Maybe the Moon (24 page)

F
IVE DAYS TO GO
.

Maybe it was a mistake, but yesterday I told Renee about my coming-out party. It was just too hellish keeping the secret any longer, seeing as much of her as I do, and frankly, I needed a fashion consultant for the big night. When I explained the plan, she screamed even louder than she had when I told her I’d decided to wear the suit. What’s more, she thinks it’s a brilliant idea—absolutely foolproof—which some people might regard as reason enough to be worried.

This morning she took me to The Fabric Barn so we could select the material for my debutante gown. We settled on green bugle beads, very dark and shimmery, in a sort of half-assed nod to Mr. Woods. (Also, as you know, it’s a color that looks great with my hair and eyes.) We bought Velcro too, so the gown can be breakaway, capable of being donned in seconds. I’ll be in the rubber suit for an hour or more, so there’s no way I could wear the gown underneath. And, as Renee keeps reminding me, my hair and makeup will need attention after confinement in that sweatbox. This will take a pro, she says, someone who can work fast—someone like her, for instance.

It’s true that her pageant skills might come in handy for this, but I’ve got my doubts about her ability to stay cool in the midst of all those stars. She was ditzy enough around Callum. On the other hand, the more henchmen I have, the easier it’ll be to pull off the switch. I’ll just have to play it by ear, I guess.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a brilliant idea for the song I’ll sing to Philip on stage: “After All These Years,” from
The Rink
. It’s Kander & Ebb—frisky and up-tempo enough—yet the lyrics have a definite edge of sarcasm, especially when applied to me and Philip:

That line about “obstacles to climb” just might get a laugh, which would be all right with me. Anything to keep the audience loose. In any event, the message won’t be lost on Philip.

Jeff drove me to Icon early this week for the fitting. Seeing that suit again was like viewing the embalmed remains of an old and bitter enemy. It was arrayed on a table in its own room—Lenin in his tomb came to mind—while technicians glued and snipped and soldered with offhanded, clinical calm, bringing the creature back to life. There was new, lighter-weight circuitry attached to his eye and facial muscles, which allowed more breathing space, but not
enough to make a real difference. His insides, having been recently overhauled, were gaseous with epoxy, though one of the technicians assured me the smell would be gone by Saturday night.

For a terrible minute or two—just as I staggered, arms forward like a sleepwalker, into the breach again—I considered the possibility that the motherfucker might not fit. When I made it all the way in and they snapped me shut, my ass and waist were a little snug, but the rest felt fine. I was so relieved I made a nervous joke about my weight to the technician, who laughed and said not to worry, they’d already enlarged the suit, at Philip’s request, in the event of just such an emergency. This was not what I needed to hear.

I’d halfway expected Philip to make an appearance that day, but he didn’t. According to the technician, Philip keeps in close contact with the shop but has expressly asked not to see Mr. Woods before the tribute, to keep from diluting the impact of the experience. “Like the bride before the wedding,” said the technician, chuckling, as if this were the very sort of quirky, unpredictable thing that makes Philip so darned lovable. I would have blown lunch then and there if the circumstances had been more amenable.

When Mr. Woods was on his feet again, testing his functions, word of his resurrection seemed to spread telepathically through the studio. Office temps and ADs and perky publicity minions begged admission, one by one, to the crowded hallway where the elf strutted his stuff. After a few seconds of experimentation, I could work his controls as if I’d never been away from them—like they always say about riding a bicycle. By squeezing the various bulbs in my hands, I could make him wrinkle his nose or roll his eyes or dimple up charmingly at the sound of their collective “Awww.” I’d almost forgotten how this felt—to be there and yet not be there, to be the living heart of something but not the thing itself. “Isn’t he cute?” they would coo, over and over again, and that blithely inaccurate pronoun hurt just as much as it ever did.

The main thing, of course, was that Jeff was there, watching everything, learning the ins and outs of the suit. When the time came, I knew he’d be able to assist my escape without too many
nasty surprises. Just before I climbed into bondage again, he smiled at me slyly and winked, as if to say: “Don’t worry. I’ll have you out of there in no time.”

As we left the studio, I asked him if the scheme seemed more daunting than he’d imagined.

“Not really.”

“Still think it’s the right thing to do?”

“Absolutely.” He turned and looked at me. “You spoken to Callum lately?”

“Just briefly,” I told him. “He called to say he was glad I was doing the tribute. Why?”

“Just wondered.”

“I didn’t tell him you’d be there, if that’s what you mean.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I asked him what had happened with the GLAAD protest.

He shrugged. “We picketed.”

“We?”

“I went. Big deal. I believe in it.”

“Did Callum see you?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Didn’t that feel weird?” I asked.

And he said: “Not as weird as hiding in that kitchenette.”

My resolve began to weaken on the short ride home, only to be bolstered again by a quick browse through
Variety
, where I learned that
Batman Returns
was using little people in penguin suits to augment a flock of regular penguins. Now,
there
was a job worthy of a serious actor’s commitment. Meanwhile, plans were in the works elsewhere for a film called
Leprechaun
, a thriller about a little green serial killer who disrupts the peace of an average American household. So much for humanizing us. They might as well have called it
Fatal Enchantment
. This was all the reminder I needed that drastic measures were in order if I expected to turn my life around.

By the time Renee got home, I’d already made a good start on
my sewing. She kicked off her shoes and sat next to me on the floor, then held up the gown to examine the beginnings of sleeves, letting the bugle beads catch the light. “This is so elegant,” she exclaimed. “I’m glad we picked it.”

I agreed.

“Neil will love it,” she said.

“Neil won’t see it,” I said, “except on TV.”

“He’s not coming?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t tell him what I’m doing.”

“Why not? He loves the way you sing. I betcha he’ll think it’s a neat idea.”

“Yeah…well, it was just too complicated.”

She frowned at me. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Something did, Cady. What?”

How is it, I wonder, that a woman who uses “betcha” and “neat” in the same sentence can be so adept sometimes at reading my distress? “His ex came by with his kid,” I explained.

“Oh.”

“The morning I was there.”

Renee’s fingers flew to her mouth. “You were in bed, you mean?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Oh.”

“It was just weird, that’s all. Everyone was so proper and stilted and jolly. Like a really empty episode of
The Cosby Show
. I felt like such an outlaw. Like I didn’t belong there at all.”

Renee squinted at me in confusion. “Because you’re white?”

“No. Because he was embarrassed. He tried hard not to be, but he was.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Yes.”

“Because you were white?”

“Forget white! Because I’m…me.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Well, you weren’t there, were you?”

“But he took you to Catalina.”

“So?”

“Wasn’t his wife there then?”

“His ex-wife. Yeah. So?”

“Well, he wasn’t embarrassed then.”

“Because we weren’t fucking yet.”

She winced at my naughty word. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Everything,” I told her. “Everything. It was fine for us to be friends; it just made him look like a nice guy. It is
not
fine for us to be fucking. People will think he’s perverted. Especially his family members…”

“Oh, now…”

“I’m serious, Renee. Think about it. It’s of
crucial
importance in this culture where dicks get put.”

She blushed like a virgin. “Do you think she knows?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, then…”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, he’ll never cop to it.”

“Well, maybe later.”

“No. Never. And certainly not to that kid he spends half his life with. Daddy can’t have this for a girlfriend.”

Renee looked at the floor.

“I knew this was coming,” I added gently. “I just didn’t know when. This is the way it works, you know. Eventually. You can ignore it or not. I went for not.”

Renee looked up at me balefully and started to get quivery-lipped.

“The thing is,” I said, “it was stupid of me to think I could pull it off. I knew what the rules were.”

“But he’s such a nice guy.”

“As nice as they get,” I said.

She was holding the gown as if she might decide at any moment to use it as Kleenex, so I took it away from her. “If you’re gonna blubber, go in the other room.”

“Aren’t you sad?” she asked.

“I can’t afford to be,” I said. “I have a show to do.”

I
’
VE JUST HAD A WEIRD THOUGHT
. W
HAT IF ALL THE NOISE
around my debut flushes out my father? He’s out there somewhere, presumably, still in his fifties. What if he’s flipping channels one night, or flipping through a magazine, and comes across this multi-talented dwarf with a distinctive name. Will fame be enough to make him seek me out after twenty-seven years? Will he show up here one day soon, filled with remorse, or at least with respect for the life I’ve made for myself? Will I forgive him if he does?

No, no, and no.

T
HREE HOURS TO GO
.

I should be napping, I guess, but I’m sitting on
shpilkes
, as Mom used to say about twice a day. I also want to get this down while I can, since there’ll be lots more to tell you after tonight.

Jeff took me to the tech rehearsal this morning at the Beverly Hilton. Leonard was there for a while and made a big gushy show of hugging me. When I introduced him to Jeff, such a look passed between the two of them you could’ve hung laundry on it. Part of this has to do with
Gut Reaction
furor and part with the fact that each regards the other as Callum’s corrupter—so Leonard obviously saw Jeff as an infiltrator of sorts, a loose cannon with a backstage pass. They were civil to each other, though, at least on the surface.

When I remarked on how skinny Leonard looked, he rattled on so long about his latest diet (a woman brings him Baggies of greens once a week) that I thought he must have thought that I thought he had AIDS. That would be just like Leonard, to think that. For all I know, he does have AIDS; he’s not the sort of guy you’d hear it from first. He looked pretty good, at any rate—tanner than ever. His concern over Jeff’s presence may have worked for me in some ways, since it allowed me to cast myself in a less dangerous light. I
tried to project an air of coolheaded competence, one that said I was just there to do my job and go home, a solid no-nonsense professional.

The ballroom was bigger than I’d imagined. (One of the biggest, according to Leonard, which is why the Hilton does so many of these industry events.) The place was empty except for a few techies, a few stray producers. The stage was fairly small, since the all-star audience was obviously the whole show. To make for good television, the guests would be seated cabaret-style on tiers surrounding the stage—a great big drinkless party full of startlingly familiar faces. Some of the chairs were labeled with masking tape and Magic Marker, so Jeff sprang from tier to tier, reconnoitering on my behalf. When he returned, grinning like a bandit, he took a piece of tape off his arm and stuck it on mine. It said:
MRS. FORTENSKY
.

“Put that back!” I said.

“Why?”

“Because…” I took off the tape and gave it back to him. “I want Mrs. Fortensky to have a good seat.”

He laughed.

“Is there a ‘Mr. Fortensky’?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said, “and a ‘Mr. Eber’ next to them.”

“Makes sense. It’s a long evening. They could have hair failure.”

He smiled.

“What else?”

“Callum’s two seats away from ‘Miss Foster.’”

“You’re kidding.”

“No.”

“What else?” I asked.

He smiled. “No more. You’ll overload.”

“I fucking love this!”

“No shit,” he said.

Later, the stage manager heard us laughing and came to introduce himself. He led us to a dressing room, where the elf already awaited, dormant in his coffin—a metal crate with a big lock,
designed to safeguard all that costly machinery. I remembered it from the old days, with nothing like fondness. As promised, the dressing room was all mine, which had obviously been no big deal, since the other performers will arrive at the hotel in evening clothes and take the stage that way. In fact, as far as I can tell, I’m the only person who even requires a place to change.

The stage manager said the MC for the evening will be Fleet Parker. (The obvious choice, when you think about it, given the number of Blenheim films in which he’s flashed those lovely silicone pecs.) I make my entrance at the very end, just after Callum, who’ll plug his new movie and talk about what a great dad Philip was to him on the set. Then Fleet will come back and say a few more words, prompting Philip to leave the imperial box he’s been occupying all evening and join the actor onstage. They talk a while—yodda, yodda, yodda—which leads to my cue. I toddle on adorably, hand Philip the award (which is hideous), issue my heart-warming prerecorded message, and toddle off again.

“It’s fairly straightforward,” the stage manager said, summing up. “Just a quick fix for the audience and off again, before it wears off. The element of surprise is what we’re going for here.”

“Gotcha.”

“How long should she be suited?” asked Jeff.

“Before, you mean?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, an hour or so. They want you here at seven, but you won’t have to put on the rig until about nine. There’ll be somebody here to help with that.”

“That’s what I’m here for,” said Jeff.

“No. I mean somebody to check the wiring, make sure everything’s up.”

“Oh.”

“Will you be with her backstage?”

“Oh, yeah,” said Jeff, trying to sound like a voice of authority.

The stage manager’s brow creased ever so slightly, so I added: “I need somebody…you know…” I widened my eyes and left the
sentence unfinished as if to suggest that the stage manager could easily imagine the sort of personal, unmentionable services a person like me might require.

“Right,” he said, nodding, not really wanting to know.

Our first small storm cloud had passed, so I was gladder than ever I’d asked Jeff to remove his
WE’RE HERE, WE’RE QUEER
button before we entered the ballroom. The way I saw it, the fewer waves we made, the better.

The stage manager was called away about a lighting problem, which enabled us to case out the place on our own. There was a fairly short, straight route from the dressing room to the stage, so the gauntlet I’d have to run as myself wasn’t as bad as it might have been. As for mikes, there were several on stands along the edge of the stage, so Jeff agreed to bolt out and leave one on the floor during the brief moment of darkness before my entrance. I should grab it on my way to Philip, Jeff said, and just start singing.

“What if it’s dead?” I asked.

“I’ll find you a live one.”

I told him, if he didn’t,
he’d
be dead.

“What about the award?”

“What about it?”

“Can you carry that
and
the microphone?”

“Fuck, no.” This fairly crucial logistical point hadn’t even occurred to me.

“OK…then leave the award.”

I popped my eyes at him. “He has to get the award, Jeff.”

“Why?”

“He just does. I’m not trying to ruin his evening.”

“Then come back and get it. Or I’ll bring it to you.”

“That’s not very graceful.”

He shrugged. “A coup d’état never is.”

“If you’re trying to make me nervous,” I told him, “you’re doing a swell job.”

He gave me a droopy-eyed smile. “Take the award out with you, then, and put it down when you pick up the mike. And take
your time about it—work it. You know what to do. A spot’ll follow you the whole way, so make it into shtick. This isn’t
anybody
walking onto that stage, Cady. You will have their attention. And you’ve got some good props to work with.”

This made sense, I admit, even as it suggested new horrors. “What if they turn off the spot?”

“When?”

“When they see that it’s me.”

“They won’t do that.”

“Why won’t they?”

“Because Blenheim will be onstage, for one thing.”

“And?”

“And…this could be some last-minute surprise he planned himself. Isn’t he kind of famous for that?”

“Kind of.”

“So if he’s up there reacting to you—smiling and everything—they’ll think everything’s cool.”

“What if he’s not smiling?”

“He will be. He thinks he’s liberal, remember?” Jeff seemed to ponder something for a moment, then asked: “Are you just gonna sing?”

“What do you mean,
just
?”

He chuckled. “I mean…are you gonna say anything to him?”

“I guess I’ll have to.”

“Like what?”

“Who knows?” I’d thought about this a lot, of course, but still hadn’t decided on anything.

“What’s Mr. Woods’ big line?” asked Jeff. “The thing the suit says.”

I told him to forget it.

“Why? That might be the logical thing. It would help to connect you with the character.”

“Why do I have to be connected?”

“So they’ll know why you’re out there, Cadence. Besides, you want credit for the role, don’t you?”

“I guess so.”

“Makes sense to me.”

I told him he was right. Again. We left shortly after that, as soon as I’d checked out the stage from the top of the tiers. My heart did a few somersaults when I imagined the tiny fleck of flotsam I’d make in that sea of celebrity, but I was basically all right about it. Getting out of the suit was obviously the biggest hurdle; the rest would be like working a birthday party—only bigger.

Jeff dropped me off here at the house just after noon, arranging to pick me up again at six. He was bland about his goodbye—largely on my account, I think—but I could tell he was just as wired as I was. He honked a second farewell as he turned the corner out of sight, as if to assure me one more time that we were absolutely doing the right thing.

The house was a mess, since I’ve been anything but tidy lately in my preoccupation with the tribute. I fluffed a few pillows in the living room, threw out old newspapers, raked my dirty laundry into a single pile in the closet. They say this helps order the mind, but it didn’t do shit for me. I decided to confront my demons head-on and rehearse my number one more time, using what I’d learned about the layout of the stage. Enlisting my vibrator, Big Ed, as a substitute microphone, I slinked my way across the backyard, singing at the top of my lungs, stopping when I reached the banana tree that was supposed to be Philip.

I got through the whole song without a hitch. At the end, where the sea roar of applause should have come, I heard only the un-Zenlike sound of two hands clapping. This startled me so that I dropped Big Ed in the grass, then looked up to see Mrs. Bob Stoate grinning at me over the fence.

“That’s really pretty,” she said.

“Thanks.”

“I hope I didn’t scare you.”

“No.”

“Is that a hobby or something?”

“No,” I said evenly. “I do it professionally.”

“Really? I never knew that. I mean, I know you do movies sometimes, but…well, I never knew this.”

She was so obviously impressed that I lost my head and told her I was singing tonight.

“Really? Where?”

“At the Beverly Hilton. With Bette Midler and Madonna and Meryl Streep.”

She gave me a sickly little smile that made it clear she thought I was several sandwiches short of a picnic.