“One of our members, Savion Davenport, can do her chart and see if we can get a handle on what lies ahead. What time of day was she born on January twenty-eighth?”
“I don’t know the answer to that.”
“She’s never had her chart done before?”
“Well, just Medicare.”
“Savion is highly intuitive, so he’ll figure it out.”
Art said, “So you live in Vermont? We were over there one time several years ago.”
“In Ferrisburg, near the lake. Most of the back-to-the-earth folks who moved to Vermont from New York in the ‘60s have semi-assimilated. A lot have regular jobs, and I can’t argue with that. Not everybody can afford to swim with the dolphins, or needs to. A lot are doing righteous work — teaching, medicine, traditional healing, energy work, what have you. However, Dennis Bower, who was one of the original radical faeries on the West Coast in ‘71 is now a deputy assistant secretary of defense.
We may have to levitate the Pentagon again, ha ha, and reclaim Dennis’s spirit!”
“Are there porpoises in Lake Champlain?” Art asked.
Shoemaker chuckled. “Aren’t there porpoises everywhere?
The thing is, not everybody can see them. Or is willing to. The Native Americans near Ferrisburg tell stories of porpoise-like creatures filling the lake like carp in a farm pond before the coming of the white man.”
Hunny said, “There was an Indian on the Van Horn side of the family, a Mohawk. My sister Miriam claims that’s just a story, but my mom said Dad admitted that it was true. About a hundred years ago. Some kind of Song of the Loon type of situation, except the Indian must have been straight.”
“That may help account for your free spirit, Hunny. And don’t be too sure your ancestor was straight. He could well have been a berdache. ”
“What’s that?”
“Berdaches are Native Americans who are free of gender straitjackets.”
“We saw an Indian drag queen one time at Foxwoods Casino,”
Art said. “But I guess you’re talking about something historical.”
“Not necessarily. Drag queens are very much in the berdache spirit. Like your friend Marylou Whitney. I could tell even just talking to her on the telephone that she was deeply real and she was deeply special.”
Art said, “Yes, in Palm Beach Marylou is famous for being the most glamorous woman with a dick in South Florida.”
Hunny gave Art a look. “That is not funny, Arthur. Marylou would not be amused. She is somewhat self- conscious about her penis.”
“I didn’t mean it to be funny. I was just stating a fact. Anyway, on Bill O’Malley you defended Marylou’s right to have a dick if she wanted to. You practically said it was in the Bill of Rights. So don’t tell me, Hunny.”
Hunny went for his cigarettes again, and this time he got one out of the pack. “I don’t remember any of that O’Malley stuff at all. Oh Lord.”
Shoemaker eased his chair back a foot or so as Hunny lit his Marlboro. “Hunny, you were just wonderful on O’Malley. You were the truth-teller. You were the free spirit. You were the unassimilated queer restoring the Whitmanesque joy of being free and gay and alive and at one with nature in a setting where gay people generally act defensive and bitter and defeated by the soulless and puritanical strictures of the medium.”
Hunny shot smoke at Shoemaker and said, “Wow, if I was that good, I sure wish I could remember more of it.”
“At the Rdq commune, you made us proud all over again to be sissies.”
“I was a radical myself one time,” Hunny said. “I didn’t think of it that way at the time. I just thought of it as being pissed off and totally up to here with the New York Police Department.
Artie was one, too. We were at Stonewall when the cops raided the place and we got arrested. Except for a few disorderly conduct things in the ‘80s, it’s my only time to be arrested. It’s where Artie and I met.”
Shoemaker got down on the floor in front of Hunny. “Take your shoes off,” he said. “I want to kiss your feet.”
“Oh, that’s all right.”
Art said, “You should meet the twins. They’ll probably drop by later.”
Climbing back onto his chair, Shoemaker said, “Instead of your being shunned by gay America, Hunny, the Human Rights Campaign and all those other assimophiles should be hoisting you on their shoulders. It makes me want to weep, the way you’re being treated by your own kind.”
“Well, Quentin, it is disappointing. Especially with Mom missing and with so many other situations I’m currently dealing with. You won’t believe what I’m putting up with. That’s why Donald is here. I needed a detective just to deal with this CoCkeyed 137 incredible amount of crap. Donald, tell Quentin what we all have been going through since I won the lottery on Wednesday. It’ll make your hair stand on end.”
“All of it? Including the Cobleskill situation?”
“Yes, maybe Quentin has some ideas on how to deal with people who are just out-and-out satanic.”
“Satanic! Let’s hear about that. The Radical Drama Queens have ways of dealing with Lucifer’s minions.”
I described to Shoemaker the events of the past five days. I told him about the blackmail and other threats, the pellet-gun attack, Rita Van Horn’s going missing, the kidnapping hoax, the laundry basket full of requests and demands for a share of Hunny’s billion dollars, the smears from Bill O’Malley and the Family Preservation Association of Albany County, the lawsuits by fPAAC, Dave DeCarlo and Mason Doebler, and finally about the Brienings and Mrs. Van Horn’s history with them and their loony extortion plot.
Shoemaker was especially interested in hearing about the Brienings. After I described them, he said, “Oh, yes, those two are agents of Satan, for sure.” But he didn’t seem worried about dealing with them, just amused and confident.
Art had some mini-pizzas in the freezer that he microwaved for lunch. Nelson and Lawn dropped by briefly, but they didn’t stick around and eat with us. Lawn plainly did not like the looks of Shoemaker, and it didn’t help when Shoemaker asked Nelson if he was “one of the het Van Horns or one of the cocksucking Van Horns.” Nelson replied that, yes, he and Lawn were
“partners.” Shoemaker waited until Nelson and Lawn had left the house before referring to them good- naturedly as “your average assimilationists.”
“Their butt holes do make squeaking noises when they walk,”
Hunny said. “But Nelson is a good human, and there is even hope for Lawn if the SEC ever gets its act together.”
“Is he a Wall Street crook?” Shoemaker asked.
“A total swindler.”
“Another example of carrying cultural adaptation way too far.”
Nelson had reported that Mrs. Van Horn was still missing from the nursing home, and Shoemaker said one of the Rdq people was a psychic and he would likely be willing to drive down and help find the old lady.
Hunny went pale again. “Isn’t that just for finding bodies? We are pretty sure Mom is alive. At least that is our fervent hope.”
“No, it wouldn’t matter which world the lady is inhabiting.
Ethan would probably be able to locate her spirit wherever it is.”
“Would your psychic need one of her possessions or something?” Art asked. “That couch in the living room was Mother Van Horn’s. Though we’ve had it for four or five years, and I suppose our scent is on it now. Antoine likes to stretch out on it. He’s a friend of ours.”
“No, it’s not like a bloodhound,” Shoemaker said. “But Ethan would need a photograph of the missing lady.”
“There is one on top of the TV,” Hunny said. “It’s Mom in happier days. She’s fluffy and sassy and she’s got all her marbles.
It was taken while Dad was still alive and the cancer hadn’t been found.”
