Significant Others (8 page)
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.
O
N 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.
M
ONA
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. Sarkisian 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.
“The three topics,” he explained soberly, “are Security Measures, Famous Inmates and Discipline.”
Charlie leaned forward and whispered “Discipline” in Michael’s ear.
Michael grinned at him.
As if reading their minds, the ranger added briskly: “Those of you who’ve chosen Discipline please follow Guy through the shower room to D Block.”
“Oh, Guy,” crooned Charlie.
By the time they had all assembled in the shower room, the demography of their tour group had become absurdly evident: Michael, Charlie, the strawberry blond, and at least two dozen girls from the Catholic school.
The ranger led the way into D Block, doing his best to herd the giggling children. “There were a lot of different names given to this area—solitary, segregation, special treatment unit, isolation. Prisoners here spent up to twenty-four hours a day inside their cells. They had their own shower facilities down there at the end of the cellblock, since they were forbidden to shower with the other inmates.”
Michael and Charlie exchanged glances.
“Cells nine through fourteen were known by the inmates as the ‘dark cells’ and were the most severe form of punishment on Alcatraz. The men stayed in total darkness inside these cells, which are steel-lined, and they were given mattresses only at night. They were fed twice a day on what was known as a ‘reduced diet'—mashed vegetables in a cup.”
“Eeeyew,
” went the schoolgirls in unison.
“If you’d like to see what it was like to spend time in a ‘dark cell,’ pick a cell and I’ll close the door behind you.”
The children squealed with fun house terror, formed protective clumps, and crowded into the six chambers. Michael was headed for Cell 11 when Charlie grabbed his arm. “Use your head, dummy. Go for twelve.”
He glanced toward Cell 12 and saw a splendiferous smile hovering above a sea of schoolgirls.
“Go on,” said Charlie.
Michael hesitated, then entered the cell, watching the smile grow broader.
Seconds later, the ranger approached and closed the heavy door with a resounding clang. The tiny room was plunged into instant and total darkness, provoking another shriek from the girls.
Their mock ordeal lasted only a second or two; then the door swung open again, spilling light into the cell. The strawberry blond was no longer smiling, but he seemed a little closer than before. “Pretty creepy,” he said.
“Isn’t it?” said Michael.
“And we had company,” said the man. “What can it be like when you’re alone?”
Michael let the tide of children sweep him out of the cell. The man caught up with him and extended his hand. “I’m Thack,” he said.