Beauty Queen

"Very lovely."
    "I know Jewel is lovely," said Mary Ellen. "I've seen the long long line of her lovers. But I'm not standing in that line. Understand?"
    "If you are unfaithful to Liv," said Liv, "Liv will put you in her casserole, and eat you!"
    The two of them started laughing. Mary Ellen grabbed the knife from the chopping board, where a few bits of onion still lay, and the two of them had a mock sword-fight around the kitchen, gently parrying and thrusting with their little weapons, and saying "Aha!" like pirates.
    This was the joy of coming home to Liv. This was the joy of knowing her, of always being surprised at the rich train of things that came out of her head, at her fantasies and her sweet nonsense. Loving Liv was never the same two days in a row. Every day you always started from the beginning, but always with a feeling of sweet security. Ingmar Bergman's movies (which she had seen on television) would—the later ones, anyway—make you think that Swedish women were grim and gothic and a little unbalanced. But if Liv was Bergman stuff, she was Smiles of a Summer Night, not Silence. If Liv was a northern forest, she was that forest in springtime, teeming with animals and insects and strange little wildflowers.
    Later that evening, however, as they ate the casserole and petted Kikan and watched TV, it struck Mary Ellen that the lady making speeches intended to take Liv away from her.
    They turned to the ten o'clock news report, hoping to get an in-depth coverage of the speech.
    Sure enough, the screen switched from the newscaster to a live clip showing Jeannie Colter taking a pair of scissors and cutting the striped ribbon across the doorway of the Y.W.C.A. Then Colter was at the podium, shaking her fist and saying, "They are everywhere. They are legion."
    Mary Ellen felt the mirth go out of her, replaced by the sudden pouring-in of a cold anxiety. As a police officer, she knew very well that the actions of public persons often prompted actions by private persons, and that these actions often ended up on the books of the New York City police precincts, and in the hospitals and the morgue. Every action that made a public splash spread its psychological ripples across the city.
    She looked at Liv, who was munching a mouthful of casserole, gazing at the TV set, her face bathed in the bluish light. Kikan was sneaking up to eat from Liv's plate. Liv's expression was that of an innocent beyond the reach of Jeannie Colter's speech.
    "It's a pretty violent speech," Mary Ellen said.
    Liv shrugged. "Yes," she said. "But it is only words."
    Mary Ellen shook her head. "Not true. Words make people do things. What she is really saying is, get the perverts out of this town."
    She went to the telephone and dialed Danny's number. He didn't answer, so she called the Spike Bar. Danny was there, of course, and he sounded pretty drunk.
    "We're gonna be responding to scenes caused by that bitch," said Danny thickly: "Matter of fact, couple sergeants— at roll call, right?—coupla sergeants were already briefing the guys to pay extra attention to the bars. Ya know, beatings and stuff."
    "They don't give a damn if gays get beaten."
    "Yeah, but they don't want things to get out of hand, either," said Danny. "Captain Bader, right? Says that nobody beats up nobody in his precinct. Says if straights beat up faggots, or if faggots beat up straights, they all go to the tank."
    The next morning, Jeannie sailed up to her father's rooftop breakfast table with an armload of newspapers. "It's wonderful," she said. "It's on the front page everywhere, even the Times."
    Her father had a lot of blueprints spread out, and seemed unduly engrossed in them.
    "That's wonderful, sweetheart," he said. "Congratulations."
    He reached for the phone and called up one of his contractors, and had a long conversation about the plumbing in the Peake & Sturgis building.
    Feeling decidedly deflated, Jeannie sat down, poured herself coffee, and ate several croissants, still flaky and melted-butter-fresh from the patisserie on Lexington Avenue. After all the intense activity, she was actually starved.
    When her father hung up, she said, "You know, I have the distinct impression that you don't give a damn."
    Wearily her father removed his glasses and polished the lenses, then put them back on, and looked at her through them.
    "Jeannie, for God's sake," he said. "It's been the dream of my life—my entire life —to get my hands on a major piece of real estate on