Venus Envy, page 7
“I knew you’d say that.” Frazier crossed her arms over her chest. “If it’s not what you want to hear, then there’s something wrong with the person telling you. Right, Mother?”
“I see no reason to continue this discussion. You’ll come to your senses. In the meantime I advise you to be prudent.”
“Prudent? As in shut up?”
“You said it; I didn’t.”
“I wrote other letters.”
“You did?” Alarm invaded every crevice of Libby’s body.
“Carter, Daddy—which you know, since you pick up the mail—Kenny, Ruru. I think I forgot a few.”
Libby gripped the sink. “And did you tell them …” Frazier remained silent, forcing Libby to go on. Nothing like giving your mother a dose of her own medicine. “Did you tell them what you told me?”
“That I was dying? Of course.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I want to hear you say it. That’s probably why I stopped by. I figured you wouldn’t phone me or come to my house.”
“Say what?” But Libby was losing at her own game.
“Not a goddam thing, Mother.”
“Don’t you swear in front of me. That you’re unnatural,” Libby shouted.
Frazier walked away from her and gripped the doorknob. “Nothing is unnatural—just untried.”
“Don’t you get smart with me. Why’d you come over here? To make me more miserable than I already am?”
“You did that all by yourself. I came over here to warn you. I don’t know how the other recipients will take their letters. For all I know it’s all over town that I’m gay. I know it’s all over town that I’m alive. I thought you might like to pull yourself together, to organize your public response.”
Icy fear clawed Libby’s entrails. Her friends. The whispers behind the hand. The seemingly innocent inquiries, the too-firm handshake from the pastor after service. She could see it all. The social embarrassment—that would be loathsome—but the true agony would be the pity, the sickeningly sweet smiles and the solicitous tone of voice. Oh, God. “I don’t understand you. I never understood you and I don’t understand this. Go to a psychiatrist. You don’t have to be this way. I don’t want you to be this way.”
“What do you think I did one day, Momma? Do you think I woke up and said, ‘I’m going to be queer today. I’m going to upset my mother, baffle my father, jeopardize my place in the community, and lose a few friends in the bargain? I’m going to join the most despised group of people in America. Hooray for homosexuals. I can’t wait to embrace these sorrows.’ Do you think I did that? Do you think anyone does that? I regret your hurt, Mother. I regret even more being shoved into a category, being Untermenschen, as the Nazis used to say, less than human. But you know what? I am what I am. I can’t see that it’s the end of the world or that I’ve suddenly turned into a monster.”
“Two thousand years of church teaching can’t be wrong,” Libby railed.
“Until the last century, the same church justified slavery, Mother, because it was in the Bible. I am not going to a psychiatrist. I am not going to suddenly marry and produce the grandchildren you blab about day in and day out. Like I said, Momma, I am what I am. And like it or not, I am your daughter.”
“Then I wish you had died!” Libby tossed the pot at Frazier’s head.
Quick reflexes intact, Frazier ducked. The pot smashed against the door. That fast Frazier was out of the house, leaving Libby to bellow, “Look at this mess you made. You come back here and clean it up. Frazier! Mary Frazier Armstrong, look what you made me do!”
14
FRANK ARMSTRONG, SILVER-HAIRED AND FIT AT SIXTY-THREE, fiddled with the back door hinges. A screwdriver and a can of 3-In-One oil were his weapons. Cold night air whooshed into the room along with Libby, who entered from the opposite direction.
“Will you close that door before we catch our death?”
“You’ve been grexing and groaning about the door, so I thought I’d surprise you.” He jiggled the tongue of the lock, inserted a few drops of oil, then swung the door back and forth and drenched the hinges. “Frank, that oil is running down the door.”
“I’ll clean it up. Why don’t you fix me my regular? Better make a double for yourself.” “Why?”
“Because you’re edgy.”
“I am not.” Libby marched out. By the time she returned with their drinks—a scotch on the rocks for Frank—Usquaebach, his favorite brand—and a double of Absolut with orange juice for her—the back door was fixed. Frank wiped the edge of the door and then put away his tools.
They retreated to the den, a walnut-paneled library filled with books Frank would never read. Libby favored romances, gardening books, and biographies. A few large home-decorating books also squatted on the shelves.
Libby clicked on the television for the evening news but she couldn’t sit still. She rose to get her needlepoint. She sat down. Then she wanted her reading glasses, which were in the kitchen. The news showed a body being fished out of the river, then dumped in a body bag. The camera distance was far enough away so as not to ruin supper for the viewers. Nothing like a blue bloated carcass with the face eaten up to put you off salmon forever. Still, the sight of something abnormally large and squishy being dumped in the bag, to say nothing of the policeman bent over a bush, plucked at Libby’s nerves.
“Why do they have to show something like that? I ask you, Frank, why? I mean, what if that person’s family is watching and they haven’t been notified yet? Can you imagine? Can you imagine how horrible to be told that … that awful mess is your flesh and blood?” She shivered. “People have no respect today. The media.”
“Ants at a picnic.”
“What?” Libby’s darkened eyebrows—she was naturally blond—curved upward toward her very blond hair, a neat trick at fifty-nine.
“Reporters are like ants at a picnic. You step on those that you can and ignore the rest.”
“What business is it of anyone’s? Why show some poor soul’s mortal remains like that? I could see that he hardly had a shirt on. When I go, put me in the ground as fast as you can.”
“I have heard enough talk about death in this household to last me until mine. I don’t want to hear any more about this. Put your mind off the subject.”
“Look, now they’re showing us a car wreck. Three drunken kids in Buckingham County.” Libby’s voice rose. “And a close-up of a blood-spattered windshield!”
“Honey, you usually go for the gory details.”
“I do not. I most certainly do not.”
“Libby, what in the hell is the matter with you tonight? Did you and Ruru get into it again? You having troubles at the Garden Club?” Frank had fielded a day of decisions, complaints, negotiations, and equipment problems at work but if Libby needed to spew her problems he might as well listen. It was easier than getting his butt chewed off.
“None of those things. I have not heard from your bohemian”—she leaned heavily on the word bohemian—“sister since we discussed the good news about Frazier.”
“Good news? A blessing from great God Almighty.” Frank smiled.
Libby wanted to say that maybe it wasn’t such a blessing but she held her tongue, a real victory for her.
In the long silence that ensued they watched commercials. One was for controlling body odor; another dwelt on the subject of constipation; four car ads livened up the fare; a wine cooler promised eternal youth, which would quickly sour if you didn’t use the toilet-bowl cleaner that followed the thirty-second wine spot. After this bracing experience the news team filled the small screen with chat about the anchor’s new dress and oh, what fun the basketball tournament will be. Meanwhile, half a world away, Eastern Europe struggled to govern itself after nearly half a century of disabling communism. Poor Russia had had the absurd philosophy since 1917. That wasn’t newsworthy. Underarm deodorant was. After the contrived byplay between the anchor and the co-anchor, sporting the worst hairdo since Howdy Doody, the sportscaster faking a butch voice, and the weatherman’s patter, a brief flash of events squirted across the screen. Fortunately, the content included no body count.
Libby relaxed enough to fish in her needlepoint bag for some lime-green yarn. Lime green was a big hit with Libby. “I think I’ll cancel Frazier’s party.”
“Huh?”
“She needs time to adjust. We can celebrate when she’s more herself.”
“She’s great. She’s better than I’ve ever seen her.”
“When did you see her?” Libby held the lime-green yarn tightly in her hand.
“Dropped by the gallery at lunchtime.”
“And?”
“And what? She was busy and I had a few minutes. We’ll get together for lunch Friday.” He noticed Libby’s jaw clamp shut. “She’s happier than I remember. Almost like she was when she was a little girl. You know, when she was a child she’d walk right up to you and say whatever was on her mind. I don’t know.” He rubbed his chin. “Something different about Frazier.”
“I’ll say.” Libby jabbed the needle into the belt pattern.
15
THE SOUTHWEST RANGE, A SPUR OF MOUNTAINS RUNNING northeast and parallel to the moody and sensuous Blue Ridge Mountains, offered protection to the lush little towns of Keswick and Cismont. Route 231 snaked alongside these gentle green mountains, culminating in a traffic circle at Gordonsville, where every spring the high school students jammed the 360 degrees with their cars, driving the local police and citizens crazy. If the high-spirited youths shot straight up Route 15 off the circle they would bump into the beautiful town of Orange. If they whipped off about 200 yards to the west on Route 33, then turned north again on 231, they would pass some of the most beautiful land in America. Frazier’s house, a Virginia frame farmhouse, circa 1834, lay just off this road, south of the crossroads of Somerset.
She could drive to Richmond in an hour. She could zoom into Orange in minutes and hop the train to New York City. The airport was only forty minutes away. Washington, D.C., if she headed up through back roads, took two hours by car. On the main drag, without hitting rush hour, she could make it in an hour and a half, and if she boarded the commuter plane it was less than half an hour to D.C.
Apart from the location, Frazier dearly loved the yellow house with the dark-green shutters. Rain on the tin roof always made her think of “Singin’ in the Rain.” The house, added onto over the decades, bore testimony to good times and hard times. The heart-pine floors, a soft wood, were worn as thin as a bee’s wing near the doorjambs. The windowpanes, hand-blown, reflected an imperfect but lovely view of rolling hills lapping up to one of the Southwest Mountains. Hightop Mountain may have been too grand a term but no one dared call them fat hills.
The other good thing about the house, Roughneck Farm, was that it was just enough out of the way that Frazier endured few drop-ins. She was enduring one tonight.
Ann Haviland paced across the old blue Chinese rug in the living room. A blaze in the huge fireplace wasn’t the only thing crackling.
Frazier, reeling from her mother and now Ann, was collapsed in a faded wing chair. A tidal wave of exhaustion washed over her. She thought to herself how she regretted her promise to give up smoking. She would have given almost anything for one puff of a divine Sherman cigarette.
“The time I wasted on you!” Ann punctuated her sentence by stopping before Frazier. “To say nothing of the money.”
“What money?”
“The earrings from Harlan and McGuire, the tickets to Lake Louise in Canada—”
“Hey, I paid for the hotel room.” A flicker of anger lifted Frazier’s heavy eyelids.
“Well, what was I to you? I don’t want to talk about money—that will get us nowhere.”
“You brought it up.”
“Don’t evade.” Ann’s pretty features clouded over in anger and anxiety. “What am I to you? What would you make of this letter if you were the one to receive it?” She shook the letter under Frazier’s nose.
“Uh.” Frazier reached up for the letter. “Could I read this?”
“You don’t remember what you wrote?” Ann was incredulous.
“I sort of do and I sort of don’t.”
“I’m your lover and you don’t remember?”
Frazier snatched the letter from her hand. The warm flow of hostility awakened her. “I am tired of explaining to you how I felt, the physical state I was in, the hour of the night. Just let me read the goddam letter.”
Ann flounced into the opposing wing chair, crossed her arms over her chest, and stared at Frazier as those beautiful green eyes danced over the blue-speckled pages. Ann’s left foot tapped on the rug. The cat, Basil, glared at Ann as Ann glared at Frazier.
Frazier finished the letter and placed it on the coffee table.
“Well?” Ann grabbed it back.
Frazier folded her hands together. “I regret that the fear of dying made me blunt but I don’t regret what I wrote. You aren’t happy with me. You haven’t been happy with me for the last year.”
“I hardly ever see you.” Ann worried about what was going to happen next, even though she had pushed Frazier.
“We both work hard.”
“You’re obsessed with your work.”
“I love my work and you don’t. Maybe if you loved what you were doing in this world, you wouldn’t be so jealous of what I’m doing.” The merciless truth filled Frazier’s voice.
“Thank you for Psychology 101, but while you’re at it tell me how I’m going to pay my bills.”
“Other people have had to figure that out, Ann. Why should you get carried along? If you want to change your life, you will. If you want to be happy, you will be. Don’t use money as an excuse. Right now you’d rather complain than change.”
“Death sure has done wonders for you,” Ann ruefully noted. “Before, I could barely get you to talk about anything other than work or sports.”
“You wanted to know how I felt. I told you. You don’t like it. Now you attack me for it. I’m not saying I have any answers for you. And I’m not saying you’re a bad person or that you’re wrong. But what I put in that letter is the truth as I see it. We aren’t going anywhere. Why prolong the agony?”
“It’s agony to be with me? I thought we had some pretty good times.” The reality of this conversation was seeping into Ann’s brain.
“We did. It’s always good in the beginning. We just don’t see eye to eye.”
“If we were together more maybe I’d really know what you think and how you feel. Apart from this.” She picked up the letter, then dropped it again on the coffee table.
“Ann, we aren’t the right team. Especially since I came out in every letter I’ve written.”
Ann gripped the armrests. “How many did you write?”
“Mother, Dad, Carter, Billy, Auntie Ruru, Kenny, and … uh, Mandy. Seven besides yours.”
“Did you mention me? I mean it’s one thing if you blow the whistle on yourself. Did you blow it on me?” Ann’s throat muscles tightened.
“No, but Carter will put two and two together.”
“He hardly ever saw us.” Ann’s hands shook. “And Billy will keep his mouth shut. After all, he has a lot to lose. Mandy? Why would you write Mandy on the night you thought you were dying? I mean, Mandy’s an employee.”
“Mandy may be the only person in my life who likes me for me.”
“Carter’s a buffoon. Jesus H. Christ on a raft, Frazier. Why? Why tell Carter anything?”
“He’s my brother and I love him.”
“Finally. Carter is finally more successful than you. Oh, is he going to love this.” Ann clapped her hands together.
“Maybe not.”
“If Carter or Ruru or anybody else asks about me you’d better lie through your teeth. You might be going down the tubes in this town but I’m not!”
“You didn’t get it.” Frazier looked at the letter.
“To come out. Easy to come out when you’re dying. You’re going to be dogmeat!”
“I intend to find out.”
“Am I supposed to admire your bravery?” Sarcasm dripped from Ann’s lips. “We’ll see how brave you are as time goes by. As you lose friends and, what’s closer to your heart, your business.”
“For Christ’s sake. Why should my being gay affect anyone’s wanting to buy art or not?”
“Because you’ve been perceived one way. You’re glamorous. You’re on the ‘A’ list, Frazier. You won’t be on it anymore and the social flow was where you drummed up a lot of business.”
“Half the art dealers I know are gay.”
“They’re men.” Ann’s knuckles were white as she continued to grip the armrest. “There’s a double standard for queers too.”
“I hope you’re wrong, but even if you’re not”—Frazier hauled herself out of the chair and walked over to the fire—“I can’t go back into the closet.”
“Sure you can. You can write everyone or get in the car and visit them. Tell them you were hallucinating. They’ll believe you because they’ll want to believe you.”
“You know, Ann, I’ve lied all my adult life. I’ve lied by keeping silent. Somehow that seems worse to me than if I’d actively lied. Maybe someday something will happen to you that will make you look at yourself and the world in a new way. What’s that saying? ‘The scales fell from my eyes.’” Frazier shook her head because she couldn’t remember. “Whatever. I realized some things about myself and about the world I live in, part of which I am responsible for, you know.”
“Why? You didn’t make it,” Ann shot back.
“No, but I keep it going and if I don’t do anything, if I just continue to hide, then I’m accepting things as they are.”
“Oh, my God, now you’re going to change the world. You and Mother Teresa!” Ann couldn’t believe her ears.
“No, I’m not. But I’m going to change myself.”
Astounded, Ann bounded out of the chair and stood before Frazier, nose to nose. “Millions of people, millions in America, all over the world, manage to live without anyone knowing who and what they are. Not every gay person has to carry a banner. People can speculate all they want. If you don’t tell, they don’t know. And it’s nobody’s business. They’re happy; their families are happy. Ignorance is bliss. Why, all of a sudden, do you have to be different? You’re going to sacrifice everyone else to your own so-called integrity. What gives you the right to make other people suffer?”
