Mary Ann in Autumn (22 page)
Read Mary Ann in Autumn Online
Authors: Armistead Maupin
T
hey were sitting on Mary Ann’s bed now, but at opposite ends. The gun was still in the old man’s hand, though resting in his lap, no longer pointing at her. That white plastic shopping bag lay between them on the bedspread, like a gift awaiting the proper presentation. To make the scene even more grotesquely implausible, Roman was sprawled on the floor, his tail wagging languidly, looking back and forth between the two of them, as if enthralled by their exchange.
“If it’s money you want,” Mary Ann said. “I can help with that.”
She was banking everything on his aura of melancholy defeat. He was drunk, certainly, but he didn’t seem out of control.
He doesn’t want to hurt me
, she thought.
He’s just a pathetic old man at the end of his rope.
“I don’t want your money,” he said.
“What do you need from me, then?”
His lip flickered, revealing teeth like crooked tombstones. “Recognition would be nice.”
“I’m sorry . . . what?”
“I’m the guy who sent you the T-shirt.”
She was looking at his long black coat now, suddenly remembering its silhouette from somewhere else.
It was the man in Pinyon City. The one who had howled at her in the snow.
“Oh . . .” she said, her palm pressing against the top button of her pajamas. “I wondered who’d given me that. That was such a sweet gesture.” She was simpering like a Southern belle, but it seemed the only way to proceed in the face of such madness. She would have to stay calm, stay ahead of him. She considered, briefly, kicking him in the chest to get the gun away from him, since he was old and seemingly feeble, but his finger was still on the trigger, and she didn’t trust her recovering body to pull off the kick.
“You must be Fogbound One,” she said.
“Clever girl.”
“I really enjoy your poems.”
“They’re not mine. Somebody else wrote them.”
“Still . . . they’re lovely.”
“You shouldn’t have lied about Norman Neal Williams.”
“What?”
“You heard me.”
“What was it . . . you think I lied about?”
“You said you didn’t know him. You said you didn’t date him.”
“Well . . . the name rings a bell, but . . . when was this?”
He looked at her with no particular menace—just sadness —and said her name three times like a charm: “Mary Ann, Mary Ann, Mary Ann.”
Only it sounded like someone saying Shame, Shame, Shame.
And the terrible thing was: she bought it. She could own any crime this loony old prick with a gun could lay on her, because she’d gone through the world feeling guilty, and a little more penitence, at this particular moment, could very well save her life.
“I took you to Sam Wo’s,” he told her. “You hated the rude waiter. Said you’d never come back again.”
What?
“And you always hated
this
,” he added sourly, raising a large, mottled hand to his throat. She thought for a moment that he was going to hit her, but he just grabbed his stained clip-on tie and yanked it free from his collar.
That was as good as being flashed an I.D. She felt the truth burning in her veins. The only thing left to do was home in that voice, peel back the overlay of alcohol and age, until she reached its deeply insecure and unmistakably dweebie core.
“
Norman
?”
He didn’t say anything, just gave her a bitter, triumphant smirk.
“I thought you were dead.”
“That’s
because
”— he swayed a little as he made his point— “
you
didn’t stick around.”
“There was a cliff, Norman.”
“I know what it was. It’s my goddamn name now.”
“What?” She noticed that the hand with the gun was twitching.
“Cliffs have ledges, ya know. Not that you would notice.”
“Were you hurt badly? Why didn’t you come back to Barbary Lane?”
He snorted. “Yeah. Right. Come back. After what you said about me and Lexy.”
Leave it alone,
she told herself.
“You didn’t care, anyway. You were glad to be rid o’ me.”
“That’s not true, Norman. We called the police.”
“And you told ’em where I fell?”
Her silence betrayed all he needed to know.
“See?” he said. “Liar.”
“Please put the gun down, Norman. We don’t need that to talk.”
“Oh, really? Cudda fooled me.”
“This has all been a big misunderstanding. You don’t wanna do anything rash.”
“How do you know what I wanna do? Maybe rash is all I got.”
“No . . . Norman . . . it’s never too late to talk things out. Today is the first day of the rest of your life.”
Jesus
, she thought. Where had
that
come from?
“I tried to talk to you,” he told her. “I wanted to explain about me and Lexy, but . . . you wouldn’t let me . . . you stuck-up bitch.”
“When did you do this?”
Still holding the gun, he reached into the breast pocket of the coat with his free hand and produced a sheet of dog-eared paper, folded down the middle. She took it from him, opened it and instantly recognized one of her 8x10 glossies from her old TV show, circa late 1980s. Her hair was feathered and enormous. The inscription read:
Cliff—Thanks for the memories—Mary Ann.
It was obviously her handwriting.
“When did I do this?”
“After you got famous. I came to your show and sat in the audience. You didn’t even recognize me.”
“Well . . . you know . . . it’s hard with the lights and all.”
And I thought you’d been dead for a dozen years, you batshit pervert.
“They wouldn’t even let me backstage so I could explain.”
“But this says Cliff. The name isn’t even yours, Norman—”
“I told you. I changed it. What else could I do after what you’d been saying?”
“And you’d been here in the city all that time?”
He shook his head and said, “Bismarck.” The name struggled out of him like a drunken belch.
“Okay,” she said calmly, deciding not to pursue that. “We’re here now. What is it you’d like to explain? I’m willing to listen, Norman.”
He seemed to believe this. He tidied himself up, brushing off his lapels with ridiculous dignity, like a man on the verge of clearing his name.
“Lexy loved me,” he said. “And I loved her.”
“Okay.”
Forgive me, little girl. It’s not okay at all.
“You were with us,” he said. “You saw how much she loved me.”
This time she just nodded.
“I even thought the three of us could be a family.”
“Norman—”
“No, listen.” He was shaking the gun again. “I know I did some bad things. I know that, believe me. I shouldn’t have put us in those magazines. I shouldn’t have made money off our love. That was the wrong thing to do.”
She was starting to feel a familiar sourness in the back of her mouth. She wondered if he would kill her if she vomited on him.
“I felt really bad about it for a long time. What you said was right. I realized that once I found the Lord in Bismarck. I asked for His forgiveness.”
“Well, you see? We’re all capable of redemption. That’s wonderful, Norman.”
I’m sorry, Lexy, I’m so sorry. I thought you were safe from him.
“Here’s the best part, Mary Ann: The Lord brought me a miracle. He gave me a chance to make it all up to Lexy.”
“Really?”
Really?
“I met her again when she was all grown up. Completely by accident. She was working in a shoe store, and she didn’t recognize me. That was the miracle: I was able to be somebody else.”
“Well,” she said, struggling for some sort of common ground. “We all need a chance to start over.”
“See! That’s all I wanted to do. Just to be kind to her like a father, give her the love and financial support she deserved. The Lord made that possible for me!”
Mary Ann was thinking maybe college tuition.
“So I married her,” said Norman.
“What?”
“I married her. I took responsibility for my actions. I did the right thing. I’m not like you, Mary Ann. I don’t throw people away like they’re
nothing
.”
She had her hand on her mouth now.
“She was happy with me, too. We both were until . . .” He cut off the thought.
She knew she shouldn’t ask, but she did. “Until what?”
“Until she remembered me. We were making love one night and . . . Lexy remembered me.”
She took her hand off her mouth and just let it fly. She retched the way she’d expected to retch when DeDe brought that Boeuf Bourguignon to the hospital. When she finally straightened up, Norman was still sitting there with the gun, observing her with weary contempt. “Just because you don’t
understand
something, Mary Ann . . .”
She sprang to her feet “No, I don’t, Norman. I don’t understand.”
“Where are you going?” He was pointing the gun directly at her, but her anger had somehow eradicated her fear.
“I need to wash my fucking face.”
“Sit down,” he told her.
“The sink is right there, Norman. There’s no way I can get out.”
“Sit the fuck down!”
She obeyed him.
“Who are you cleaning up for, anyway?”
Good question, she thought. The coroner?
Still, she seized a corner of the sheet and wiped her mouth with it. “Where is she now?”
“What?”
“Where is Lexy, Norman? What happened to her?”
Another contorted smile. “Thought you’d never ask.” He lunged in her direction, making her flinch, until she realized he was reaching for that white plastic shopping bag. He pulled it closer and removed a pressed cardboard container about the size of a small jewelry box. He opened it to reveal a plastic bag full of something gray and granular.
“What are you doing?” she asked.
It’s something chemical
, she was thinking.
Lye maybe.
He’s going to blind me or poison me . . . or disfigure me.
“Norman, please don’t—”
“SHUT UP! This isn’t about you! This is
my
moment.”
Still holding the gun, he used his free hand to yank the plastic bag out of the box and dump its contents onto the bedspread. Then, with priestly deliberation, he began to sprinkle the gritty gray substance over his body — his arms and legs, his chest, even his face, where it caught in the creases, forming a ghastly lunar landscape.
“How about that, Miss Fancypants?” He was mugging at her like a schoolboy. “How does she look on me?”
“What do you mean?” She was almost sure she knew what he meant; she just couldn’t face it.
Please don’t let it be that. Please don’t.
“You thought it wasn’t real love. But it was. It lasted all this time, and now it will last for an eternity. Lexy and Norman, together forever.”
“Norman, I would never judge—”
“Oh, but you have. That’s why I wanted you here to witness this. That’s why you can’t run away this time.”
“Okay,” she said feebly. “Just put the gun down.”
He frowned in confusion. “What’s the point of that?”
“So . . . I can prove to you that I’ll stay without being coerced.”
“I told you,” he said irritably, “it’s not about you.”
He lifted the gun from his lap and placed the barrel against his temple.
I
t was only a short bike ride from Jake’s place in the Duboce Triangle to Michael’s house on Noe Hill, but the last few blocks were killer steep. Jake usually dismounted near the foot of Cumberland and pushed the bike the rest of the way up Noe Street. Tonight, however, his energy was flagging, so he dropped the bike and sat on the concrete stairs to rest. Seconds later his cell began jittering in his jeans.
The sensation moved straight to his heart when he saw who it was.
“Jonah . . . dude . . . wassup?”
“Hey, Jake.”
“You in Snowflake?”
“Yeah.”
There was a long silence, so Jake prodded him. “So . . . what? You miss me or somethin’?”
“Dude—”
“Guys can miss each other, you know.”
“I know,” said Jonah. “And I do.”
This seemed to be a serious declaration, and Jake could already feel himself blushing. He wondered if losing his uterus would eliminate that, and if, in fact, he even wanted it eliminated anymore. He wanted all the man stuff, for sure, but he wouldn’t mind keeping the blushing. It was just his heart doing semaphore.
“That’s cool,” he told Jonah quietly. “I miss you, too.”
“It feels freakin’ awesome, too.”
Jake laughed out of sheer joy. “That’s the
idea
, man.”
“It’s my first bromance.”
“What?”
“You know . . . like Paul Rudd in that movie.”
“I know what a bromance is, Jonah. That’s not what it was. There was a lot more goin’ on than that. We made out for half a fucking hour.”
“Yeah,” said Jonah quietly. “And Heavenly Father has forgiven me.”
“You’re shitting me. Forgiven you for a kiss?”
“The thoughts were unclean, Jake. It was just a blessing that we didn’t go any further.”
“So . . . as long as there’s no peen involved, you’re not being queer. Is that what you’re telling me here? Is that what your fucking therapist told you?”
“Dude, c’mon. I think you’re a great guy. Even though you’re gay, I—”
“Even?”
“The Lord has forgiveness for everyone, Jake.”
“Fuck your forgiveness, dude. And fuck you for being too much of a coward to face your own truth. You wanted me bad and you know it.”
“My therapist said you’d say that.”
Jake hung up on him and sprang to his feet. He grabbed his bike and began pushing it up the hill toward Michael’s house, since he needed physical exertion to calm the storm in his head. He was more pissed at himself, of course, than he could ever be with Jonah. Why couldn’t he have left it alone? What had he hoped to make of that relationship? Why had he tried to build an eternity out of thin air?
H
E WAS A BLOCK AWAY,
on the steepest part of Noe Hill, when he heard the scream. There was little doubt as to its seriousness—and none at all when he heard the gunshot. He dropped his bicycle on the sidewalk and sprinted up the hill to Michael and Ben’s house. There were lights on in the house, so he approached with caution through the garden. Beyond the French doors he could see Mary Ann sitting on the couch, hugging her knees and rocking back and forth. When he tried to get in, he found the door locked, so he kicked through the panes with his boot, prompting another scream from Mary Ann.
“It’s okay,” he said. “It’s Jake. Are you all right?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Is someone else here?”
Another nod as she pointed to the garden cottage.
“Do they have a gun?”
“He’s dead,” she said.
He crossed the garden to the cottage. The door was open, so he could already see the blood pooling on the floor. Moving closer, he saw the mound of the corpse, most of it covered with a long black coat. There was a sunburst of blood on the wall, and a hole in the side of the old man’s head. Jake had never seen this guy before.
Jake heard a whimpering noise that made him jump. Roman came out of the bathroom with his head held low, as if he himself might have pulled the trigger.
“C’mon, boy,” said Jake, feeling sorry for him.
Roman made a slow, cautious exit, stopping only to sniff the corpse’s pocket a few times before heading out the door.
Back at the house Jake called 911. He gave the dispatcher the address and told him: “We have a suicide here. Gunshot.”
Then, thinking about it, he whispered to Mary Ann: “That’s what it was, right?”
She nodded.
He signed off and sat down next to her on the couch. She rolled over and began weeping against his shoulder, softly at first then with a ferocity that caught him off guard. She was like one of those old Greek ladies who fling themselves on coffins.
“It’s okay,” he told her, stroking her hair. “You’re safe now. Jake’s got you. It’s gonna be all right.”
He was getting used to this man thing.