be puzzling over something.
“What?” she asked.
“I thought you couldn’t remember her.”
“I can’t. Not really.”
“But you remember Puppy?”
“My dad told me that when I was a teenager. To convince me she didn’t have ice water in her veins.”
Otto shrugged. “Sounds like she liked you a little.”
“Sure,” said Shawna. “Just not enough to keep her here.”
Chapter 5
The Truest Alarm
The first thing Mary Ann looked for at Michael’s house was the new construction at the end of the garden. Like the rest of the house, this Lilliputian structure was cedar-shingled and one-story, with latticework on the street side, which was already threaded with roses. Michael had referred to the place as a “cottage” in a recent phone conversation, but that was really stretching it. It was barely as big as one of those 1920s Model T garages that people here turned into gardening sheds. Its shingles were still raw and blond, having yet to know the rains of a Northern California winter. All in all, it was kind of sweet.
The rest of the compound seemed unchanged since her last visit. (She thought of it as a compound, since it was really three old “earthquake shacks” that had been strung together to make a higgledy-piggledy house.) Climbing from the taxi, she found herself unexpectedly buoyed by the sight of her old friend’s deftly feathered nest. Unlike the old house on Barbary Lane, this one still harbored someone she loved.
Michael must have been looking out for her, because he was halfway down the garden path when the taxi pulled away. “Babycakes,” he called, opening his arms to her. In three years his salt-and-pepper hair had lost most of its pepper, and his stomach beneath his untucked green Polo shirt had become a sturdy dome that approximated an early pregnancy. She remembered Michael telling her the belly was caused by his HIV meds. Lipodystrophy, he called it. Likewise the grooves in his cheeks, which she might have described as rugged had she not known differently. Only his smile was unchanged.
She leaned against him for a moment, accepting his warmth in silence.
Finally, she pulled way. “This is sweet of you.”
“C’mon.”
“I’m so fucked up.”
He gave her an ironic smile. “I’m gonna need more than that.”
“You’ll get it. Trust me.”
He led her into the house. Once he had settled her on the couch, he brought out a cheesecake, which prompted him, naturally, to make a forced joke about The Golden Girls. She wondered if some of that belly might be attributable to natural causes.
“This isn’t my usual practice,” he said, apparently reading her mind.
“It looks yummy,” she said. “Can I pass for now?”
He looked more bewildered than offended. “Sure . . . of course. Would you rather vaporize?”
“Do what?”
“I told you about it, remember? Very little smoke, just cannabis-flavored air. It’s a great buzz, and it saves your lungs.”
The last thing she needed right now was something that would make her story more vivid than it already was. “You wouldn’t have any vodka, would you?”
“You bet.” He headed back to the kitchen with the cheesecake, stopping at the door. “Cranberry or tonic?”
“On the rocks would be fine.”
“Should I make one for myself, or do you want me sober?”
“Whatever you want,” she said absently. “It doesn’t matter.”
Michael returned with two glasses of vodka—one on the rocks for her, one with cranberry for him. She took a sip of hers without waiting to toast him, since it would have felt weird at a time like this. Then she widened her eyes to approximate delight and offered her own bit of stalling: “It’s wonderful about Obama, isn’t it?”
He agreed with her less exuberantly than she’d expected. “Yeah . . . pretty amazing.”
“But?”
“C’mon . . . it was ‘Yes, We Can’ followed by ‘No, You Can’t.’ ”
“Oh you mean . . . the proposition?” She knew how clumsy this sounded the moment she said it, but she couldn’t remember the number of the damn proposition and she didn’t want to sound disinterested. “What a heartbreak that was.”
“More like a rat-fuck.”
“I should have mentioned that first. I’ve just been so preoccupied . . . to put it mildly. It didn’t unmarry you, did it?”
“Who knows? There??
?s gonna be a ruling in the spring.”
Michael and Ben had been married for the third time in August. The first wedding had been performed at City Hall but was thrown out by the state courts. The second had happened at a B&B in Vancouver but was valid only in Canada. The third one Michael had referred to as the “shotgun marriage” since he and Ben had rushed to say their vows before the November election, when the voters would have their say.
“Well,” she said lamely, “I’m sure it’ll take eventually.”
“Like a flu shot.” He gave her a half-lidded smile.
“If only,” she replied ruefully.
“If only what?”
“There were an inoculation against marriage.”
Michael’s brow furrowed. “Are we still talking about me?”
She took a long slug of her drink, set it down and turned to face him.
“I’m leaving Bob,” she said quietly. “I’ve left him.”
Michael nodded slowly, seemingly unsurprised.
Had she been that obvious? She knew her late-night phone calls to Michael had sometimes been protracted rants, but they had mostly been nonspecific, focused on the tedium of life in Darien or the tedium of life in general. She had hardly talked about Bob at all. “How did you know?” she asked.
He shrugged as if it were obvious. “You never talked about him. Happy people talk about their spouses.”
“Do they?”
“Did you just get bored or something?”
“No . . . well, a little, but I could’ve dealt with that. He was decent enough most of the time and . . . you know, a good provider.”
“As they say,” Michael added, and Mary Ann could have sworn she detected the shadow of a smirk. She wondered if he saw her as a spoiled suburban housewife, someone who had long ago sold out everything for a man who could “provide.”