22

FIVE DAYS TO GO.

Maybe it was a mistake, but yesterday I told Renee about my coming-out party. It was just too hellish keeping the secret any longer, seeing as much of her as I do, and frankly, I needed a fashion consultant for the big night. When I explained the plan, she screamed even louder than she had when I told her I’d decided to wear the suit. What’s more, she thinks it’s a brilliant idea—absolutely foolproof—which some people might regard as reason enough to be worried.

This morning she took me to The Fabric Barn so we could select the material for my debutante gown. We settled on green bugle beads, very dark and shimmery, in a sort of half-assed nod to Mr. Woods. (Also, as you know, it’s a color that looks great with my hair and eyes.) We bought Velcro too, so the gown can be breakaway, capable of being donned in seconds. I’ll be in the rubber suit for an hour or more, so there’s no way I could wear the gown underneath. And, as Renee keeps reminding me, my hair and makeup will need attention after confinement in that sweatbox. This will take a pro, she says, someone who can work fast—someone like her, for instance.

It’s true that her pageant skills might come in handy for this, but I’ve got my doubts about her ability to stay cool in the midst of all those stars. She was ditzy enough around Callum. On the other hand, the more henchmen I have, the easier it’ll be to pull off the switch. I’ll just have to play it by ear, I guess.

Meanwhile, I’ve got a brilliant idea for the song I’ll sing to Philip on stage: “After All These Years,” from The Rink. It’s Kander & Ebb—frisky and up-tempo enough—yet the lyrics have a definite edge of sarcasm, especially when applied to me and Philip:

That line about “obstacles to climb” just might get a laugh, which would be all right with me. Anything to keep the audience loose. In any event, the message won’t be lost on Philip.

Jeff drove me to Icon early this week for the fitting. Seeing that suit again was like viewing the embalmed remains of an old and bitter enemy. It was arrayed on a table in its own room—Lenin in his tomb came to mind—while technicians glued and snipped and soldered with offhanded, clinical calm, bringing the creature back to life. There was new, lighter-weight circuitry attached to his eye and facial muscles, which allowed more breathing space, but not enough to make a real difference. His insides, having been recently overhauled, were gaseous with epoxy, though one of the technicians assured me the smell would be gone by Saturday night.

For a terrible minute or two—just as I staggered, arms forward like a sleepwalker, into the breach again—I considered the possibility that the motherfucker might not fit. When I made it all the way in and they snapped me shut, my ass and waist were a little snug, but the rest felt fine. I was so relieved I made a nervous joke about my weight to the technician, who laughed and said not to worry, they’d already enlarged the suit, at Philip’s request, in the event of just such an emergency. This was not what I needed to hear.

I’d halfway expected Philip to make an appearance that day, but he didn’t. According to the technician, Philip keeps in close contact with the shop but has expressly asked not to see Mr. Woods before the tribute, to keep from diluting the impact of the experience. “Like the bride before the wedding,” said the technician, chuckling, as if this were the very sort of quirky, unpredictable thing that makes Philip so darned lovable. I would have blown lunch then and there if the circumstances had been more amenable.

When Mr. Woods was on his feet again, testing his functions, word of his resurrection seemed to spread telepathically through the studio. Office temps and ADs and perky publicity minions begged admission, one by one, to the crowded hallway where the elf strutted his stuff. After a few seconds of experimentation, I could work his controls as if I’d never been away from them—like they always say about riding a bicycle. By squeezing the various bulbs in my hands, I could make him wrinkle his nose or roll his eyes or dimple up charmingly at the sound of their collective “Awww.” I’d almost forgotten how this felt—to be there and yet not be there, to be the living heart of something but not the thing itself. “Isn’t he cute?” they would coo, over and over again, and that blithely inaccurate pronoun hurt just as much as it ever did.

The main thing, of course, was that Jeff was there, watching everything, learning the ins and outs of the suit. When the time came, I knew he’d be able to assist my escape without too many nasty surprises. Just before I climbed into bondage again, he smiled at me slyly and winked, as if to say: “Don’t worry. I’ll have you out of there in no time.”

As we left the studio, I asked him if the scheme seemed more daunting than he’d imagined.

“Not really.”

“Still think it’s the right thing to do?”

“Absolutely.” He turned and looked at me. “You spoken to Callum lately?”

“Just briefly,” I told him. “He called to say he was glad I was doing the tribute. Why?”

“Just wondered.”

“I didn’t tell him you’d be there, if that’s what you mean.”

“It doesn’t matter.”

I asked him what had happened with the GLAAD protest.

He shrugged. “We picketed.”

“We?”

“I went. Big deal. I believe in it.”

“Did Callum see you?”

“Yeah, I think so.”

“Didn’t that feel weird?” I asked.

And he said: “Not as weird as hiding in that kitchenette.”

My resolve began to weaken on the short ride home, only to be bolstered again by a quick browse through Variety, where I learned that Batman Returns was using little people in penguin suits to augment a flock of regular penguins. Now, there was a job worthy of a serious actor’s commitment. Meanwhile, plans were in the works elsewhere for a film called Leprechaun, a thriller about a little green serial killer who disrupts the peace of an average American household. So much for humanizing us. They might as well have called it Fatal Enchantment. This was all the reminder I needed that drastic measures were in order if I expected to turn my life around.

By the time Renee got home, I’d already made a good start on my sewing. She kicked off her shoes and sat next to me on the floor, then held up the gown to examine the beginnings of sleeves, letting the bugle beads catch the light. “This is so elegant,” she exclaimed. “I’m glad we picked it.”

I agreed.

“Neil will love it,” she said.

“Neil won’t see it,” I said, “except on TV.”

“He’s not coming?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I didn’t tell him what I’m doing.”

“Why not? He loves the way you sing. I betcha he’ll think it’s a neat idea.”

“Yeah…well, it was just too complicated.”

She frowned at me. “Did something happen?”

“No.”

“Something did, Cady. What?”

How is it, I wonder, that a woman who uses “betcha” and “neat” in the same sentence can be so adept sometimes at reading my distress? “His ex came by with his kid,” I explained.

“Oh.”

“The morning I was there.”

Renee’s fingers flew to her mouth. “You were in bed, you mean?”

“No. Nothing like that.”

“Oh.”

“It was just weird, that’s all. Everyone was so proper and stilted and jolly. Like a really empty episode of The Cosby Show. I felt like such an outlaw. Like I didn’t belong there at all.”

Renee squinted at me in confusion. “Because you’re white?”

“No. Because he was embarrassed. He tried hard not to be, but he was.”

“Embarrassed?”

“Yes.”

“Because you were white?”

“Forget white! Because I’m…me.”

“I really don’t think—”

“Well, you weren’t there, were you?”

“But he took you to Catalina.”

“So?”

“Wasn’t his wife there then?”

“His ex-wife. Yeah. So?”

“Well, he wasn’t embarrassed then.”

“Because we weren’t fucking yet.”

She winced at my naughty word. “What does that have to do with it?”

“Everything,” I told her. “Everything. It was fine for us to be friends; it just made him look like a nice guy. It is not fine for us to be fucking. People will think he’s perverted. Especially his family members…”

“Oh, now…”

“I’m serious, Renee. Think about it. It’s of crucial importance in this culture where dicks get put.”

She blushed like a virgin. “Do you think she knows?”

“I’m not sure.”

“Well, then…”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is, he’ll never cop to it.”

“Well, maybe later.”

“No. Never. And certainly not to that kid he spends half his life with. Daddy can’t have this for a girlfriend.”

Renee looked at the floor.

“I knew this was coming,” I added gently. “I just didn’t know when. This is the way it works, you know. Eventually. You can ignore it or not. I went for not.”

Renee looked up at me balefully and started to get quivery-lipped.

“The thing is,” I said, “it was stupid of me to think I could pull it off. I knew what the rules were.”

“But he’s such a nice guy.”

“As nice as they get,” I said.

She was holding the gown as if she might decide at any moment to use it as Kleenex, so I took it away from her. “If you’re gonna blubber, go in the other room.”

“Aren’t you sad?” she asked.

“I can’t afford to be,” I said. “I have a show to do.”