impersonator, lip-synching her way through the traditional canon with flair. She could be down and dirty and funny as hell, but she lacked Ronnie's sly wit and originality, and I had often wondered why Ronnie had never left town to make his fortune as Glori had. After my recent discovery, however, it was beginning to make more sense.
Glori was duly applauded when she stepped down, but I thought the effort and the fight with Bianca had really taken it out of her. The thundering chaos that followed as the whole company lumbered into a dance number trying to follow Bob's agile steps was painful. Whoever thought all gay men can dance should have been there. I was glad when it was over and I could pack up my music and get out in into the fresh air—or as fresh as it gets in Toronto in June.
"Thanks, Michael, you're a doll," breathed Bob, rushing over before I could escape. He never forgot the niceties, and I appreciated that. I didn't appreciate the light kiss on the cheek. I hardly knew the man. I heard Ellis stifle a laugh as he watched my futile effort to escape.
"Any more of that and you don't get a lift home," I told him as we clattered down the stairs.
"It's okay, Michael. Jaym and me are going to grab a bite to eat with some of the girls, and then we're going to the 501. Speaking of bars, I saw you at Woody's the other night. I didn't know you played pool."
"I didn't see you there. Why didn't you come over?"
"Well, you were—oh how will I put this?—real engrossed." He grinned. "See you later. Come on, Jaym."
They swayed off down the street, big hair, sequins, and huge earrings reminding me of giant Barbies who had been on a long-delayed binge. I had meant to drop in on Logan, but the rehearsal had left me drained. I ransomed my car from the lot down the street and went home instead, parking in the lane behind Mrs. Goldstein's place and hopping the fence into my yard, just in case some intrepid reporter was still hanging about on my front lawn.
I was still ignoring the answering machine. People I hadn't heard from in years kept leaving messages of concern and suggesting get-togethers over coffee, drinks, a light supper at their place. They were even sending me e-mail, to my address at the Gay Blade BBS, which I also ignored.
I let the silence of the old house settle around me. I loved this place, my refuge. It was smaller, more intimate than the huge apartment I had lived in when teaching at Montmorency University. I no longer craved the space, or all the furniture I had collected for a while, trying to re-create the atmosphere I had grown up with and been denied by "disgracing the family" when I left my wife for Ronnie. At the time I wasn't aware of what I was doing as I haunted antique stores, but I could see it now, and I didn't need these props anymore. I had kept what I really loved: my father's sword, the old high-backed wing chair, the harvest table, the pine blanket chest I now used as a coffee table, three huge paintings I had bought in England, and the spinet harpsichord. Everything else was sold at auction. All I needed now were my books and the tiny garden out back, which I was slowly transforming into a place of rest and tranquility where there would be the constant sound of water spilling from a fountain into a small pool. I had to admit my simplifying process did not include the kitchen, which I had modernized completely, using up most of the money I had made from the furniture auction.
I spent the evening sitting in the sunporch at the back, ignoring the constant ringing of the phone as I plowed through rewrites for my book. I was so completely immersed in my task that it took a while to realize there was someone at the front door. I considered ignoring it, but surely it was too late for reporters. Whoever it was persisted.
"You win," I said, opening the door and frowning into the dimness. I had forgotten to replace the lightbulb again.
"Does that mean you lose?"
I straightened my shoulders. That voice was
Glori was duly applauded when she stepped down, but I thought the effort and the fight with Bianca had really taken it out of her. The thundering chaos that followed as the whole company lumbered into a dance number trying to follow Bob's agile steps was painful. Whoever thought all gay men can dance should have been there. I was glad when it was over and I could pack up my music and get out in into the fresh air—or as fresh as it gets in Toronto in June.
"Thanks, Michael, you're a doll," breathed Bob, rushing over before I could escape. He never forgot the niceties, and I appreciated that. I didn't appreciate the light kiss on the cheek. I hardly knew the man. I heard Ellis stifle a laugh as he watched my futile effort to escape.
"Any more of that and you don't get a lift home," I told him as we clattered down the stairs.
"It's okay, Michael. Jaym and me are going to grab a bite to eat with some of the girls, and then we're going to the 501. Speaking of bars, I saw you at Woody's the other night. I didn't know you played pool."
"I didn't see you there. Why didn't you come over?"
"Well, you were—oh how will I put this?—real engrossed." He grinned. "See you later. Come on, Jaym."
They swayed off down the street, big hair, sequins, and huge earrings reminding me of giant Barbies who had been on a long-delayed binge. I had meant to drop in on Logan, but the rehearsal had left me drained. I ransomed my car from the lot down the street and went home instead, parking in the lane behind Mrs. Goldstein's place and hopping the fence into my yard, just in case some intrepid reporter was still hanging about on my front lawn.
I was still ignoring the answering machine. People I hadn't heard from in years kept leaving messages of concern and suggesting get-togethers over coffee, drinks, a light supper at their place. They were even sending me e-mail, to my address at the Gay Blade BBS, which I also ignored.
I let the silence of the old house settle around me. I loved this place, my refuge. It was smaller, more intimate than the huge apartment I had lived in when teaching at Montmorency University. I no longer craved the space, or all the furniture I had collected for a while, trying to re-create the atmosphere I had grown up with and been denied by "disgracing the family" when I left my wife for Ronnie. At the time I wasn't aware of what I was doing as I haunted antique stores, but I could see it now, and I didn't need these props anymore. I had kept what I really loved: my father's sword, the old high-backed wing chair, the harvest table, the pine blanket chest I now used as a coffee table, three huge paintings I had bought in England, and the spinet harpsichord. Everything else was sold at auction. All I needed now were my books and the tiny garden out back, which I was slowly transforming into a place of rest and tranquility where there would be the constant sound of water spilling from a fountain into a small pool. I had to admit my simplifying process did not include the kitchen, which I had modernized completely, using up most of the money I had made from the furniture auction.
I spent the evening sitting in the sunporch at the back, ignoring the constant ringing of the phone as I plowed through rewrites for my book. I was so completely immersed in my task that it took a while to realize there was someone at the front door. I considered ignoring it, but surely it was too late for reporters. Whoever it was persisted.
"You win," I said, opening the door and frowning into the dimness. I had forgotten to replace the lightbulb again.
"Does that mean you lose?"
I straightened my shoulders. That voice was
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