Chapter 6. Just in case I was fighting any residual chill, I decided a drink was in order

Just in case I was fighting any residual chill, I decided a drink was in order. Also, that would give me a chance to give my costume its first tryout on Joe, the bartender. I turned down the alley toward the Wharf Rat, pulling on my little mask as I walked. In reality, I wasn’t chilled at all. Not wishing to wear a coat, I had put on a long-sleeved T-shirt under the uniform and was quite comfortable. I just wanted a drink and some conviviality which might put me in a holiday mood, okay?

The place was fairly busy despite the early hour. As I walked up to the bar I noticed Chief Mather in his usual spot, staying late on this spectral eve. He glanced up briefly, but I wasn’t sure whether he recognized me or not. In any event, he didn’t speak.

Joe, on the other hand, ambled over as if I always appeared at his bar in army combat camouflage. “Beer or bourbon, Alex? ” So much for disguise. I opted for bourbon over ice and turned around on the stool to survey the crowd.

As my barstool spun, I felt slightly off-balance and reached back to grab the bar. I missed and knocked over the beer of the man next to me. Joe quickly mopped it up and gave the man another, just shaking his hands negatively when I offered to pay for it. This really was beginning to bug me. I have never been a ballerina... but I’ve never been a trained elephant either. Resolutely, I refused to worry about it and crowd-watched.

Two queens in matching light orange silk sheathes split up to mid-thigh sat at one table. Killer looks... gorgeous legs, short black sculpted curls, kewpie doll makeup, long cigarette holders. Very nineteen twenties, very good!

Somebody had stocked the old-fashioned bubbling neon juke box that played only golden oldies, which I really like. The Beatles came on with Michelle and that unique haunting harmony. The ’20s girls got up to dance with their tuxedoed escorts. I heard Mather call for a refill in a sour voice.

A table of two straight couples were near me. Apparently tourists, they had no costumes but had wanted to join the fun and had somewhere found party hats and noisemakers. I liked their attitude. The music switched to Nina Simone, and two young girls joined the dancers, staring soulfully at each other with that first-love look that actually vibrates with the certainty it will last forever.

I’d never cared much for Simone’s style, but I liked what I had heard about the woman. She’d got her first real professional break at the Atlantic House here. And for years afterward—long after the A-House would have been professionally “beneath” her—she had returned each season as a thank-you. Maybe I liked her style, after all.

I turned back to my drink and a pair of hands touched my shoulders, massaging them lightly. A liquor-laden voice whispered sibilantly in my ear. “Oh, you delicious macho thing, you! You look just s crumptious! ” It was dear boy, with two cronies in tow, all of them obviously loaded.

I swung around, knocked his arms away and jammed three fingers far enough into his solar plexus to make him gasp and bend over. “Dear boy, ” I oozed back at him, “if you ever put your fucking hands anywhere near me again, I’ll put a nine millimeter bullet up your nose.”

Of course, I wasn’t carrying, but he didn’t know that. He spun away, white faced, and joined his pals, a couple of stools down. As I went back to people watching, I heard him order a drink and saw him pull out a well-stuffed wallet. Unless they were all ones, the wages of sheet-shaking and a little discreet sin were well over the minimum.

I floated with the music and the background noise and the second bourbon Joe had poured without asking. It was all pleasant and familiar. And I felt content enough. That scared me a little. Was I one of those people who were really meant to be alone? Forever? Enjoying my family. Enjoying much-loved friends like Lainey and Cassie, Vance and Charlie. Loving Fargo. But alone? Was I simply lazy, or careless about opportunities? Was there the perfect life partner here just waiting for my hello?

I looked keenly around the room. Not so you’d notice.

But I did notice that dear boy Lewis did not seem to be enjoying himself. He drained his glass and set it down sharply, looked at his watch with a scowl and growled to his companions, “I’m splitting. I’ll catch you later.”

One of his companions asked coyly, “You got a sweet trick you haven’t told us about? ”

“Nah, ” Lewis replied. “Going over to the Rev’s. They’ll still be having dinner. I’ll trade a couple of hallelujahs for a good free home-cooked meal, anytime.” He walked out, staring ahead, with that careful march-step you use when you’re afraid you’re going to stagger.

I had no trouble translating his cryptic comments. There was a born-again preacher man and his wife over near Shank Painter Road with a little storefront church and some sort of rambling quarters behind it. The Rev and his mousy spousy made an effort to feed some of Ptown’s young drifters. They had some rooms the girls could sleep in, and boys were quartered in a loft over the garage.

Presumably they were fed and safe, at least for the nights they were there. I hoped this was as true as their local supporters assumed. So often, I thought, the fox is the concierge of the henhouse. Perhaps I tend to be a little cynical. Actually, my Aunt Mae rather likes the Rev and his wife. But then, my Aunt Mae rather likes most everyone. Anyway, giving the Rev the benefit of the doubt, I wondered why Lewis, with that fat wallet, felt the need of a free meal with religious overtones. From what I’d seen of him, it didn’t seem like his type of hangout. Suddenly, I sensed someone at my side and looked up sharply, half expecting dear boy had returned for a noisy confrontation. It was ex-Chief Mather.

“Good work with that little pansy, soldier! Got to keep those faggots in their place! ” He gave me a snappy salute, turned and left.

I was flabbergasted. Well, at least my costume fooled somebody! Or had it? Surely he hadn’t thought I was a male. Was it some sort of sardonic tease? Had I seen just the suggestion of a smile on Mather’s face? Maybe he had some glimmer of humor after all. Although... maybe he had thought I was for real. Why else the offensive language? I shrugged. Who knew with him?

It was getting to be parade time, so I polished off my drink and left. As I came up the alley onto Commercial Street, I saw Lewis and Mather a few yards up the street, exchanging words. I wondered what they could possibly have to say to each other. Lewis was standing with his weight on one leg, pelvis forward in a come-on pose. Mather looked stiff and pained.

Well he might. Jared Mather had years ago relegated himself to a life of pure, excruciating emotional torture. As far as I knew, I was the only person in town who was aware of it, and I had kept the secret so deeply buried, I often forgot it myself. I had learned of it completely innocently.

About five years ago my aunt Barbara was in a serious car accident. Mom and Aunt Mae flew to Delaware to be with her, and I kept an eye on their respective houses. One day after a storm, I went by Mom’s place and found no damage, but Aunt Mae hadn’t been so lucky. A limb had come down, taking out a bathroom window on its way. I looked around for something to board it up with but found nothing. I stood in the yard, pondering what to do, when I realized I was staring at Mather’s house down the hill. If anybody could effect repairs, it would be he. The day was pleasant and I walked across the fields. Over on the road, a convoy passed, horns blowing, streamers flying. I remembered a long-engaged couple who had tied the knot today and were probably on their way to the airport after the reception. I recalled she was some distant kin to Mather and wondered if he would be home.

As I walked silently up the grassy center of his driveway I heard someone groan. Was he ill? I took a few steps forward toward the window I thought the sound had come from and heard more groans... the unmistakable groans of a male in rut. I froze.

Then I heard a voice. “Oh, oh... oh, God, Jared that was good.” The voice was male, and not Mather.

“Yes, yes... but I shouldn’t have... swore I wouldn’t ever do it again! Sweet Jesus! What have I done? ” It was Mather now, sounding agonized. “Oh, Lord, what terrible wrong have I done against You? I promised I would never do it again. But I did, I did. And— oh, it felt so good.” He sounded almost in tears. I couldn’t believe it—could this be the stern, emotionless figure I had known for years?

The other man laughed. “Jared, the only one you did anything against was me! And you did nothing wrong. We both enjoyed it, didn’t we? That makes it okay in my book.”

Mather’s anguish exploded into anger. “Anything is okay in your book! Why in hell did I drink champagne at that double-damned wedding? I know better than to drink too much! Why, oh, God, why? Can You forgive me? I repent, I will never, ever do this again. Jesus, save me.” He sobbed the deep, racking sobs of a heartbroken child.

The other man now sounded irritated. “Jared, don’t go on a crying jag with Jesus. Obviously you wanted this as much as I did. We’re both single. What’s the big deal? I’m dying of thirst, ” he added practically. “What have you got to drink? Beer, I hope.”

It suddenly occurred to me that when they got up—which would be any second—they would see me through the window. I couldn’t have that. Mather would never believe I hadn’t been deliberately eavesdropping for God-knows how long!

Quickly I ran halfway back down the grassy path. If I hadn’t been worried that animals of some variety would get into Aunt Mae’s house, I’d have kept right on going back to my car. Instead, I stepped onto the crunchy gravel and walked noisily back toward the house. And I sang. When I sing, people listen. Sonny says my voice has the deep resonant beauty of a water buffalo with strep throat.

Sure enough, by the time I reached the back porch, Mather was already coming through the door, wearing jeans and a T-shirt. He was barefooted, tousle-haired and red-eyed. And he looked as guilty as any criminal he had ever arrested. “Alexandra! I—I’m surprised to see you. Can I do something for you? ”

I told him what had happened and asked him if he could board up the window.

He agreed to go “right over” and stood in the doorway, waiting for me to leave. There was no evidence of his guest.

I was shaken. I couldn’t get it off my mind. Two single adult men get a little blitzed at a wedding. They have sex. What harm? To whom? Yet Jared Mather was a soul in torment. And how many years had he been like this? I wished I could offer him comfort. I knew no one could. No gay person could, nor any straight person either. And certainly not his God. Obviously, Jared was gay, and knew it and could not abide it. Every day must be torture. Those most basic desires—for human contact and affection and physical pleasure were to him, unforgivable crimes.

I made a vow. If anyone ever found out Jared Mather was gay, it would not be from me. This would not become a funny story on the cocktail circuit. It would not become grist for the Ladies’ Aid Society gossip mill. And it would never be good for backroom laughs at Police Headquarters. Jared would not be outed by Alex. I didn’t much like him. I thought his religion was hateful, dangerous and false. I thought he was smart enough to know he should have had professional help years ago. And I never felt sorrier for anyone in my life. Talk about ambivalence!

I realized I had unthinkingly turned down toward the parade route and heard music coming toward me. I put thoughts of Mather behind me and let the holiday eve take over. The lead-off band was the Ptown Gay Men’s Fife and Drum Corps, with a really accomplished version of the “Colonel Bogey March. ” They looked good, too, in their Revolutionary War–styled uniforms, with the white stockings that showed off their shapely legs and the tight, tight breeches that showed off everything else.

Hard on their heels was the Lesbian Mothers’ Association. Kids not strapped or tethered were being herded along with modest success at staying in step. Then came hordes of people in fantastic costumes, and behind them a pink VW beetle with lots of clowns in, on and around it. They had their routine down pat, so that it looked as if all the people really came out of the car.

A flatbed truck with some hay bales for dé cor and six women playing down home bluegrass music followed. A banjo, a guitar, three fiddles and a bass were twanging out a real shit-kickin’ hoedown. They were superb, and I hoped they might be playing someplace in town for a while. Maybe Cassie and I could catch them—we both love bluegrass, in small doses, anyway.

Next we were favored by the Bare-Breasted Broncos, a lesbian motorcycle club from New York. Despite the fact that most of them were magnificently endowed and set the ol’ gonads to snapping in high-speed bluegrass rhythm, many of us wished fervently that these ladies would not tire themselves out coming so far to visit. But they were ever faithful. By morning at least three of them would be in the medical clinic, four would be detained in local cells and most would have been in fights for making improper advances to other women’s partners... some of which would be surreptitiously accepted.

Suddenly, across the street, I thought I saw my witch waving and shouting at passersby. Behind the Broncos, and in front of a group billed as the Queens from Queens, I nipped across the street. Now where the hell was she? She had disappeared again! Of course, I wasn’t really sure it was my witch, and I had no idea what I would have said if I had caught up with her.

Chagrined, I turned down the walkway to see what was going on at the Atlantic House. Mayhem was going on, with wall-to-wall people, hyper-decibel music, and frenzied fun in and out of costume. I tried unsuccessfully to fight my way to the bar. The floor vibrated so badly I really wondered if we all might spill into the basement. Somebody handed me back a bourbon and ice. I wasn’t even sure who had bought it for me, until I saw my friends Dan and Mike waving. I had no hope of approaching them and just waved my thanks.

I fought back the way I had come and took my drink (illegally) outdoors to join a smaller crowd, where I at least had air to breathe. It was getting time for the show at the Crown and Anchor, so I downed the drink—I’d better watch that—left the glass on a rock wall and retraced my steps up the alley.

The Crown was busy but not frantic. It was a largely male crowd, and somewhat older, or at least more conservatively behaved than those at the A-House. I found a small table and sat down at the banquette behind it. A waiter brought me a drink, took some money and I settled down to wait. If they were running on time, Ms. Garland would soon come tripping down that yellow brick road. Meanwhile, the band played Cole Porter songs, and I wondered what the gay world would have done without him.

“Excuse me.” A pleasant-looking man somewhere in his fifties stood in front of my table. “There’s not a seat left in the place, and I wondered if I might share your banquette? ”

“Why not? I’m Alex.”

“Marc.” He put out his hand. Shortly, a waiter appeared and took his order for a scotch and water, “plus whatever the lady is having.”

“The lady is having a very light bourbon and water, please.” Then I laughed. “Well, congratulations, sir! You are the one millionth person not to be fooled by my disguise tonight.”

“As bad as that? ” He smiled.

“Actually, an acquaintance of mine let on earlier that he thought I was a man. I realize now he was just teasing.” I moved the ashtray closer to me.

“Sorry.” He shrugged. “Maybe it’s the lack of a beard. That’s probably the reason I don’t wear costumes anymore... everybody always knew me anyway.”

“I’m with you, ” I agreed. “Unfortunately I’m going to a party later where costumes are required—like tiaras or medals or something. Frankly, it’s a pain.” The waiter set the drinks down and stood there until Marc paid him. No tabs on a busy night like this.

Marc stirred his drink and looked around. “I haven’t missed Judy Garland, have I? ”

As if on cue, the band stopped playing and the lights went black. The noise in the room faltered and twittered into silence. I hoped this wouldn’t be either an embarrassing failure or a tasteless parody. One or the other seemed likely, and I thought both Judy and Peter deserved better.

There was a fanfare... a drum roll... moving spots that circled, crossed and then stopped on a barstool that held... Judy Garland.

Peter actually looked like her. He wore a long black skirt with a discreet slit, a white cotton shirt with cuffed back sleeves and a stand-up collar, several gold chains and a dark, ragged-cut wig that looked real. He had her startled-deer eyes and full lower lip to begin with, and makeup did the rest. I was impressed. He and the band swung energetically into “San Francisco” and I went from impressed to amazed.

Peter must have been well corseted, because he looked no chubbier than I had seen Judy look in some TV clips. He handled the mike well, moved vigorously and gracefully, just as she had done. Maybe there was an extra wrinkle, maybe he took a breath when she would have held the note, maybe he slid into some of the high notes instead of hammering them dead-on. But the energy, the nuance, the timbre, the voice... was there. The band segued into “Embraceable You, ” and I simply gave myself to the music. She did three or four more Garland songs—by now I was thinking of her as she —well, you know what I mean. Applause was loud and long, and I was thrilled for Peter. Then she drifted into “The Man That Got Away, ” with that tearing low-pitched heartbreak. They gave her the most sincere accolade an artist can receive: the room was dead quiet when she finished. There must have been a twenty-second time lapse between Peter’s last note and the first cheer from the standing audience. I felt tears building against the dams of my lower eyelashes and observed others reaching for napkins or handkerchiefs.

Of course her signature “Over the Rainbow” was the finale, with everyone standing and joining in. Another blackout. And the little stage was empty save for a barstool with a mic lying on the seat. No bows, no clever repartee, no roses thrown and caught. Judy had triumphed... and she had gone.

I was drained. I couldn’t make immediate small talk. I didn’t even say thanks when the waiter delivered another round. It was several moments before Marc spoke. “Did you ever see her before? ” he asked.

“No and no, ” I replied. “As for Peter, I really don’t know why not. As for Judy, only movies and clips of some of her appearances. In person, I think she left the planet about the time I was landing.”

Marc nodded and sipped his drink. “Yes. I figured that. Well, I can tell you, Peter is damn near as good as she was, certainly better than she was at the end. She got to be a mess. I was a kid in Provincetown when she was last here, just before she died or killed herself or got killed or whatever she did. She was always drunk or stoned, hung out here and at the old Town House Bar. It was sad, demeaning, humiliating. I used to wonder why I went and watched her, night after night. It was like looking at the same train wreck over and over.”

He paused, and I could tell he was far away. I waited, and finally he continued. “She would try to sing and slurred the words, or forgot them entirely. Once she fell off the piano. But we gay boys milled around as long as she was there. We still adored her... and she us. It was strange how she loved gay men, but virtually ignored any lesbians who tried to become friendly, even just to compliment her. She was often plain rude.”

I lit a cigarette and wondered idly what number smoke it was. “Yes, I’ve heard that. What was her beef with lesbians? ”

Marc waved a hand dismissively, or possibly to disperse the smoke. “A dozen theories. Some thought she was straight and didn’t like a lesbian making a pass. That’s silly. Surely, with all her years in show business, she would simply have laughed it off. Others said she’d had a lesbian experience and found it unpleasant. Most lesbians said she had not had a lesbian experience and was afraid she’d like it, thereby making her life even more convoluted. All she would have needed was the same luck with women she had with men.”

I took a drag and carefully blew the smoke away. “She sounds a very confused woman who was comfortable around gay men because they were safe, yet made her feel adored and wanted.”

“Oh, no doubt.” Marc reached for his jacket and began to shrug into it. “I think the problem was Judy and that big devil called inti macy. I think the lady probably literally died looking for love, yet afraid of losing herself if she found it.”

Now that was food for thought. And possibly indigestion.

Marc finally got his jacket on straight. “Well, I gotta run. I’m due at a party in Truro. It’s been pure pleasure, Alex. I hope we meet again.” He gave me a light kiss on the cheek and began to weave through the crowd.

I leaned back to finish my drink and wished he hadn’t left. For some reason, I didn’t want to be alone at that moment. Then I had one of those idiotic thoughts that make you absolutely certain you’re going mad. I looked around the hundred-plus people in the room and was convinced that each of them was with a partner, that I was the only soul there who was single. Everyone would go home with that partner, wake up together, live out their lives together. I was the only person in the place who would go home to a partner with four legs and a tail. If I could carry a tune, I’d go on the road as Judy Garland looking for love in all the wrong places. Where the hell were the right places? What the hell was love? Why had I found so many women exciting in bed and so deadly dull out of it? Why did I always feel smothered at the thought of living with someone? And why did my lovers always accuse me of becoming distant and withdrawn?

I thought of Cassie and Lainey. They didn’t seem the least bored or suffocated. Of course Cassie flew all over the place, and Lainey nursed at all hours. Sometimes they actually spent days apart. Because of their crazy hours they often used two bedrooms, yet they were very much a faithful and loving couple. They just weren’t joined at the hip.

Maybe I should advertise in one of those personal mags. Gay, 30-ish female private investigator desires female pilot or nurse for intermittent romance. That should get me enough lunatic replies for a lifetime of entertainment. I raised my arm for another drink and quickly lowered it. Not wise.