Public Secrets

shared dreams and secrets. Brian struck another match, lit the cigarette, and pondered.
“Well, I suppose if you’re made that way, then you’re made that way. Nothing to slit your wrists over.”
“You’re not queer.”
“No.” He fervently hoped not—and vowed to spend the next few weeks proving it to himself with every girl he could charm into spreading her legs. No, he wasn’t queer, he assured himself. The sexual acrobatics he’d experienced with Jane Palmer should have been a good indication of his preferences. Thinking of her, he hardened and shifted his legs. It wasn’t the time to get horny, but to think of Johnno’s problem.
“Lots of people are queer,” he said. “Like literary people and artists and such. We’re musicians, so you could think of it as part of your creative soul.”
“That’s shit,” Johnno mumbled, but wiped his dripping nose.
“Maybe, but it’s better than slitting your wrists. I’d have to find a new partner.”
With a ghost of a smile, Johnno picked up the bottle again. “Are we still partners, then?”
“Sure.” Brian passed the cigarette. “As long as I don’t start making you hot and bothered.”
And that had been the end of it.

When Johnno took a lover, he took him discreetly, and never discussed it. His sexual preference was common knowledge within the band, but for his own privacy, and at Pete’s insistence, he cultivated an image of a heterosexual stud. For the most part, it amused him.
There were regrets, though he hated to acknowledge them. It came to him now, as he bounced Emma on his lap, that he would never have a child of his own.
And with frustration, he was forced to admit, as he watched Brian slip an arm around Bev, that the one man he truly loved would never be his lover.

Chapter Five

E MMA WAS DAZZLED by New York. After a late breakfast where Brian indulged her with strawberry jam and sugary pastries, she was left in Bev’s hands. It didn’t worry her, not this time. Her da was going to be on the telly that night, and he’d promised that she could go to the place where the telly pictures were made and watch.
In the meantime, she and Bev drove around the city in the big white car. She giggled at the blond wig and big round sunglasses Bev wore. Though Bev didn’t smile much at first, Emma’s excitement soon distracted her. Emma liked watching the people rush along the sidewalks, jostling each other, streaming across intersections while horns blared. There were women in short skirts and high heels, their bouffant hairdos as steady as carved stones. There were others in denim and sandals, with their manes of hair hanging straight as rain down their backs. On the corners there were vendors selling hot dogs and soft drinks and ice cream which the pedestrians snapped up as the temperature soared outside the cool cocoon of the limo. There was a nervy aggression to the traffic that Emma didn’t understand but enjoyed.
Unruffled, and proper in his tan uniform and stiff-brimmed hat, the driver pulled to the curb. He didn’t think much of music himself, unless it was Frank Sinatra or Rosemary Clooney, but he was sure his two teenagers would go wild when he brought them home autographs at the end of his two-day job.
“Here we are, ma’am.”
“Oh.” A little dazed, Bev stared out the window.

“The Empire State Building,” he explained with a gesture toward the doors. “Would you like me to pick you up in an hour?”
“An hour, yes.” Bev took Emma’s hand firmly in hers when the driver opened the door. “Come on, Emma. Devastation’s not going to the top alone.”
There was a long, winding line, with wailing babies and whining children. They started at the end, two bodyguards silently falling in behind, and were soon swallowed up. A group of French students filed in seconds later, all carrying Macy’s shopping bags and talking in their fast, flowing language. Amid the mix of perfume, sweat, and wet diapers, Emma caught the dreamy aroma of pot. No one else seemed to notice or care. They were shuffled onto an elevator.
Long, stuffy minutes later, they were led off to wait again. She didn’t mind. As long as her hand was firmly caught in Bev’s, she could crane her neck and look at all the people. Bald heads, floppy hats, scraggly beards. When her neck got tired, she switched to shoes. Rope sandals, shiny wing tips, snowy white sneakers, and black pumps. Some people shuffled their feet, others tapped, a few shifted from side to