Tales of the City 03 - Further Tales of the City

reminiscences to tasteful things like cyanide and public torture. Super, Mother. Thanks for the advice.”
    “You needn’t be snide, DeDe.”
    “D’orothea Wilson helped save your grandchildren’s lives. You owe her a lot, Mother.”
    “I know that. And I’m grateful.”
    “Besides, I ended up with the gay Cuban refugees. I’m a dyke on paper, Mother. It’s a matter of public record, for God’s sake!”
    “Don’t use that word around me, DeDe!” Frannie fumbled for her napkin. “Anyway, the refugee people could have made a mistake, a clerical error or something.”
    “I loved her,” DeDe said coolly. “That was no clerical error.”
There was harmony again after supper when Frannie, DeDe, Emma and the twins romped together on the lawn. Frannie took new delight in her grandchildren, these precious almond-eyed sprites who called her “Gangie” and frolicked on American soil as if it had always been theirs.
    When DeDe and the children had retired, Frannie repaired to her bed with a Barbara Cartland novel.
    Shortly after midnight, she heard a moan from DeDe’s room.
    The matriarch clambered out of bed, made her way down the hall, and listened outside her daughter’s door.
    “No, Dad. PLEASE, DAD … NO, PLEASE DON’T … OH, GOD HELP ME! DAD! DAD!”
    Frannie flung open the door and rushed to DeDe’s bedside. “Darling, it’s all right. Mother’s here, Mother’s here.” She rocked her daughter in her arms.
    DeDe woke up and whimpered pathetically.
    In the next room, the twins were sobbing in unison.

Letter from the Road
    D EAR MARY ANN AND BRIAN,
    Greetings from Motown! The tour is going great so far, though I have failed to meet anyone even remotely resembling_______ ______. Yesterday morning, on the flight from Lincoln, we had a whole 737 to ourselves, so all hell broke loose. Mark Hermes, a fellow baritone, put on a wig, scarf and apron—and two teacups for earrings—and impersonated the stewardess while she did her oxygen mask instructions. She loved it. The flight people have all been fabulous, as a matter of fact—especially the two hot Northwest stewards we had (not literally, alas) on the flight between Chicago and Minneapolis. One was gay, the other questionable. Naturally, I fell for the questionable one.
    Lincoln, believe it or not, has been the high point so far. The local homos threw a lovely little potluck brunch for us in Antelope Park. (In fact, I’ve been to so many potluck functions that I’m beginning to feel like a lesbian.) The main gay bar in Lincoln is called—is this discreet enough?—The Alternative. It is the scene of much bad drag. White boys impersonating Aretha Franklin, etc. Most of us opted for the alternative to The Alternative—a joint called the Office Lounge. It was stifling in there, so we took off our shirts after we’d been boogying for a while. A major no-no. Apparently there’s a law that says you can’t take your shirt off in Nebraska.
    The chamber singers were supposed to appear on Channel 10 in Lincoln, but the station manager canceled at the last minute because he didn’t want to “rub people’s faces in it”—whatever “it” is. By and large, though, people have been pretty wonderful. The audience at First Plymouth Church was about fifty percent old ladies. Old ladies can always tell “nice young men” when they see them.
    The audience was skimpy in Dallas—possibly because the Dallas morning News refused to print our ads. Our consolation was a private swim party thrown at the fashionable Highland Park home of a gay doctor named—I’m not making this up—Ben Casey. Some of the boys did an impressive nude water ballet to the music of “Tea for Two.”
    We stayed at the Ramada Inn in Mesquite, Texas—the town that gave hairspray to the world—and we were a smash hit at the Denny’s there, where a waitress named Loyette (pronounced Low-ette) thinks we’re the biggest thing since the death of Elvis. Oh yes—we ran out of hot water at the Ramada Inn. One-hundred-and-thirty-five faggots without hot water. Not a pretty scene. As luck would have it, the friendliest place in town was the steam room at the First Baptist Church—an enormous complex that covers about four square blocks of downtown Dallas. A lot of organists hang out there, if you catch my drift.
    After the Minneapolis concert, a bunch of us went to a bar called The Gay Nineties. Apparently it’s been called that for years, even when it was the city’s oldest