Look Away Silence (12 page)

Mary was visiting a school friend in San Francisco,
a trip that excited her. It would excite me too. I’d kill to visit
San Francisco and bounce around the Castro for a week. Sammy and
Louise were touring the mid-New England sights in the Berkshires,
which would have sent me for a snooze. I mean, Provincetown or
Ogunquit was more my speed. It then dawned on me that Matt might be
taking that tour. I mean, he did so many things with Mom and Dad,
including the Sunday dinners and even the Presbyterian Church at
least once a month. My heart hitched. Then the baton was passed to
me. Everyone gazed awaiting the response.

“I really hadn’t made plans for this year,
especially with Denver coming up next year,” I said with as much
conviction as I could.

I turned to Matt anxiously passing that baton.

“We’re probably going to relax at Long Branch,” Matt
said, much to my relief. “Pumpkin has that apartment, which hasn’t
had much use lately.”

I beamed. Then, Leslie percolated.

“Why not spend a week with us in New Birch?”

“Yes,” Ginger countered. “At
the
Lantanas
.”

“
The Lantanas?
” Matt asked.

I had forgotten that they owned and ran a bed and
breakfast in New Birch. I’d been there once for a weekend and it
was a wonderful place.

“Lez and Ginger have a B&B,” I said.

“In New Birch,” Ginger said.

The whole table was buzzing.

“Isn’t that in Pennsylvania?” Louise asked. “I hear
that it’s quite the place for antiquing.”

“And other things,” Ginger barked.

“Just across the Delaware from Libertyville,” Leslie
added.

Matt’s eyes drifted from Leslie to Ginger, and then
to Mary.

“Sounds delightful,” Mary said. “I’ve been to New
Birch, Newt. It’s just the place for you. Bit of nightlife, a slice
of daylife and relaxation.”

“Yes,” I said, suddenly aware that this neutral
ground — the B&B, could be the very place to equalize the space
issues. “Relaxation away from computers might be just the thing.
How about it?”

“Well, we’ve never really discussed it, but it’s a
possibility.”

“Bullshit,” Ginger croaked. “Possibility, nothing.
Come be our guests for a week. You’ll love it.”

“It’s settled then,” Leslie said.

It wasn’t settled, but I could see the idea
penetrating Matt’s mind, and it was a favorable glow. Suddenly, the
summer was no longer a challenge. It was just a matter of getting
vacation time to coincide with Matt’s. I could have kissed my
lesbian godmothers. In fact, if I recall, I did, which must have
sealed the pact, because we spoke no further about it until it
became a fact.

New Birch, Pennsylvania was an old artist’s village
stretching for two miles on the banks of the Delaware River. It had
all the tourist stuff, which I didn’t mind, because I’m into
tourist stuff. I mean, who can’t live without a paper parasol with
hand painted cranes on its hood? The shops were right up my alley,
but I needed to exercise some control or next summer I’d be sitting
in Long Branch while the tribe was off in the Rockies. There was a
theater in New Birch that played Summer stock, although how many
times can you see
Catz
? Crafts, homemade ice cream,
glassware, tarot cards (left over from the hippie days) and
restaurants by the mile. Best of all, most of the shops were
gay-owned and operated. That always titillated me, because the
surrounding township, Sipsboro, and the rest of the county were as
conservative as Mormons. They regarded New Birch as the underbelly
of their suburban Xanadu. Still, it drew the bridge and tunnel
crowd, so the farmers-in-the-dell sold their corn and tomatoes and
berries in season. The real estate agents had a heyday snaring the
well heeled by the heel and selling them a prime piece of
Pennsylvania for an inflated price.

Gay owned and operated meant that the surrounding
hills on both sides of the river teamed with gay men and womyn.
Many also owned a goodly slice of Libertyville, which thrived in
the antiques trade. And in New Birch, left turn at the town canon,
past the haunted house, a steep incline lead to the gay ghetto, an
array of garden apartments — the home of the brave and pink. In
their shadow, hidden in the tributary glades and near the quaint
old mule canal, stood the mansions of the filthy rich queers. I
once thought that I should go shopping there and be set for life. I
certainly had the figure and taste for such style, but the cost was
too high; and I don’t mean money. I mean my eternal soul. What a
girl had to do just to spend a night in these cathouses, especially
the Otterson estate, a sprawling Tara that I had been in once, but
once was enough. Some of the Jersey Gay Sparrows fluttered to the
Otterson estate, which was owned by a Princeton University Prof,
who had other businesses to be sure. I only asked once as to what
they were and their nature, and didn’t understand the answer, so I
chalked it up to
ignorance is bliss.
Creatures like Padgett
and Todd and Mortimer (who lived in the basement), fluttered around
Roy Otterson and his rich cronies. I would need to be at the bottom
of my luck before I went sprawling across the Professor’s threshold
again.

Three gay bars. New Birch had three gay bars — they
still do, although they seem to change their names and décor every
three years, except
The Crow
. That one never seemed to
change. More a restaurant and pick-up joint, the food was classy
but the clientele less so — much on the distaff side. It also had
an outdoor pool enclosed with tall cedar trees for the clothing
optional. I liked to stand on
The Crow’s
verandah and gawk
at the latest crop, but honestly, in many cases I wished the
bathing suits were mandatory. A Motel was attached for the quick
urges. I remember the first time I ate at
The Crow.
I was a
naïve newbie then and while I waited for my date, I spied a three
hundred pound naked hairy man sprawled on a bed with the windows
open and the lights on. I guess it was a two for a dollar sale. It
put me off food that night.

The other two bars were fun places —
The
Continental
, which served the younger set, but had a basement
dance floor and a fair menu. It constantly opened and closed, as it
was mafia owned and operated — not even by the gay mafia. The
bridge and tunnel crowd would vacillate between
The
Continental
and the third bar,
The Wagon Wheel
, which
was an even
funner
place — dancing, a piano bar, three
lounges, a porch, a disco and a parking lot that was guaranteed to
break your axles. When
The Wagon Wheel
was in vogue, the
mafia would close
The Continental
, change its name, improve
its fixtures and have a go at it following season. When that
happened,
The Wagon Wheel
, which was Lesbian owned, would
redo the lounge (Safari one year – leather the next), and add some
new menu items. What they should have done was pave the parking
lot, which could have accommodated an old Conestoga and other
vintage wagons.

So Matt and I packed our bags and headed for this
Mecca on the Delaware for a full week of relaxation and fun.

The Lantanas
was a quarter of a mile north of
the main drag on the Delaware side of the road, festooned with pine
trees and overgrown with ivy and, true to its name, lantanas. Heck,
I didn’t know what a lantana was until I saw this Bed &
Breakfast. I remember asking Ginger,
What the hell’s a lantana?
Some sort of Lesbian light bulb?
That got me a Ginger punch in
the arm and a quick lesson in botany about the creeping vine that
peeped through the porch’s latticework. How was I supposed to know?
Unlike Ginger, who was an electrical engineer or Leslie, the
lawyer, I only knew the flowers on linen patterns and ties. The
place was quaint — a cottage with three stories — a parlor, dining
room, kitchen and seven guest rooms and a place for the girls. We
were the first guests of the season, our choice of rooms and places
at the table. The
table
part was nothing to brag about. The
Bed
was good, but the
Breakfast
was . . . Lesbian
fare — rubbery eggs, burnt toast and near sour orange juice. Matt
and I would giggle throughout the service, Ginger dumping the food
unceremoniously on our plates in a Mel’s Diner sort of way. Leslie
would be already gone to town for her mail, her law offices being
in Libertyville.

We would then retreat to the porch and feed the
cats, and there were cats everywhere. I believe that every cat in
New Birch hopped over the fence and waited in the tall grass for
the tins to pop open, an act that Ginger did with a bit more grace
than when she fed us.

“Do they have names?” Matt asked her.

“Why?” Ginger said, whistling to the gang to assault
the tuna and sardine crap that waited for them. “If they did, would
they call each other? All I know is that they’re better behaved
than the purries that I get in here.”

“We’ll be good,” I said.

“No you won’t.” She laughed. “And we didn’t invite
you here to be good. We want you to be bad — so very bad.”

Ginger was a tiger cat herself. She had had a hard
life, or so Leslie told me once beyond Ginger’s earshot. Her family
had disowned her when she left her husband and that after losing a
child. I couldn’t picture Ginger as a housewife or even a mother. I
shouldn’t talk with Viv in my saddlebag, but Ginger was so . . .
butch, a perfect pitch to Leslie’s femininity. Still, Leslie was
the guiding force and they were devoted to each other beyond this
business holding and the Erastes Errata Choir. Ginger had
difficulty holding a job, outspoken as she was, and often told her
bosses which window they could jump out of and what to do with the
horse that they rode in on. Leslie was financially steady and laid
no requirements on her mate to be other than herself.

It was a memorable first vacation. The price was
right. The setting was rustic and shopping was within a short walk.
And shop we did. I bought enough bric-a-brac to keep my feather
duster busy and Matt added to his boots and spurs collection. I
loved the old Aquarian shop with the tarot cards and incense and
hippy shit. It was directly across the street from the straight
biker bar and every so often, a dark shaded leathery burly man and
his Moll would drift into the shop and try on the Gothic jewelry or
roughly handle the naughty tee shirts with the Harley Davidson
logos. Matt wanted to get a drink in the biker bar.

“Hon,” I said, more a recommendation than a
response. “They can spot a fag a mile away. We’d be pinned like
butterflies before the head on your beer settled.”

“Where then?”

That was simple, only it was not within walking
distance. It was up the hill, away from the tourist track at
The
Crow.
That day, it was our second or third, we had already
driven up to the highway and danced at
The Wagon Wheel
and
ogled in
The Continental.
We had also had a narrow escape
coming back in Matt’s Cherokee, the drink clouding the driving
abilities. When Matt pulled into the driveway, the nameless pussies
fled in every direction. So even though
The Crow
was a hike,
we decided to huff it and, if intoxicated (ha ha,
if)
, we
wouldn’t be challenged behind the wheel.

The Crow
had a quality restaurant. We lounged
by the pool and watched the nudie show and chugged beers, and then
had a fine steak dinner, complete with garlic mashed potatoes, a
prelude of onion soup and topped it off with
crème brule
. It
was far better than sitting at the B&B wondering what Ginger
had killed for the evening meal. Dinner wasn’t actually in the
deal, and she only sloshed stuff together if we hadn’t moved our
asses into town for grub. Leslie generally ate out, would come in
late and retire to her room — the two watching television and
giggling like schoolgirls. The walls were thin, so I guess they
heard us also.

In any event, after dinner at
The Crow
, we
sat at the bar and then drifted into the lounge. This bar was known
as a haven for the older set, so when youngsters (like Matt and I)
drifted into the lounge, it was pocket-handkerchief night at the
old pick up bar. Many senior fairies sat at attention at our
entrance. The bears sharpened their claws on the nearest tree.
Suddenly, I spied a young one . . . one whom I knew — but from
where? It was the waiter from
The Cavern
— Bobby
What’s-his-name
. . . Anselm. He sat on one of the four
sofas that dotted the room. I remember the smoke was thick that
night, my eyes burning already, but gay men have lungs of steel.
The place needed a good dusting and perhaps my vacuum broom, but
after a vat of beer and a full belly, the only thing I could think
of was sleeping. I didn’t need to play the cruising game in this
opium den. I had my squeeze on my arm.

“I know that guy,” Matt said.

I sighed, perhaps tinged with a touch of jealousy.
Bobby was a looker — a real fine looker and he was looking now —
fishing, even. No, trawling, although he sat beside a plain looking
man, who squinted at us.

“Perry?” Matt said.

The man stirred.

“Who is that?” I asked, surprised. “I thought you
meant . . .”

“No. It’s Perry Chaplin. He works up at Gamma Rex.
He’s been to Axum Labs for some training and . . . he’s real good,
but I didn’t know . . .”

“Matthew Kieler,” Perry said, greeting Matt
formally.

“I’m surprised.”

“To see me here,” Perry said. “Secret life. But I
knew you were . . . and I was meaning to come out the next time I
was . . .”

“No need now. This is my . . .” Matt hesitated.