Mercer lyrics. I was on the third verse of “Midnight Sun” when a room service waiter came off the elevator pushing a table. He stopped at Rachel’s door and knocked. He smiled at me as he waited. The door opened on the chain and a small vertical plane of Rachel Wallace’s face appeared.
I said, “It’s okay, Rachel. I’m here.” The waiter smiled at me again, as if I’d said something clever. The door closed and in a moment re-opened. The waiter went in, and I came in behind him. Rachel was in a dark-brown full-length robe with white piping. She wore no make-up. Julie Wells wasn’t in the room. The bathroom door was closed, and I could hear the shower going. Both beds were a little rumpled but still made.
The waiter opened up the table and began to lay out the supper. I leaned against the wall by the window and watched him. When he was through, Rachel Wallace signed the bill, added in a tip, and gave it back to him. He smiled—smiled at me—and went out.
Rachel looked at the table. There were flowers in the center.
“You can go for tonight, Spenser,” she said. “We’ll eat and go to bed. Be here at eight tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Where we going first?”
“We’re going out to Channel Four and do a talk show.”
Julie Wells came out of the bathroom. She had a small towel wrapped around her head and a large one wrapped around her body. It covered her but not by much. She said, “Hi, Spenser,” and smiled at me. Everyone smiled at me. Lovable. A real pussycat.
“Hello.” I didn’t belong there. There was something powerfully non-male in the room, and I felt its pressure. “Okay, Rachel. I’ll say good night. Don’t open the door. Don’t even open it to push that cart into the hall. I’ll be here at eight.”
They both smiled. Neither of them said anything. I went to the door at a normal pace. I did not run. “Don’t forget the chain,” I said. “And the deadbolt from inside.”
They both smiled at me and nodded. Julie Wells’s towel seemed to be shrinking. My mouth felt a little dry. “I’ll stay outside until I hear the bolt turn.”
Smile. Nod.
“Good night,” I said, and went out and closed the door. I heard the bolt slide and the chain go in. I went down in the elevator and out onto Arlington Street with my mouth still dry, feeling a bit unlovely.
11
I leaned against the cinder-block wall of studio two at Channel Four and watched Rachel Wallace prepare to promote her book and her cause. Off camera a half-dozen technician types in jeans and beards and sneakers hustled about doing technical things.
Rachel sat in a director’s chair at a low table. The interviewer was on the other side and on the table between them was a copy of
Tyranny
, standing upright and visible on a small display stand. Rachel sat calmly looking at the camera. The interviewer, a Styrofoam blonde with huge false eyelashes, was smoking a kingsized filter-tipped mentholated Salem cigarette as if they were about to tie her to the post and put on the blindfold. A technician pinned a small microphone to the lapel of Rachel’s gray flannel jacket and stepped out of the way. Another technician with a clipboard crouched beneath one of the cameras a foot and a half from the interviewer. He wore earphones.
“Ten seconds, Shirley,” he said. The interviewer nodded and snuffed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the floor behind her chair. A man next to me shifted in his folding chair and said, “Jesus Christ, I’m nervous.” He was scheduled to talk about raising quail after Rachel had finished. The technician squatting under the front camera pointed at the interviewer.
She smiled. “Hi,” she said to the camera. “I’m Shirley. And this is
Contact
. We have with us today feminist and lesbian activist Rachel Wallace. Rachel has written a new book,
Tyranny
, which takes the lid off of some of the ways government and business exploit women and especially gay women. We’ll be back to
I said, “It’s okay, Rachel. I’m here.” The waiter smiled at me again, as if I’d said something clever. The door closed and in a moment re-opened. The waiter went in, and I came in behind him. Rachel was in a dark-brown full-length robe with white piping. She wore no make-up. Julie Wells wasn’t in the room. The bathroom door was closed, and I could hear the shower going. Both beds were a little rumpled but still made.
The waiter opened up the table and began to lay out the supper. I leaned against the wall by the window and watched him. When he was through, Rachel Wallace signed the bill, added in a tip, and gave it back to him. He smiled—smiled at me—and went out.
Rachel looked at the table. There were flowers in the center.
“You can go for tonight, Spenser,” she said. “We’ll eat and go to bed. Be here at eight tomorrow.”
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “Where we going first?”
“We’re going out to Channel Four and do a talk show.”
Julie Wells came out of the bathroom. She had a small towel wrapped around her head and a large one wrapped around her body. It covered her but not by much. She said, “Hi, Spenser,” and smiled at me. Everyone smiled at me. Lovable. A real pussycat.
“Hello.” I didn’t belong there. There was something powerfully non-male in the room, and I felt its pressure. “Okay, Rachel. I’ll say good night. Don’t open the door. Don’t even open it to push that cart into the hall. I’ll be here at eight.”
They both smiled. Neither of them said anything. I went to the door at a normal pace. I did not run. “Don’t forget the chain,” I said. “And the deadbolt from inside.”
They both smiled at me and nodded. Julie Wells’s towel seemed to be shrinking. My mouth felt a little dry. “I’ll stay outside until I hear the bolt turn.”
Smile. Nod.
“Good night,” I said, and went out and closed the door. I heard the bolt slide and the chain go in. I went down in the elevator and out onto Arlington Street with my mouth still dry, feeling a bit unlovely.
11
I leaned against the cinder-block wall of studio two at Channel Four and watched Rachel Wallace prepare to promote her book and her cause. Off camera a half-dozen technician types in jeans and beards and sneakers hustled about doing technical things.
Rachel sat in a director’s chair at a low table. The interviewer was on the other side and on the table between them was a copy of
Tyranny
, standing upright and visible on a small display stand. Rachel sat calmly looking at the camera. The interviewer, a Styrofoam blonde with huge false eyelashes, was smoking a kingsized filter-tipped mentholated Salem cigarette as if they were about to tie her to the post and put on the blindfold. A technician pinned a small microphone to the lapel of Rachel’s gray flannel jacket and stepped out of the way. Another technician with a clipboard crouched beneath one of the cameras a foot and a half from the interviewer. He wore earphones.
“Ten seconds, Shirley,” he said. The interviewer nodded and snuffed her cigarette out in an ashtray on the floor behind her chair. A man next to me shifted in his folding chair and said, “Jesus Christ, I’m nervous.” He was scheduled to talk about raising quail after Rachel had finished. The technician squatting under the front camera pointed at the interviewer.
She smiled. “Hi,” she said to the camera. “I’m Shirley. And this is
Contact
. We have with us today feminist and lesbian activist Rachel Wallace. Rachel has written a new book,
Tyranny
, which takes the lid off of some of the ways government and business exploit women and especially gay women. We’ll be back to
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