Edgar gave up and let it wash over him. “GJG?” he asked blandly.
“That’s the code. Anyway, it’s just plain tacky to give your best friend a sweater without a label in it, so I asked them at Loehmann’s if they had any extra labels, and they said that they were all cut out by the manufacturers, so …”
“Macy’s, Frannie.”
“I’m getting to that. I went to Macy’s … well, not exactly Macy’s, but that new place called the Shop on Union Square, and I picked out a couple of Calvin Klein sweaters … and when I was in the dressing room I noticed one of the labels was so loose it was practically falling off, so I took out a pair of nail scissors and …”
“Jesus Christ!”
“Oh, don’t be so sanctimonious, Edgar! They’ve got hundreds of labels, and I wasn’t … Well, when that horrid little Chicano clerk barged in, you would have thought I was stealing or something!”
He was back on the phone two minutes after Frannie had hung up.
“Anna?”
“Hello.”
“I have to see you, Anna.”
“Edgar … I don’t think that’s …”
“No arguments. I want to show you something.”
“What?”
“You’ll see. I’ll pick you up tomorrow after breakfast.”
“What about Mr. Williams?”
“He’s not coming until six. We’ll be back by then.”
Breaking and Entering
ON THE NIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS EVE, MICHAEL phoned Mona in Pacific Heights.
“Hi, Babycakes!”
“Mouse!”
“Don’t Mouse me! I thought you were becoming a dyke, not a nun! Where the hell have you been?”
“Mouse … I’m sorry … It’s just that I’ve had so much adjusting …”
“Tell me. It’s a strain being pissy. I tried it once for three days in Laguna Beach … and I nearly OD’d on kaftans.”
Mona managed a laugh. “I’ve missed you, Mouse. I really have.”
“Prove it, then, and come to Mrs. Madrigal’s wingding.”
“When?”
“Tomorrow night.”
“I can’t. Jesus … I don’t even want to think about it.”
“What?”
“I’m having D’or’s parents over for dinner.”
“Christ … in-laws and everything! D’or must be a lot of fun!”
“She doesn’t even know about it.”
“She …? What are you up to, Babycakes?”
“It’s a long story. Suffice it to say I’m freaked.”
“Mrs. Madrigal will be disappointed.”
“I know. I’m sorry.”
“Maybe you should give her a call or something. I think she thinks you’re … bummed out with her.”
“Why should she …?”
“You haven’t talked to her in weeks, Mona.”
“Thanks for the guilt trip.”
“It isn’t a guilt trip. She asked me to call you. She really misses you.” Silence.
“I’ll explain about your dinner party. She’ll understand. But give her a call, O.K.?”
“O.K.” Her voice seemed unusually weak. “You doin’ all right, Babycakes?”
“Mouse … I think D’or has a drug problem.”
Michael couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m serious, Mouse!”
“What’s the matter? She pinching your Quaaludes or something?”
“For your information, smartass, I found some totally unidentifiable pills in her dresser last night, and she started acting really spooky when I asked her about them.”
“Has she been acting spooky otherwise?”
“No. Not particularly.”
“Well, relax, then.”
“I can’t. I’m saving my last Quaalude for tomorrow.”
Mary Ann, meanwhile, was trying to decide what to do about Norman.
He had made himself unreachable for days, avoiding Barbary Lane during daylight hours, often returning to his house on the roof as late as 3 or 4 A.M., when Mary Ann could hear his labored footsteps on the stairs.
He was drinking heavily, she guessed, and it made her uncomfortable to think that she might be the reason.
Mrs. Madrigal had left him two notes about the party, neither of which he had answered. He seemed to be a man of single purpose now, moody and slightly manic, lunging uncontrollably toward a Holy Grail that no one but himself could see.
Something had to be done.
It was dark in the foyer of the house when Mary Ann opened the door under the stairwell leading to the basement. Fumbling in the blackness for the light switch, she listened carefully for sounds on the stairs above her. She would die if anyone caught her doing this.
The key board was just beyond the fuse box, shrouded in cobwebs. She searched for half a minute until she found the key marked “Roof House.” Then she closed the door as quietly as possible and crept up three flights of stairs to the door that was painted orange.
Although she was certain that Norman was gone, she rapped twice on the door. The sound reverberated in the stairwell. She froze. Had anyone heard it?
The house was completely still.
She slipped the key into the lock. A tight fit. She jiggled it until the door swung open and the darkness of the little house engulfed her.
It took her less than a minute to find the Nutri-Vim suitcase.
At the Grove
THE FORESTER WHO ADMITTED THEM NEVER ONCE looked at Anna, curled up placidly on the front seat of Edgar’s Mercedes.
She winked at the stony sentinel as they drove in.
“I hope he thinks I’m a hooker.”
“It wouldn’t be the first time.”
Anna squeezed his knee. “For him or you, sir?”
He wouldn’t joke about it. “You’re the only woman I’ve ever brought here, Anna.”
They parked the car in a lot adjacent to the entrance and began their odyssey on foot.
“Well, well,” said Anna, as they moved through the towering redwoods. “Anna Madrigal at the Bohemian Grove.”
“I think that’s as it should be.”
“Just the same … thank you.”
“I wish I’d thought of it twenty years ago.”
“Twelve.”
Edgar grinned. “Twelve,” he repeated.
Slipping her arm through his, Anna simply smiled and shook her head in amazement.
Edgar switched easily into the role of White Rabbit. His Alice blinked her wide blue eyes at him when he showed her the Grove Stage.
“You performed here?”
“I stopped the show once as a Valkyrie.”
“In drag, Edgar?”
“Hell … the Greeks did it.”
“The Greeks did a lot of things.”
He smiled. “Get off my back, will you?”
“That’s what the Greeks used to say.”
Edgar slapped her on the behind and chased her up the River Road, ignoring the tightness that had begun to grow in his chest.
The camps they passed had names like honeymoon suites at the Madonna Inn: Pink Onion, Toyland, Isle of Aves, Monastery, Last Chance….
Edgar’s camp was Hillbillies.
A two-story chalet dominated the enclave, opening onto a courtyard with a barbecue pit. Admitting himself with a key, Edgar led Anna to the second floor, where a couch and a stone fireplace awaited them.
Anna grinned slyly. “Oh, I get it!”
He smiled like a satyr.
“Don’t look so smug, Edgar Halcyon. I can match your decadence any day!”
She reached into the pocket of her peacoat and produced a thin tortoise-shell cigarette case. She extracted a joint.
“Anna …”
“It’s good for what ails you.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Wanna bet?”
“I’m sorry. I … Damn, I’m usually so good with words.”
His smile forgave her. She kept the joint held out for him.
“Ann
a … can’t you just make do with the last of a breed?”
She tapped the joint against her lower lip, then returned it to the case. “Damn right,” she said softly.
Wrapped in an Indian blanket, they sat in front of the fire.
“If this were the old days, we could run away together to the wilds.”
She rearranged his white mane with her fingers. “We’re already in the wilds, aren’t we?”
“Then … wilder wilds.”
“That would be lovely.”
“We don’t have to go back, Anna.”
“Yes we do.”
He turned and stared into the fire. “Would you have told me, if Mr. Williams hadn’t come along?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“It wasn’t … necessary.”
“You’re still beautiful, Anna.”
“Thank you.”
“What shall I tell him tonight?”
Anna shrugged. “Tell him … his rent’s due.”
Edgar laughed, hugging her. “One more question.”
“What?”
“Why haven’t you invited me to your party?”
“Now, how on earth …?”
“I heard Mary Ann talking about it.”
She smiled at him in wonderment. “You dear man.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Is eight o’clock O.K.?”
He nodded. “Right after I finish with Mr. Williams.”
Art for Art’s Sake
MARY ANN’S MORNING WAS A HELLISH BLUR OF REmembered images. Petrified of meeting Norman in the hallway, she crept out of the house and ran down the lane to Leavenworth Street. She caught the first cab she saw.
“Where to?”
“Uh … what’s a nice museum?”
“The Legion of Honor?”
“Out beyond the bridge?”
“Yep. Lotsa nice Rodin stuff.”
“Fine.” It was perfect, really. She needed Art now … and Beauty … and anything else with a capital letter that would pull her through the worst Christmas Eve of her life.
She wandered through the museum for almost an hour, then returned to the therapeutic sunlight of the colonnade courtyard. She sat at the base of The Thinker until the comic irony of the scene drove her back indoors to the Café Chanticleer.
After three cups of coffee, she made up her mind.
She found a phone booth near the entranceway on the ground floor, dug Norman’s Nutri-Vim business card from her purse, and dialed the number scribbled in pencil on the back.
“Yeah?”
“Norman?”
“Yeah?”
“It’s Mary Ann.”
“Hello.” He sounded drunk, very drunk.
“I have … sort of a problem. I was hoping you could come meet me.”
There was a pause, and then he said, “Sure.” Even now, knowing what she did, she hated herself for the way she could govern his feelings.
“I’m out at the Palace of the Legion of Honor.”
“No problem. Half an hour, O.K.?”
“O.K. Norman?”
“Huh?”
“Drive carefully, will you?”
She was waiting for him in the parking lot, under the statue of The Shades. Norman crawled out of the Falcon with exaggerated dignity. He was blitzed.
“How ya doin’?”
“Pretty good, pretty good.” Why did she say that? Why was she being nice to him?
“You wanna go in the museum?”
“No, thanks. I’ve been there all morning.”
“Oh.”
“Could we take a walk?”
Norman shrugged. “Where?”
“Over there?” She pointed across the road to what appeared to be a golf course with a network of footpaths. She wanted to get away from people.
Norman extended his arm with drunken gallantry. Everything he did, in fact, seemed a hideous parody of the things she had once admired about him. She took his arm, suppressing a shudder. If nothing else, it would keep him from falling flat on his face.
They crossed the road and descended a path along the edge of the golf course. The fog had begun to roll in, blurring the Monterey cypresses on a distant rise. Somewhere beyond those trees lay the ocean.
Mary Ann let go of Norman’s arm. “I wanted to talk to you in private, Norman.”
“Yeah?” He smiled at her, apparently allowing his hopes to rise again.
“I know about the pictures.”
He stopped in his tracks and stared at her, slack-jawed. “Huh?”
“I’ve seen the pictures, Norman.”
“What pictures?” Of course he wasn’t going to make it easy for her.
“You know what I’m talking about.”
He stuck out his lower lip like a petulant child and began to walk again. Faster now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about!”
“‘Tender Tots’? ‘Buxom Babies’?”
“You must be …”
“I know about you and Lexy, Norman!”
Guess Who’s Coming to Dinner?
HOVERING OVER A TABLE SET FOR FOUR, MONA hummed her mantra in a last-minute effort to calm her nerves.
D’orothea’s parents were arriving in ten minutes.
And D’orothea still didn’t know.
“I’m not kidding, Mona. I hate surprises. If you’ve invited those dreary backpacking dykes from Petaluma, you can count me out. I know all I need to know about skinning squirrels, thank you.”
Mona didn’t look up. “You’ll like them. I promise, D’or.”
Shit, she thought. What if she doesn’t? What if she feels more alienated than ever? What if the Wilson’s oddly bourgeois interracial marriage had left unimaginable scars on the psyche of their daughter?
“And another thing, Mona … the minute one of those garage-sale gurus of yours starts spouting off about The Third Eye or whose moon is in …”
“I’ll split a Quaalude with you, O.K.?”
“You can’t drug me into submission, Mona.”
Mona turned away and readjusted a fork. “Forget it, then.”
“I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair.”
“Will you try to act human, D’or?”
“Sure. What the hell.”
“I want this to be … well, I want it to be nice.”
“I know. And I’ll try.”
The next fifteen minutes were the worst in Mona’s memory.
She scurried around the house, pretending to busy herself with housekeeping, certain her terror would show if she stayed in one place.
The Wilsons were late.
D’orothea was upstairs, fixing her face in the bedroom.
Mona forsook her mantra and recited a childhood prayer. She was halfway through it when the doorbell rang. There was no way out now. No excuses. No postponements.
She opened the door just as D’or reached the landing on the stairs.
“I’m sorry we’re late,” said Leroy Wilson quietly. “This is Mrs….”
His eyes, climbing to the stairs, grew large and glassy. “Dorothy? My God! Dorothy, what in God’s …?”
D’orothea stood frozen on the landing. “Mona … Jesus, Mona, what have you …?” She spun around and dashed back up the stairs, weeping like a madwoman.
Mona was wrecked, speechless before Leroy Wilson and the short, dumpy woman who had come in too late to witness the bizarre scenario.
The short, dumpy white woman.
With the Wilsons in limbo downstairs, D’or wept like a baby in Mona’s arms.
“I swear, Mona … I swear to God … I never meant to lie to you. I wanted to work … I just wanted to work. When I moved to New York five years ago, nobody would hire me. Nobody! Then I did a couple of jobs in dark makeup … one of those Arab harem girl things … and all of a sudden people started asking for the foxy black chick … I didn’t plan it. It just sort of …”
“D’or, I don’t see what …”
&nbs
p; “I’m a fraud, Mona!” Her sobs grew louder. “I’m nothing but … a white girl from Oakland!”
“D’or … your skin …?”
“Those pills. The ones you found in my drawer. They’re for vitiligo.”
“I don’t …”
“It’s a disease that causes white spots to break out on your body. People with vitiligo take the pill to make their pigment darker. If you’re white, and take enough of them over a two-month period … Didn’t you ever read Black Like Me?”
“A long time ago.”
“Well, that’s what I did. I found a dermatologist in New Orleans who would give me the pills, along with ultraviolet treatments, and I disappeared for three months and came back to New York as a black model. I made money, Mona … more money than I had ever seen in my life. Naturally, I dropped all contact with my parents, but I never intended …”
“But doesn’t it wear off?”
“Of course. It’s a constant strain. I had to sneak off every few months or so to get more ultraviolet treatments … and, of course, I kept taking the pills … and finally one day I just couldn’t take the sham anymore, so I decided …”
“… to move to San Francisco and go white.”
D’or nodded, wiping her eyes. “Naturally, I felt that you would be my refuge until … I had changed back … and I always planned to see my parents again, but not until …”
“Why didn’t you tell me, D’or?”
“I tried. I tried lots of times. But every time I got close you would whip up a mess of chitlins or start talking about my beloved African heritage … and I felt like such a phony. I didn’t want you to be … ashamed of me.”
Mona smiled. “Do I look ashamed?”
“This really is my hair, Mona. I do have naturally curly hair.”
“Do you have any idea what I thought, D’or?”
D’or shook her head.
“I thought you were dying. I freaked. I thought you were taking those pills because you were dying.”
“Of what?”
“What else? Sickle cell anemia.”