"A very conservative group, though. They know their authors, and what they want from them."
Lois must have been feeling merry, for just then the meteor effect went off. The crowd cheered, and—it seemed—began to form patterns on the floor, star shapes, snakes and ladders, circles. A few of the men, overheated by nonstop dancing, pulled off their shirts, and the lighting man turned his follow spot upon them like some voyeur pointing There!
There!
"It's like a fertility rite," Johnna observed. "Ironically enough."
Led by the roving spotlight, Johnna saw couples on every side, of every type: couples enamored and couples tersely courting, couples as aligned as the colors in ribbon candy and couples facing off, doing steps at each other.
"The genders are so separate," Johnna observed. "There's no—"
"Yes, that is strange. But every so often... you have to hunt for them—ah, there's a mixed pair."
The spotlight had caught Ty and Chris. Elaine and Johnna watched Ty coaxing his girl, nuzzling her, and Chris getting very into it, for all her misgivings. Young, free Ty and his fair maid is what Johnna saw.
"I don't call them mixed at all," she said. "They're so alike in their youth and joy, aren't they?"
She spoke fiercely. Elaine looked at Johnna, wondering what had suddenly troubled her.
"I
spy
them," said Johnna.
"What's wrong?"
"Is this liberation? It's all
youth
down there, Elaine. What's next, the confiscation of everyone over thirty?"
Johnna was looking hard at Ty and Chris, though the spotlight had moved on. Rooted to the spot, she was. Wounded to the nth and crabby to the core.
"Ask yourself what this is," Johnna demanded. "Is there a book in it? No."
Johnna is focused on Ty and that girl he was kissing. Ridiculous. To come here, chasing some misguidedly idealistic author who can't see that an unconventional way of living is not in itself a foundation for good writing.... To
come
here and
see
this!
"I've had enough," Johnna concluded. "Fiction is not about kinds of people, fiction is about people. If your characters are too limited—"
"Not limited," Elaine insisted.
"Pointed.
I would use the specific to address the general."
"Readership," said Johnna. "Movie deals. Clout and respect," she said. But she was thinking, That showboating little fuck and his coaxing act, and I bought it. I let him work me like a toaster.
"Look," Elaine urged. "Quick," as the spotlight hovered upon Henry, Andy, and Blue dancing with their arms around each other. "Now what do you see?"
"Three young men making fools of themselves."
But Henry was thinking, I've got it all with me now. Blue's hot and Andy's nice. If I could only combine them,
control
my life.
Henry pulled Andy and Blue closer, so tightly that the two looked up, surprised.
"Nice to be with friends," Blue commented; and Andy sighed.
Jezebel grabbed Henry from behind, shook him out of his reverie. "The police," Jezebel said. "They raided Hero's."
"What?"
Jezebel nodded.
Louis was with him. "A guy just came in with the whole report," said Louis. "They backed a truck up to the door of the house and loaded it up."
"You hear him, Henry?" said Jezebel.
"Jez, this isn't... It's not the time to..."
"Henry.
We ha
ve got
to do something
about
this."
"But now?" Henry looked about him, as if gesturing: On this night of nights?
"Henry, Henry, Henry. Think. Be smart, now."
Blue and Andy standing there watching. Louis melting away.
"Tomorrow it's names in the paper," Jezebel continued. "It's fired from their jobs, war with their families. How many times, Henry? When do we stop letting it happen?" Jezebel struggling for self-control, so angry and so right, yet unwilling to attack his own side. "We have to fight them," he almost whispered. "You gonna dance while Rome burns?"
Blue doesn't like this. Andy is uncomfortable.
"Have you ever asked yourself why they print those names after a raid?" Jezebel goes on. "You know why the police give them to the papers, sure. The
police
are hating beasts. But why do the papers go ahead and print the names? Is that news, Henry? Who's the guy at the paper who says, Yes, let's unmask the faggots, destroy their lives? Who's thinking that's good copy? Henry? Please...
please
let us do something now, tonight, while this is happening. They're probably still loading up the vans. They're taking us prisoner even now. Henry. Henry, listen. We have
got
to free ourselves of this
terrible
and
unnecessary
oppression."
"Henry," said Blue, "let's dance."
"You do and I'll kill you," said Jezebel.
"Nigger," said Blue; Henry got between them so fast that it was nothing but Jezebel shouting at Blue and Blue fisting up at Jezebel, as Henry ferried Jezebel off and away, to a dark corner where they squared off.
"What am I supposed to
do,
huh?" cried Henry. "Because this isn't a war rally and you
get off my back!"
"What
you
are supposed to
do,
man, is you
lead
this crowd
out into the streets
to demand—"
"This crowd doesn't want—"
"They'll follow if you
show them how!"
"Look, look"—grabbing Jezebel by the arms, because he was looking at Blue over Henry's shoulder and getting antsy—"I promise you, at the next meeting of Sacred Acts, we'll schedule a demonstration in front of the precinct house, and—"
"A demonstration! Wow, they gonna be so
peeved
at us for that! Heads will roll, huh, Henry boy?"
"Then what should I—"
"Fight!
Not hang around! And not with your racist buddies! What should you?
That's
what!"
Shamed, Henry just stood there. At length, Jezebel walked away from him.
Andy came up and put a hand on Henry's shoulder.
"He's right, though," said Henry.
"Blue went off somewhere," said Andy.
"Yeah, he's an expert at that."
The music, big as apocalypse, drew the dance toward its climax. Everyone was on the floor, singing along with the Diamonds' hit, "It's So Cool":
You're gonna want me
And date me.
Oh, baby, don't accept me—
Create me.
I see Frank, a gleaming demon, dancing with Blue in an intricately sensual habanera; and Lois accepting a butch young fatale's "Dance, babe?" to hit the floor with purpose; and Henry trying to Forget About It as he circles the floor with Andy; and the Kid solemnly dancing by himself; and Jim, absurdly, teaching Eric the cha-cha; and Paul wandering around looking for Blue; and the girls and boys blasting off in this Kingdom Come; and furious Johnna Roberts striding through the middle of the dance floor—one side, all!—dogged by Elaine but unreachable, finished with it, unable to hear the history meter's ticking, the reinheriting of the earth. The name of the dance is Revolutions.
Frank got home after four, bundled Eric into bed, and dialed Larken's number.
"Frank, you gorgeous beast" was Larken's greeting. "You movie star."
Frank needed to tell of the dance, of the shocking sense of community that he had felt there. "Yet it was so natural, Lark," he said. "It didn't seem like something we were inventing. It's as if it had always been there somehow, just waiting for us to—"
"You actually go out dancing with men, now, huh?"
"God, it's so hot, Lark! How come we didn't know about this before? You fill a place full of our folks, and it's one great field of energy. Hey, any chance of your taking a trip here?"
"Any chance of your moving to San Francisco? We could use a leader. A 'role model,' they call it now."
"I'm just some guy, Lark."
"No, Frank. You're the top."
They went on for a bit in this vein, then Larken reviewed developments in his career as a cabaret master, putting acts together, booking clubs, and so on.
"You doing okay, buddy?" Frank asked. "Are you happy out there?"
"Frank,
you're
out there—we're Californians, remember? Yes, I'm happy. I'm doing well enough to feel free and I've got hope enough for the future to be intrigued with my own possibilities. What about you? Are you making another movie?"
"Oh, brother, yeah. This time the guy who runs the show is letting me take charge. Got some neat ideas, too."
"How do you cast something like that?"
"Call a few friends."
"Are you in this, too?"
"Sure."
Larken let out the hint of a sigh. "I have to tell you, I went back to that porn theatre twice. I guess I didn't appreciate you before. I didn't know... Gosh, Frank, if you came here, you'd be king of the Mission or something. You'd be a god."
Frank pulls away from such a notion. It embarrasses him—reproaches him, he thinks, with all that he was supposed to be that he cast out of his life.
"Anyway," said Larken, as they signed off, "if you ever want to come out here, I've got a spare room with your name on the door."
"Someday," said Frank.
Frank scarfed up some leftovers from the fridge, showered, and slipped into bed. Eric had seemed asleep, but as Frank pulled up the covers the kid turned around and folded himself around Frank, saying, "Who was that guy on the phone?"
"An old comrade."
"Were you boy friends?"
"Let's get to sleep now."
"Okay." Then: "Were you?"
"Yes."
"He still loves you, is that it?"
Frank didn't answer.
"You'll say I'm just a kid and I don't know beans. But I bet when someone falls in love with you they never get over it."
"How so, okay?"
"Because you can get over some guy who's incredibly handsome, or out-of-sight sex, or rich and gives you things, like. But you know what you can't get over?"
"Where did you find out so much about love, huh?"
"See? I'm just a kid. But Jim told me some things tonight, for instance. And you. And other people. I can hear ideas, you know."
"So what did you hear?"
Eric changed his grip, shifted the lay of his legs against Frank's, and rubbed his soft hair against Frank's cheek. "I heard that the guy you can't get over is the solid guy who's nice to you. Real solid and real nice. I heard that a guy like that will haunt you for all your earthly days."
"Bullshit," said Frank, putting an arm around Eric. "Go to sleep now, little one."
"Tough guy."
An hour or so later, the sun came up on Andy's moving day, and Andy was glad, and Henry was glad, and this was really happening.
"Good-bye, log cabin that my mother built for me," Andy told his apartment as he bustled around the movers, checking to see if he was leaving anything behind. He was. Subservience. Obedience. Apologies to unforgiving authorities.
I'm liberated, Andy thought in something of a daze as he rode uptown.
Henry joined Andy in his new place on East Fifty-sixth Street just as Andy was tacking up the framed poster of
Fiddler on the Roof
that he had bought a week ago. It was classy art, real Broadway theatre; Henry will appreciate it, Andy had told himself.
"Look!" Andy cried, as his boy friend walked in. "Look at my own place here! I was so pro at handling the movers, too! You would have—"
Henry pulled Andy close and squeezed him tight.
"Yow," said Andy.
"My hero," Henry called him then.
Andy gave Henry a tour, pointing out the special features—the bookshelves built into the wall, the twist locks on the metal window frames, the profusion of electrical outlets.
"You're easy to please," Henry observed. "You don't ask for much."
"Just the future," Andy replied.
Jim was giving a brunch in Andy's honor, and Andy was thrilled: Henry's friends were so fascinating. Henry felt restless at Jim's. I've done this too many times, he was thinking. He tried to take a lift from Andy's enthusiasm. He's so cute and trusting, so
enlivened
by everything. You'd have to be a tight-assed grouch not to respond to that.
Martin was going on about some guy he had tricked with three times in one week without realizing it (or something like that), and Jim was fussing with the records. Andy whispered to Henry, "I want to sleep with you."
"So I said, 'Do I know you?'" Martin was telling them. "He says, 'You're Jonesy, right?' And I said, 'Not only am I
not
Jonesy, but I—'"
"This," Andy whispered with a guilty smile, "is an unnecessary party. We could be having our own private liberation do, if you, uh, catch my drift."
That was Andy borrowing one of Jim's pet phrases, and Henry smiled. We learn from each other.
"'You may not have a head for names,'" Martin continued, "'but you can fuck like a—'"
"Hey, hey, hey," said Jim. "Aren't we supposed to be mapping out a husband sweepstakes for Eric?"
"Craig Woodruff said he'd try him out," said Martin.
"That drug lord?" said Jim, appalled.
"He's rich and sexy," said Martin, arms spread wide in reassurance.
"He's an evil piece of junk," Henry put in.
"Well, I'm
doing
my
best,"
Martin replied in mock-queen style, fanning himself with a limp wrist. "Oh, thorry, I forgot to lithp."
"I hate when you do that stuff," Henry said.
Andy flashed Henry a signal with his eyes: Let's go.
On the street, Henry said, "It almost worries me that you've gotten so confident, because then I wonder who's in charge here. But I love that wonder. I love seeing you inherit yourself. I love that."
"It's just... You have this marvelous circle of gay friends, you know? All I have is a few memories of people who were nice to me in high school. But sometimes I get tired of the gay part of your friends. Like when you get annoyed at something and Martin goes, 'Poor puss.'"